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 UNIVURSITY OF 
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 P I I III 
 
 1822 01228 5748
 
 WEST!
 
 The hand flashed back again, spouting smoke and fire
 
 WEST! 
 
 BY 
 CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 W. M. ALLISON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1922
 
 Copyright, 1922, by 
 THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 Copyright. 1921, by 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & Co. 
 
 PRINTED IN XT. S. A.
 
 LIST OP ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The hand flashed back again, spouting smoke and fire 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 Twice the rider tentatively reached out 28 
 
 He had come at just the right time 78 
 
 He met Brannon s level gaze steadily 188
 
 WEST!
 
 WEST! 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 DESPITE Josephine Hamilton s eagerness to 
 end her three days journey, she was soothed 
 by the dead calm that followed the stopping of the 
 train. The deep stillness was almost vacuum-like 
 and with a sort of strained resignation Josephine 
 sank back among the cushions and pillows provided 
 by an obliging porter. She gazed with some bel 
 ligerence out of one of the windows of the compart 
 ment she occupied. 
 
 Outside the window was a dun, dead country, a 
 flat drear waste, treeless, unfeatured. So far as 
 she could see there was no horizon. She felt 
 there ought to be one, and she tried to penetrate 
 the level distance in order to vindicate her intelli 
 gence; but at a distance that appeared remarkably 
 short, it seemed the dun land blended with the brassy 
 sky, creating a haze that was very like a gauze veil. 
 Gravely inspecting the phenomenon she became 
 aware that the veil appeared to be composed of glit 
 tering particles swimming lazily between earth
 
 4 WEST ! 
 
 and sky dust, she supposed, with unromantlc 
 practicality. 
 
 And yet her eyes glowed with appreciation, with 
 awakening interest. For the picture was one of 
 majestic beauty. Since leaving New York she had 
 seen nothing like it. So she pressed her face 
 against the window-pane and stared hard. 
 
 A little later she became aware of detached, dis 
 tant sounds, muffled by the closed door of the com 
 partment footsteps, voices; a metallic clanking as 
 of some one pounding with a hammer ; the shrill 
 hissing of escaping steam and the banging of doors. 
 
 But she still admired the gauze veil. She 
 observed that its colors slowly changed; that in 
 it were flaming golden streaks and prismatic spots 
 that ebbed and flowed and merged and blended 
 with continuous movement, the colors so harmoni 
 ous and delicate that they might have been etched 
 by the genius of a master painter. It was not until 
 she saw an impudent-eyed man brazenly watching 
 her from the road-bed beneath the window of the 
 compartment that she suddenly decided she had 
 looked long enough. She vindictively drew the 
 shade, her eyes flashing with indignation. 
 
 A little later, debating an impulse to summon the 
 porter to inquire the reason for the stopping of the 
 train, she stood before the paneled mirror tucking 
 in some stray wisps of hair from the heavy, dark- 
 brown coils that had been the envy of her girl
 
 WEST ! 5 
 
 friends at the Eastern university from which she 
 had been graduated the year before. 
 
 It was a strikingly handsome face that was re 
 flected in the glass, with a chin that might be con 
 sidered a trifle formidable by persons who did not 
 look at her long enough to yield to the lure of the 
 lips above it, which seemed to hint of lurking hu 
 mor guarded by uncompromising moral sense. 
 Her impulses were intellectual rather than physical. 
 
 Though undoubtedly she was aware of her 
 attractions, there was no gleam of vanity in the 
 clear, direct, expressive eyes that calmly returned 
 her gaze from the glass. It seemed as though she 
 had no delusions regarding mere physical beauty. 
 Her probing eyes went deeper, seeking the character 
 that animates the flesh. 
 
 After an instant she turned again to the window. 
 The impudent-eyed man had gone. She lifted the 
 shade, and again studied the varicolored gauze veil 
 which seemed suspended between the train and the 
 remote horizon. 
 
 She saw passengers walking past the window 
 men and women. They were going toward the 
 rear of the train; some were talking and laughing; 
 she observed that all seemed eager. One man, 
 hurrying past the window, was removing a white, 
 starched collar. He jammed the collar into a pocket 
 of his coat and mopped the perspiration from his 
 face with an already moist handkerchief.
 
 6 WEST ! 
 
 Sight of the man brought into Josephine s mind 
 the realization, that the compartment was hot. She 
 swung the door open just in time to meet the gaze 
 of two men who were hurrying down the passage 
 way, laughing and talking. Their eyes were eager; 
 they were boyishly, frankly interested in the thing 
 that was sending them hurrying down the passage 
 way. 
 
 "Cow-boys," she heard one of them say as he 
 passed the door of her compartment. It seemed 
 to her that he had directed his words to her with 
 the impersonal insinuation that he had discovered 
 something in which she might be interested. 
 
 Was she interested in cow-boys? She hardly 
 knew. She supposed, of course, that she would see 
 many cow-boys when she arrived at Betty Lawson s 
 ranch which would be at her journey s end, and 
 which, according to the impression she had gained 
 from reading Betty s letters, was somewhere in the 
 virgin wilderness beyond Willets, the last station 
 on her railroad ticket. But she did n t know 
 whether she was interested enough 
 
 "You don t suppose they really mean to hang 
 him?" floated to her ears down the passageway in 
 the voice that had spoken before. "It does n t 
 seem " 
 
 The voice was cut off by the closing of a door, 
 but the significance of the man s words tortured
 
 WEST ! 7 
 
 Josephine, brought her body to a rigid pose in 
 the doorway. 
 
 For an instant she stood there, astonished, 
 undecided, mentally repeating the man s words: 
 "cow-boys" and "hang." She found them con 
 vincing, for one seemed to be somehow associated 
 with the other; and she remembered that in one 
 of Betty s letters there had been reference to a 
 lynching, although she could n t clearly remember 
 just why Betty had mentioned it. However, the 
 reading had given her something of a shock, even 
 though she had known that such things as lynch- 
 ings had occurred in the West. The difference was 
 that coming direct from Betty the word seemed 
 to have a closer and more tragic meaning than when 
 it had appeared in the brief telegraphic reports of 
 the newspapers. 
 
 It seemed incredible that such a thing was per 
 mitted to happen in America, that there was a 
 possibility of its happening right now, close to 
 her. And yet when she reflected upon the grim 
 aspect of the country through which the train had 
 been passing for the last day or so, when she con 
 sidered the vast distances that separated one town 
 from another, and the futile appearance of the towns 
 themselves, it was apparent that much could happen 
 of which the recognized law could have no knowl 
 edge.
 
 8 WEST! 
 
 She was aware of a new silence, which was deeper 
 and somehow more solemn than that which had 
 followed the stopping of the train a few minutes 
 ago. The stillness in the car seemed to have become 
 strangely premonitory, like that which precedes 
 tragedy imminent and expected. And now she knew 
 what had been meant by the spectacle of the pas 
 sengers hurrying toward the rear of the train. 
 
 She put on the felt hat Betty Lawson had advised 
 her to bring, got into a light traveling-coat, slammed 
 the door of the compartment, and hurried down the 
 passageway. 
 
 It seemed she was the last passenger to leave 
 the train, for no one followed her and an engulfing 
 silence marked her movements as she stepped from 
 the car to the road-bed. Beset with a strange 
 eagerness, which was founded upon a dread curios 
 ity and a reluctance to become an outsider in what 
 was transpiring, she hurried toward the rear of the 
 train, where she saw the other passengers con 
 gregating. 
 
 None seemed to notice her as she joined the 
 the group, and so she slipped into a convenient space 
 and edged forward until she was able to see what 
 object had intrigued the interest of the other pas 
 sengers. 
 
 There were many objects of interest. Seven, to 
 be exact. Of the seven, six were cow-boys. There 
 could be* no doubt of that. For though Josephine
 
 WEST ! 9 
 
 had never seen a cow-boy until that instant she 
 felt she could not be mistaken. 
 
 They were grouped on a little level beside the 
 railroad track, not more than twenty or thirty feet 
 from the rear coach of the train; and it was evident 
 they had been there before the train had stopped, 
 for Josephine saw the dying embers of a fire with 
 some white smoke curling lazily upward from it. 
 Scattered about were saddles- and- blankets. At a 
 little distance were several horses, grazing upon some 
 green-brown grass. 
 
 To Josephine the saddles, blankets, and horses 
 were insignificant details. She saw them, but her 
 interest had settled definitely and completely up 
 on the cow-boys, for they were to be the chief 
 figures in the dread drama she had been visualizing 
 from the instant she had overheard the two men in 
 the passageway talking, about them. 
 
 She watched them eagerly, intently, with level dis 
 approval, with unmistakable antagonism, with a 
 dislike that was positively vicious. 
 
 A woman standing close to her spoke to a big 
 man who wore a soft brown coat, traveling-cap, 
 crinkled trousers, and slippers a man with a fat, 
 smooth face and with cynical, self-sufficient eyes, 
 whose thick lips were caressing an obese cigar. 
 
 "Aren t they romantic?" she remarked. 
 
 "H m m," grunted the man, doubtfully; "we-ell 
 mebbe. That depends."
 
 io WEST! 
 
 Josephine did not listen to his dissertation up 
 on what "depended." She thought the cow-boys 
 looked positively vicious. She had little expectation 
 that romance could masquerade in the dark muzzles 
 of the pistols that sagged from the low-swung 
 holsters; that the bold, reckless faces of the men 
 concealed the sort of character suggested by the re 
 mark of the woman who had spoken. 
 
 For Josephine was entertaining a prejudice. The 
 words of the man in the passageway, "you don t 
 suppose they really mean to hang him?" had pre 
 supposed a situation that was directly at variance 
 with principles by which she had been governed all 
 her days principles which frowned upon mob- 
 violence. And any hanging not legally performed 
 must, of necessity, be unlawful. 
 
 Josephine was convinced that this hanging was 
 to be unlawful. She had no doubt there was to be 
 a hanging ; for while the big man in the brown coat 
 talked, Josephine s eyes had sought out the probable 
 victim. 
 
 He was sitting on a little hummock behind the 
 cow-boys. He was hatless, coatless. His hair was 
 disheveled ; there was a gash on his forehead where 
 the blood had dried. His face was dirty, and a 
 stubble beard made him look villainous. His hands 
 were tied behind him : and though he sneered malev 
 olently under the scrutiny of the group of passen 
 gers, Josephine s sympathy for him was real and
 
 WEST! ii 
 
 acute. She was sure he could not be over twenty 
 twenty-five, perhaps. Certainly not older. And to 
 be facing that kind of a death! And innocent, per 
 haps ! Who were these men that they dared to 
 judge him to condemn him, without due process 
 of law? 
 
 She had been staring at the cow-boys collectively. 
 Now, aroused, she began to examine them indi 
 vidually, with malice that precluded any possibility 
 of favorable judgment. 
 
 Four of the cow-boys were distinctly and undeni 
 ably resentful and embarrassed over the scrutiny 
 to which they were subjected by the passengers; 
 for the latter were very plainly betraying an eager 
 interest which said, wordlessly, that cow-boys were 
 curiosities to be placed in the category of oddities 
 along with Indians, mountains, deserts, rattlesnakes, 
 scorpions, horned toads, and other features of the 
 country later to be dragged forth by memory and 
 exhibited as "specimens." 
 
 The four tried to conceal their resentment. They 
 regarded the assembled passengers with thinly dis 
 guised disapprobation, and with ironic smiles so 
 shallow that the embarrassment beneath was visible. 
 Josephine quickly decided the four were negligible, 
 despite their bold, bronzed faces and their remark 
 ably steady eyes and the huge pistols at their hips. 
 Save that the environment was different, they were 
 merely young men who hired out their bodies as
 
 12 WEST! 
 
 did certain young men of the East farm hands for 
 example. They did as they were told. 
 
 It did not take Josephine long to single out the 
 brain of the cow-boy group the man who pos 
 sessed qualities of leadership which would logically 
 make him the guiding spirit. 
 
 He sat on a fiat rock at a slight distance from 
 the others. He was leaning slightly forward, his 
 elbows on his knees, his fingers locked. His big 
 felt hat was pushed back from his forehead, and 
 his eyes, as he watched the passengers, were steady, 
 unembarrassed, glowing with lazy good humor 
 which had a trace of amused contempt in it. 
 
 He was tall, booted, bepistoled. The boots were 
 dusty, the soft tops much scuffed. The chaps that 
 covered his long legs were worn and scarred. The 
 gray woolen shirt he wore had long sleeves which 
 were buttoned tightly at the wrists. The garment 
 was worn loosely at the throat, where a blue necker 
 chief sagged. 
 
 However, it was not the man s appearance that 
 held Josephine s interest, though she grudgingly 
 admitted he was good-looking. It was something 
 else a singular confidence and ease that radiated 
 from him, which lurked all over him, as though he 
 was conscious of power and authority which would 
 be expressed whenever he felt disposed to express 
 them. 
 
 Such was Josephine s first estimate of him. The
 
 WEST! 13 
 
 estimate persisted until, with the collective gaze 
 of the passengers upon him, she saw his eyes nar 
 row slightly, to glow with saturnine humor. And 
 then she was convinced that lurking behind his con 
 sciousness of power and authority was a malicious 
 devil. 
 
 Josephine hated him. As his slow gaze swept 
 the passengers and paused for an infinitesimal space 
 upon her, she stiffened, frowned. If he was aware 
 of the frown he gave no sign; his gaze swept slowly 
 on. 
 
 "There s a character," Josephine heard the big 
 man in the brown coat whisper to the woman beside 
 him. "You 11 notice all the others are a little up 
 set because we have interrupted their fun. But 
 not him! That guy is smooth and easy and deep; 
 nothing disturbs him. By George ! I d hate to 
 cross him!" 
 
 Josephine felt a sudden contempt for the big man, 
 for his inability correctly to judge a member of his 
 own sex. Did n t the big man know that the 
 other was merely a bloodthirsty bully who at this 
 instant was posing and enjoying the situation in 
 which he found himself, which gave him a chance 
 to parade his power over the poor wretch he and 
 his men intended to hang. 
 
 There were many passengers. They had spread, 
 fanwise, from the rear coach to a point some yards 
 down the right of way, in a line that was irregular
 
 14 WEST! 
 
 and noticeably concaved immediately in front of the 
 group of cow-boys a discreet, though perhaps acci 
 dental formation. 
 
 It was hot: the cindered right of way exuded sti 
 fling heat-waves ; many of the passengers were mop 
 ping their faces with handkerchiefs. 
 
 Josephine was not warm. A cold rage had 
 seized her an indignation that took no account 
 of physical discomfort; an indignation aroused over 
 the spectacle of the passengers dumbly submitting 
 to the horror that was about to be enacted, that cer 
 tainly would be not long deferred after the depar 
 ture of the train. There were perhaps a hundred 
 male passengers, and not one of them seemed to have 
 the courage to interfere. 
 
 She moved forward slightly, aware that the in 
 stant she spoke she would become badly conspicuous, 
 like an orator alone on a rostrum. Also she was 
 certain she would expose herself to criticism, per 
 haps to ridicule. But she was determined to in 
 terfere. 
 
 However, in the act of opening her lips to speak, 
 she heard a voice : 
 
 "Our fire has gone out, ladies and gentlemen. 
 You see we did n t expect company for breakfast, 
 or we d have kept her humming. But mostly the 
 grub has played out, anyway. You re all looking 
 mighty hungry! Don t the trains carry grub any 
 more ?"
 
 WEST! 15 
 
 It was a subtle speech. The passengers were 
 hungry for adventure; for anything that would 
 break the monotony of continuous, tiresome travel. 
 And their faces reflected their appreciation of the 
 strangeness of the present spectacle and of the gentle 
 ness of the man s voice, where they had expected 
 harshness for their rather impertinent curiosity. 
 
 Yes; the speaker was the man who sat on the 
 rock, the cow-boy leader. His voice had been low 
 and gravely quizzical, with a trace of mocking 
 laughter in it. And his eyes were gleaming. 
 
 "Didn t I tell you?" whispered the big man in 
 the brown coat. "He s deep, that guy. He s got 
 brains !" 
 
 It was the big man who answered. The other 
 passengers variously expressed their delight over 
 the cow-boy s speech chuckling, whispering, nod 
 ding their heads. But the man in the brown coat 
 spoke directly to the cow-boy. 
 
 "Trains don t carry the sort of grub we re see 
 ing right now !" he declared. 
 
 "Well," said the other, grinning widely and shov 
 ing his hat farther back on his forehead, revealing 
 a shock of glossy black hair, "the boys would n t 
 make very good eating right now, straight or scram 
 bled. Some of them would be rank poison, because 
 they re feeling some disturbed over having so many 
 hungry folks looking at them at the same time." 
 
 "That ought to settle it," laughed the big man.
 
 16 WEST! 
 
 "That makes it pretty plain. Speaking for myself, 
 I beg your pardon." 
 
 "You re welcome," said the other gently. He 
 fixed the other passengers with a narrowing, gleam 
 ing eye; and a faint smile reached his lips as he 
 noted a shuffling movement, preparatory to a retreat. 
 
 But though Josephine had been aware of the 
 underplay of the cow-boy s words, inviting the pas 
 sengers to feast their eyes upon objects less personal, 
 she had no intention of retreating at least, not 
 until she made an effort to save the life of the 
 wretch who sat behind the black-haired man. 
 
 She stepped out of the press, and was instantly 
 aware that the action drew upon her the collec 
 tively curious gaze of the other passengers and 
 also the steady, inquiring scrutiny of the black- 
 haired cow-boy. 
 
 "What are you going to do with that man?" 
 she demanded, pointing to the captive, who curled 
 his upper lip at her question. 
 
 "Meaning Les Artwell, I reckon?" said the 
 black-haired man, slowly. "So that s what 
 brought you all swarming around us, eh? Well, 
 you 7 ve guessed it. We re going to hang him, 
 ma am."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE black-haired man s voice was gentle. 
 But it seemed to Josephine that the gentle 
 ness was entirely surface, that underlying it was a 
 steel-line inflexibility that hinted of the hopelessness 
 of interference on her part. 
 
 Instead of being dismayed, however, Josephine 
 was conscious of a strange antagonism and a bitter 
 resentment which were entirely personal and had 
 nothing whatever to do with principles; least of all 
 the principles that had impelled her to interfere. 
 
 Josephine had completely forgotten that she had 
 set out to prevent the hanging because it seemed un 
 authorized and illegal. She was now merely pas 
 sionately resentful of the unyielding quality she had 
 discovered in the voice of the black-haired man. 
 She wanted to shake him! She yearned to march 
 past him and release the prisoner. She wanted to 
 show him that he could not do as he pleased, even 
 though there was no law within hundreds of miles! 
 
 But she did not yield to those savage, primitive 
 impulses. And she knew the deterring influence 
 was to be found in the eyes of the black-haired man. 
 Somehow the eyes chilled her, persuaded her from 
 testing the texture of the steel underlying his sur- 
 
 17
 
 i8 WEST! 
 
 face gentleness. She felt that if she attempted any 
 of the primitive methods she contemplated she 
 would be defeated. And she could not endure 
 defeat before all the passengers. 
 
 She saw something else in the eyes of the black- 
 haired man frank, bold admiration. More, the 
 admiration, strangely, seemed articulate; it seemed 
 to express the conviction that she was a very brave 
 young woman thus to stand out from the crowd to 
 take the prisoner s part. The others had not had the 
 courage ! 
 
 But also there was mockery in the admiration. 
 Her bravery was to be futile. For all the good her 
 interference would do she might as well get back on 
 the train and go her way. 
 
 She saw that in his eyes. Well, she would n t go ! 
 The black-haired man could n t bully her with his 
 steel-like gentleness. Nor could his bold admira 
 tion dissuade her from her determination to save a 
 life. She would not permit him to draw the mask 
 of comedy over tragedy ! 
 
 Her divination of the steel-like quality of his 
 character had warned her that she must use her wits 
 against him; she could not hope to beat him in a 
 direct clash. That would mean defeat and humili 
 ation, to her. 
 
 "What has the man done?" 
 
 She spoke calmly. She exulted in her self -con-
 
 WEST! 19 
 
 trol, congratulating herself that she had not spoken 
 while her passions had been ruling her. 
 
 "He stole a horse, ma am." 
 
 "And you intend to hang him for that?" 
 
 "That s the intention." 
 
 "Whose intention?" 
 
 "Why mine, ma am all of us. That s the law. 
 We caught him with the goods." 
 
 "Meaning that you caught him in the act?" 
 
 "That s it." 
 
 "Who made that law?" 
 
 "I don t know that anybody made it. I reckon 
 it was established by custom. We can t all ride on 
 trains, ma am, and there s times in this country 
 when a man s life depends on his having a horse. 
 This is a big country to walk through." 
 
 "But there are other horses. This man did n t 
 steal them all." 
 
 "That is n t the question. He stole one. He 
 was caught riding it." 
 
 "When did you catch him?" 
 
 "Last night." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 "A couple of miles north." 
 
 "Why did you bring him here?" 
 
 "This section is sort of shy on trees, ma am. 
 We figured on using a telegraph pole." 
 
 Josephine shuddered. She felt a tremor run
 
 20 WEST! 
 
 through the crowd around her. The other passen 
 gers were close to her now, having moved forward 
 while she had been talking. When she became 
 aware of the concerted movement, which seemed 
 like a collective shrinking over the dread object 
 visualized by all of them at the words of the black- 
 haired man, Josephine also became aware that the 
 passengers had entirely surrounded the black-haired 
 man and herself, that necks were craning toward 
 her, and that the owners of the necks were eager- 
 eyed and tense for more of the conversation. Per 
 haps in the minds of all of them had been a reluc 
 tance to permit the hanging, and they were paying 
 her the tribute of their eager attention because she 
 was doing a thing they had not had the courage to do. 
 
 "Why don t you take him on to the next town 
 and turn him over to the law?" she asked. 
 
 She noted that the four cow-boys who had be 
 trayed embarrassment at the stares of the passengers 
 were now a part of the group that surrounded her 
 and the black-haired man, that their embarrassment 
 had vanished, and they appeared to be keenly amused 
 by the questioning. It seemed they were relieved 
 that they were no longer considered, that the black- 
 haired man had been singled out for whatever in 
 terference was to come. 
 
 They were plainly enjoying the situation. Their 
 bold bronze faces were animated with keen ap-
 
 WEST! 21 
 
 preciation; their extravagant winks at one another 
 betrayed them. 
 
 "There s no law nearer than Laskar," said the 
 black-haired man. "That s beyond Willets, and too 
 much trouble. Besides, they d play politics with 
 him and he d get off. And we d get laughed at 
 for our trouble." 
 
 "Trouble ! But you have no right to hang him !" 
 
 "I reckon you re green to this country, ma am. 
 Les Artwell is a horse-thief. We Ve got a way 
 of dealing with horse-thieves. Maybe it is n t your 
 way. We won t argue about that. But you 
 must n t come out here and get the idea that you can 
 run this country to suit yourself; because the 
 country s been here a considerable spell, and folks 
 who live here are not asking any advice." 
 
 Josephine s cheeks paled with rage at the re 
 buff. He saw the scornful contempt in her eyes, 
 and his own glinted with a steady, amused tolerance 
 an expression he might have used to rebuke a 
 child too insistently curious. 
 
 At this instant the big man in the brown coat 
 created a diversion. And the black-haired man s 
 gaze left Josephine. 
 
 The man in the brown coat was talking. Jose 
 phine did not hear him, for a whispering voice at 
 her shoulder swayed her interest sharply in that 
 direction.
 
 22 WEST! 
 
 "Sort of swelled, eh?" said the voice. 
 
 She started, would have turned. 
 
 "Don t look around," said the voice; "he ll get 
 wise. I m straw-boss, under him. You re 
 dead right; he ought to let Artwell go. He ain t 
 guilty. He had a bill of sale for that hoss. But he 
 lost it. If you think we could get Artwell on the 
 train I could manage to cut his hands free." 
 
 She turned her head and looked into the man s 
 face. He was one who had kept himself apart 
 from the others. During the time the other men 
 had been enduring the stares of the passengers this 
 man had kept his back to them, seemingly in the 
 grip of a perverse passion. Twice since she had 
 joined the group Josephine had caught glimpses of 
 his profile, to see a sneer on his lips. 
 
 Then the sneers had had no significance; now it 
 was apparent they reflected his attitude toward the 
 black-haired man. 
 
 The self-styled "straw-boss" was darkly hand 
 some. Perhaps his black eyes were a little too in 
 sinuatingly friendly, presupposing her readiness 
 to league herself with him in an effort to free the 
 prisoner; and his manner might have been a trifle 
 too ingratiating, and his voice too smooth. Yet 
 Josephine responded quickly to his startling sug 
 gestion. 
 
 "If you can get him on the train I 11 take care 
 of him," she whispered.
 
 WEST ! 23 
 
 A pulse of vindicative triumph shot through her. 
 She moved backward out of the crowd, while the 
 man in the brown coat continued to talk. 
 
 Some of the passengers glanced at her as she 
 moved; many sympathetically, as though they 
 would help her gracefully to accept defeat; others 
 watched her derisively. But almost instantly they 
 turned their attention to the big man in the brown 
 coat. 
 
 Apparently the cow-boy leader did not observe 
 her withdrawal. He was still talking to the man 
 in the brown coat ; and the four cow-boys who had 
 mingled with the crowd were still interestedly 
 listening and grinning. 
 
 Josephine walked slowly to the rear coach of 
 the train. Mounting the lower step she had to 
 lean outward to see the cow-boy group and the 
 passengers, for they were almost opposite the front 
 of the coach ahead of the one upon whose steps 
 she was standing. The rear coach, and part of 
 the other, would have to pass the group on its way 
 westward. 
 
 Josephine saw the straw-boss move with apparent 
 carelessness toward the prisoner. She noted that he 
 seemed to speak casually to the other; and then 
 she caught the gleam of a knife that, she felt, was 
 cutting the prisoner s bonds. 
 
 Outwardly Josephine betrayed no sign that she 
 was engaged in a plot to save the life of a fellow-
 
 24 WEST ! 
 
 being. Her lips were a trifle grim and her cheeks 
 whiter than usual, and her hands trembled slightly 
 as she gripped the iron railing of the platform. 
 
 She drew a deep sigh. Simultaneously there came 
 a prolonged shriek of the locomotive-whistle, 
 followed by several sharp blasts, which she knew 
 was an announcement that the train was about to 
 proceed. She had not heard why the train had 
 stopped in the first place, though she had supposed, 
 basing her thought upon the metallic hammering, 
 that some minor accident had occurred. Whatever 
 the cause, the train was now ready to proceed. 
 
 She saw the crowd break up. The passengers 
 began to scatter to front and rear, urged by several 
 impatient blasts of the whistle. She heard the voice 
 of a trainman exhorting the passengers to hurry. 
 Some of the passengers swarmed past her into the 
 rear coach; but she held her place on the steps, 
 grimly determined not to leave it. 
 
 Some of the passengers recognized her and gave 
 her admiring grins. Some of the women passengers 
 were not so charitable. 
 
 However, Josephine was too excited to observe 
 expressions carefully. She drew a breath of relief 
 when the passengers had all crowded past her; for 
 she could see that the cow-boys had not noticed 
 that the straw-boss had liberated the prisoner, or 
 that the prisoner was ready to make a dash for the
 
 WEST! 25 
 
 train. The straw-boss, she saw, was standing near 
 the cow-boy leader. 
 
 The cow-boys stood facing the coach ahead of 
 Josephine. The four bold-faced men were grinning 
 broadly and talking to one another; the cow-boy 
 leader was again sitting on the boulder, staring 
 meditatively downward. 
 
 There was another startling blast from the whistle, 
 a series of preliminary bumps and jerks, and the 
 train began to move. 
 
 Josephine drew a slow, deep quivering breath of 
 dread anticipation. Would the prisoner seize this 
 opportunity? Would the cow-boys shoot? 
 
 The answer to these questions came almost in 
 stantly. The train was gliding past the cow-boy 
 group when she saw the prisoner plunge forward, 
 hurl himself past the cow-boys, and leap toward her. 
 
 As he swung upward, past her, she turned her 
 back to the cow-boys, to shield the prisoner. The 
 cow-boys would not dare to shoot her! 
 
 She glanced sidelong at them, to see that the 
 cow-boys were in motion. The straw-boss had 
 evidently awkwardly attempted to get out of the 
 leader s way when the latter had noticed the prison 
 er s escape ; for both men had fallen and the leader 
 was just getting up as Josephine s glance rested 
 on him. The prisoner was already safely inside 
 the car.
 
 26 WEST ! 
 
 By the time Josephine clambered to the platform 
 the cow-boy leader was running toward his horse, 
 his long legs making giant strides. 
 
 Her enjoyment of the spectacle was vindictive. 
 
 "He 11 need seven-league boots to catch us, now!" 
 she found herself saying. For the train had gath 
 ered speed rapidly; already the cow-boys were far 
 behind. 
 
 Then she heard a commotion behind her. She 
 wheeled, to face the prisoner, a captive in the grip 
 of a giant negro porter. 
 
 "Don t make no diffrunce a-tall !" the porter 
 said. "You goin to git off this hyeh train right 
 now ! You m that hoss-thief them boys caught. 
 If you don t git off peaceable I 11 bust you in the 
 eye!" 
 
 "Porter!" 
 
 Josephine was at the other s side in an instant, 
 whispering excitedly. "I 11 pay his fare, porter !" 
 
 "All right, miss," he said; "I ll find the con 
 ductor." 
 
 When the porter turned to make his way through 
 the car he was forced to elbow a number of passen 
 gers aside, among them the man in the brown coat, 
 who was grinning. Josephine heard him remark 
 to some one : 
 
 "That young woman certainly has the courage 
 of her convictions !" 
 
 The remark was not strikingly original, but
 
 WEST! 27 
 
 Josephine blushed with embarrassment, though her 
 chin was a little more formidable than usual. At 
 least she had the courage to save the life of an in 
 nocent man. 
 
 An instant later her face grew very pale. 
 For she heard a clatter above the subdued roar 
 of the train, and glanced rearward to see a horse 
 and rider close to the platform. 
 
 The rider was the black-haired man. He was 
 on a big, black horse which was thundering toward 
 the train at an alarming rate. The horse was 
 clean-limbed, powerful, rangy. There was spirit 
 in his wild, glowing eyes, terrific energy in the 
 mighty muscles that leaped and writhed under 
 his glossy coat as he hurled himself after the speed 
 ing train. To Josephine the animal loomed gi 
 gantic ; he was the indomitable medium fate had 
 hurled after her for the purpose of thwarting her 
 effort to save a principle from destruction. She 
 got the impression watching him. Also she re 
 ceived something of the ,same impression as she 
 glanced at his rider. 
 
 The black-haired man was a grim figure. He 
 bestrode his horse as though he had been part of the 
 animal; and he was so close to the platform that 
 Josephine could see his eyes. She could tell by 
 the expression in them that he meant to win. 
 
 Josephine was equally determined. The rider 
 must have seen the challenge in her eyes, the grim
 
 28 WEST ! 
 
 determination of her manner, for a faint, mirth 
 less smile twitched at his lips. He was within 
 a few feet of the platform now, and he swung one 
 leg over the black s back in preparation for a leap. 
 He had caught the reins firmly in one hand; the 
 other began to reach out as though to seize the rail 
 of the platform. 
 
 Josephine moved toward the point where it seemed 
 the rider s hand must grip the rail. Twice the 
 rider tentatively reached out, his fingers ready to 
 grip the rail; and each time Josephine kicked sav 
 agely at them. Once the toe of her shoe struck 
 the iron, but the second time she felt the leather 
 graze the clutching fingers. 
 
 The rider did not attempt to seize the rail again, 
 for the black horse stumbled, began to fall back. 
 This strange trail was broken, full of abrupt de 
 pressions, hazardous, for the cinder level had ended 
 and the spaces between the ties themselves thrust 
 their sharp corners upward. 
 
 The black horse slowed from instinct. Grad 
 ually the space between train and horse widened 
 until, acknowledging defeat, the rider drew the 
 animal down. He swung back into the saddle, 
 drew his broad hat from his head, swept it down 
 ward and bowed derisively to Josephine. 
 
 Josephine stood on the platform until horse and 
 rider grew toy-like in her vision. She smiled 
 triumphantly and made her way to the center of
 
 Twice the rider tentatively reached out
 
 WEST! 29 
 
 the car, where she met the conductor and Artwell. 
 She paid Artwell s fare, to Laskar, beyond Willets. 
 Then, with the stares of the passengers following 
 her, she passed out of the car to go to her compart 
 ment, confident that the ends of justice had been 
 served.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 JOSEPHINE HAMILTON S mind was occupied 
 with distances. At the beginning of her 
 second week at the Lawson ranch she was deeply im 
 pressed as she had been on the morning following her 
 arrival, when she had got her first view of the new 
 world into which she had come. 
 
 As she sat in a cushioned rocker on the wide, 
 shady lower veranda of the Lawson ranch-house 
 this morning, she was convinced that distances could 
 not be appreciated by viewing them from the window 
 of a Pullman. One must not merely pass through 
 distances at so many miles per hour ; one must be 
 engulfed by them. 
 
 She felt engulfed, if engulfed meant to be en 
 tirely surrounded; she was considering the various 
 synonyms of "atom," wondering if she could select 
 qne which would correctly describe her relative 
 insignificance in the gigantic wilderness that 
 stretched under the clear, cloudless, smiling skies. 
 
 However, at all events she was a sentient atom, 
 even though after a week, awe was still the emotion 
 that dominated her. 
 
 It was an awe of sheer bigness. The Creator 
 30
 
 WEST! 31 
 
 had touched this world with a lavish, generous 
 hand. It was as though, with space so unlimited, 
 He had proportioned things with a gigantic measure. 
 He also had imparted to this section of the world 
 a ruggedness which hinted at endurance eternal. 
 And then, as though the Creator had been aware 
 that He had builded with exceeding skill, He had 
 wrought a marvelous clarity in the atmosphere, 
 foreshortening vast distances so that the eye could 
 comprehend the magnificence of His work. 
 
 Southward a mountain range thrust its serrated 
 peaks into a calm blue sky. The mountains seemed 
 near, and yet Betty Lawson had told her the distance 
 to their bases was not less than thirty miles. 
 Josephine had secretly doubted that statement until 
 her attention had been called to the intervening 
 country. And then she saw that between the moun 
 tains and the ranch-house there spread at least half 
 a dozen forests whose trees she took for bushes 
 until Betty very seriously and calmly assured her 
 that some of them were cotton woods that must 
 have been there for hundreds of years and no end 
 of big valleys and gullies and draws, together with 
 hills, and rather extensive levels upon which a 
 herd of cattle could graze for weeks. Also, Betty 
 pointed out narrow threads of silver glittering in 
 the sunlight, which she assured Josephine were 
 considerable rivers and creeks; and rugged buttes 
 (which Josephine had thought were large rocks)
 
 32 WEST ! 
 
 having sheer walls that rose to appalling heights. 
 
 It was like looking at a map that had been dec 
 orated by a master painter, a map that was tilted 
 slightly at its farthest edges to create the impression 
 of an upland. 
 
 Not only when gazing southward did she gain 
 that impression. It was the same eastward, west 
 ward, northward. She was in the center of a huge 
 circle, a saucer-shaped circle sixty miles in diame 
 ter. A virgin wilderness such as it had been when 
 God finished it stretched away mile on mile, silent, 
 slumberous, mysterious, beautiful ; though sinister 
 in its threat of cruelty toward those who did not 
 know its secrets. 
 
 She was certain the land held secrets. She felt 
 them in the silences; they were borne to her on the 
 whispering breezes that swept out of mysterious 
 reaches and blew steadily against her, laden with 
 the clear pungent aroma of sage. 
 
 Betty Lawson had met her at Willets; and they 
 had reached the ranch-house late at night. The un 
 familiar trail over which Betty had driven her was, 
 she had thought, the reason she had been aware of 
 a strange depression of spirit, even though she had 
 not betrayed herself to Betty. Riding toward the 
 ranch-house that night she had felt she was entering 
 a ghostly region where danger, invisible and terri 
 ble, lurked on every hand. She had seeemd to be 
 riding into a vacuum.
 
 WEST! 33 
 
 Morning had not dispelled the impression of the 
 night. Nature seemed to wait, derisively masking 
 her secrets. There was a hush in the atmosphere, 
 a brooding, menacing silence which made her feel 
 that all the invisible and threatening forces around 
 her were biding their time; were waiting until she 
 should be surely in their .power before they re 
 vealed themselves. 
 
 Even the ranch buildings seemed to be sur 
 rounded by a brooding, slumberous silence. All 
 sound was sharp, jarring, shattering, when there 
 was sound. When some one moved inside the 
 ranch-house the sound could be heard distinctly 
 outside. If some one spoke the voice carried with 
 a resonance that startled her. If a horse neighed 
 in the far pasture, half a mile distant, it was as 
 though the animal had been merely around a corner 
 of the house. 
 
 Betty and a Chinese cook were the only persons, 
 beside herself, who occupied the house. Mr. Law- 
 son and Betty s mother had gone East for the sum 
 mer. Mrs. Lawson s health demanded a change 
 of scene. 
 
 Josephine had seen plenty of cow-boys. The 
 bunk and mess-houses were at a distance from the 
 ranch-house. They were grouped on a little level 
 near a big corral which spanned a narrow, shallow 
 river ; and Josephine had observed that there always 
 seemed to be cow-boys around the buildings.
 
 34 WEST! 
 
 But not once had she been near enough to any of 
 them to determine what type of men they were. 
 She supposed they were like the cow-boys she had 
 seen on the day she had rescued the horse-thief ; and 
 she told herself she did not care to go near them. 
 
 She saw them ride in, dismount, turn their horses 
 into the corral; saw them washing their faces from 
 tin wash-basins that stood on a bench that ranged 
 the outside wall of the mess-house. 
 
 She heard the sound of their voices; she heard 
 laughter, and some profanity. She wondered if 
 they knew the profanity could be heard, and quickly 
 decided that if they were like the men she had seen 
 that day on her way to Willets, they would not care 
 if they were heard. 
 
 She had not spoken to Betty of her experience 
 with the black-haired man, for she was reluctant 
 to have Betty see her in the role that would shatter 
 her friend s preconceived notions of the calm 
 masterfulness Betty so much admired. Also, she 
 was afraid Betty s alert keen-mindedness would 
 discern in her action less of a championship of 
 principle than of a natural human instinct to have 
 one s way about a thing. Betty had a quiet, prob 
 ing eye and a habit of direct speech that often had 
 disconcerted Josephine. 
 
 During the hundred and fifty-mile ride to Willets 
 after the rescue, Josephine had not seen the horse- 
 thief. She had not cared to talk with him, for
 
 WEST! 35 
 
 she was not interested in him, had not been inter 
 ested in him at any time except to prevent the black- 
 haired man from hanging him. 
 
 But this morning she was thinking of him, and 
 of the black-haired man how the latter had looked 
 as he had sat on the rock that day, his keen, steady, 
 mocking eyes watching the passengers. She had 
 felt the man s aggressive personality that day; the 
 inflexibility of his character, his cold, calm confi 
 dence. He had seemed so sure of himself ; had 
 seemed to be so completely oblivious of the fact that 
 persons other than himself might have convictions, 
 and determination, fully as strong as his own. 
 That was why she had hated him. 
 
 She was staring meditatively northward a 
 picture of the train, the cow-boys, and the black- 
 haired man in mind when she became aware of a 
 presence behind her, and turned to see Betty Law- 
 son. She had been so absorbed in her mental 
 picture that she had not heard Betty approaching. 
 She blushed from the realization that she was spend 
 ing a great deal of time thinking of the black- 
 haired man. 
 
 "Still staring at the country, Jo; you do a lot of 
 it. If I did nt know you as well as I do, I d think 
 you were expecting some one!" 
 
 Betty s voice was light with banter. But her 
 clear, brown eyes were a-gleam with concern and 
 some speculation. One had to bury one s emotions
 
 3 6 WEST ! 
 
 very deep to keep Betty s probing eyes from un 
 covering them. 
 
 The girl was keenly appreciative of life. The 
 phenomena of life interested her. The set of her 
 head, the way she squared her shoulders, facing all 
 things fairly, told of wonderful vitality, eagerness, 
 directness, wholesomeness. 
 
 "You Ve been moping too much since you ve 
 been here, Jo," she said, watching her friend. 
 "You ve seen too much of the country from the 
 gallery, and not enough from the saddle. You are 
 going riding with me." 
 
 "I never rode a horse in my life!" declared Jose 
 phine. 
 
 "You are beginning now. I Ve had one of the 
 men saddle Chesterfield for you. Chesterfield is 
 mild-mannered and dependable. He has n t bucked 
 since Noah turned him out of the ark. He likes 
 ladies, especially Eastern ladies. He 11 like you, 
 more especially because he 11 recognize in you a 
 constitutional timidity not unlike his own. Come 
 on, Jo!" she wheedled. 
 
 Josephine got up rather uncertainly, affected by 
 Betty s breezy jocularity. She was given no op 
 portunity to decline, for the instant she was on her 
 feet Betty seized her by the shoulders, wheeled her 
 around, and pushed her toward the open doorway 
 leading into the big living-room. 
 
 "Put on your most disreputable duds," advised
 
 WEST ! 37 
 
 Betty. "This is n t Riverside Drive, you know, 
 and if we meet anybody it will be an accident, or 
 a miracle. Hustle ! We 11 ride over and have a 
 talk with Mrs. Whitman. That s only ten miles. 
 Mrs. Whitman is an invalid." 
 
 "I thought there were no other " 
 
 "Thought we had Paradise Valley to ourselves, 
 I suppose. Well, we have n t. There are Ben 
 Whitman, who is quite a philosopher in a way; 
 Satan Lattimer, a big brute whose name fits him 
 like a kid glove; and half a dozen nesters who have 
 come in within the last year or so. They 
 the nesters are on the rim of the basin, 
 though; and they don t count unless we miss 
 cattle." 
 
 "Satan Lattimer!" said Josephine, halting 1 in 
 the doorway and studying Betty s face. "That 
 name suggests " 
 
 "It describes him to a T!" said Betty, her lips 
 tightening. "He is a devil. Every evil thing that 
 happens in this basin is laid at his door. He s 
 handsome, terribly, darkly handsome. He s a 
 ruthless, smiling devil. If he had lived two hun 
 dred years ago he would have been a pirate. But 
 he s a man, Jo; every inch of him. He stands out 
 of the crowd, he dominates. That is, he dominates 
 everybody but Ben Whitman and Steel Brannon, 
 dad s ranch-boss. His real name is not Steel 
 at all, but Neal ; they got to calling him Steel
 
 38 WEST! 
 
 because he s like that metal when somebody crosses 
 him. 
 
 "There are other men in this section of the 
 country; there s dad, and there are the men of 
 our outfit, and still other men over at Willets. 
 
 "None of them counts, except perhaps dad, who 
 is n t as young as he once was. Ben Whitman, 
 Satan Lattimer, and Steel Brannon are the real 
 forces around here. You 11 feel them instantly, 
 once you meet them. There s something about 
 them, even about Satan Lattimer, that makes you 
 realize they are different. I think it is a matter 
 of heredity and breeding. You feel that the strain 
 ran back in a straight line no wavering, no side 
 journeys. I don t know exactly what I mean, but 
 I have always felt that Whitman, Lattimer, and 
 Brannon are the sons of men who amounted to 
 something. I think Whitman s forebears were 
 hunters or trappers, men who lived in solitudes and 
 who established habits of thinking deeply because 
 there was no one about to bother them. 
 
 "Lattimer s ancestors were very like buccaneers 
 or swash-buckling gentlemen of fortune; while 
 Steel Brannon is a descendant of Boone. 
 
 "Anyway, Jo, they are real men; bonnie men of 
 muscle and brawn and steel and fire. I like them, 
 even Lattimer, although I know Lattimer would n t 
 hesitate an instant to carry a woman away to the 
 mountains if he got an opportunity."
 
 WEST! 39 
 
 "Betty!" said Josephine, sharply. 
 
 "You re West, Jo," came the unsmiling reply. 
 "We deal in straight talk ; there s no shilly-shally 
 ing." Her manner changed; her eyes danced, she 
 spoke authoritatively : 
 
 "Come on, now. Get ready. We are losing 
 time." 
 
 Josephine had loved Betty for the very quality of 
 straightforwardness that various other girls at 
 school had affected to dislike. She and Betty had 
 been very intimate. 
 
 Josephine had found Betty to be sturdily, almost 
 militantly virtuous, though there was nothing of 
 the prude in her. She was honest and direct in 
 speech and action, rebuffing in terms unmistakable 
 men who transgressed, insisting that she would have 
 no man hunting her, and that when the time came 
 she would choose her man, perhaps tell him of 
 her choice. But despite these rather startling qual 
 ities of character she was tender, sympathetic, and 
 endowed with a wonderful womanliness and a 
 capacity for deep, real passion. Josephine had won 
 dered much about her; she now had a divination 
 that what she had once considered belligerence in 
 the girl was merely a mask, adopted to hold off the 
 rough men among whom she had been forced to 
 live. 
 
 Josephine s preparations for the ride were simple, 
 for she followed Betty s injunction to "put on your
 
 40 WEST ! 
 
 most disreputable duds." She got into a shirt 
 waist and skirt, and pulled over her wealth of hair 
 the felt hat she had worn on the train, pausing an 
 instant to peer critically at her reflection in a glass. 
 What she saw there reassured her, even though 
 she had drawn the hat so far down that it almost 
 hid her hair, giving her a boyish, and a rather impish, 
 appearance. 
 
 Then she walked toward the door leading to the 
 veranda. She had almost reached it when she saw 
 a horseman at the edge of the gallery. He was 
 sitting crosswise in the saddle, his long legs dangling. 
 His arms were folded across his chest, and he was 
 smiling down at Betty, who stood near him. 
 
 It was her hated enemy, the black-haired man.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 JOSEPHINE S first impulse was founded upon 
 panic, ignoble, shameful. She wanted to run. 
 How she conquered the impulse she did not 
 know. Perhaps Betty s voice dissuaded her; for 
 Betty s words were very distinct: 
 
 So you let him escape? O Brannon!" 
 
 There was disappointment in Betty s voice; it 
 verged closely upon anger. Certainly it betrayed 
 a strained patience. 
 
 However, Josephine was concerned only with 
 the significance of the words; they revealed clearly 
 two astonishing and startling facts : that the black- 
 haired man was "Steel" Brannon, and that Betty had 
 known he was pursuing Les Artwell, the horse-thief. 
 
 "Art well ought to be mighty thankful that girl 
 was on the train," said Brannon. His voice was 
 dryly humorous, and though Josephine could not 
 see his face she felt his lips were curving in that 
 peculiar faint smile she had seen on them more 
 than once when he had been watching the passengers 
 who had surrounded him. 
 
 "She s foxy, all right," he went on in the same 
 dry tone; and she s got grit. I d add that she s 
 
 41
 
 42 WEST ! 
 
 a mighty good-looker, if I was n t afraid you d 
 think I let her fool me on that account. It was n t 
 that. She d been arguing with me about letting 
 Artwell off, and I d convinced her she did n t know 
 what she was talking about. So she sneaked away. 
 But after the train started to pull out I missed 
 Artwell. 
 
 "Somebody had cut Artwell loose the girl, I 
 reckon. Anyway Artwell was n t where he d been 
 all along. I was certain he d got on the train, 
 so I rode after it. The girl was standing on the 
 rear platform, and she was dead set on keeping 
 me off of it. Kicked at my hands when I tried 
 to grab the rail and knocked some bark off my fin 
 gers. 
 
 "I did n t chase the train far ; the going got 
 pretty bad. I was afraid my horse would break 
 a leg, which I would n t have happen for a dozen 
 horse-thieves." 
 
 "What was her object?" inquired Betty. 
 
 "Just to get him off, I reckon," Brannon laughed 
 mirthlessly. "She talked some of law seeming to 
 think we had no right to hang Artwell. I sized 
 her up as a woman with brains who d got long 
 on principle the principle of taking what she 
 wants." 
 
 "Where did it happen, Brannon?" 
 
 "About a hundred and fifty miles east of Willets. 
 We d been after Artwell for three days and caught
 
 WEST ! 43 
 
 him about two miles north of the railroad. We 
 figured on using a telegraph pole, but we did n t 
 aim to send Artwell off unprepared. Seemed he 
 needed a lot of preparation. We gave him time, 
 camping beside the railroad track and setting a 
 watch over him. I reckon we ought to have hurried 
 the thing a little ; but you know how it is." 
 
 "Yes." Betty s voice was low : Josephine thought 
 she detected relief in it, and was strangely grateful. 
 It proved that despite Betty s disappointment, ex 
 pressed in her first words to Brannon, she was 
 really glad Artwell had escaped. 
 
 Josephine s face was burning with shame and 
 embarrassment shame that she had stood there so 
 long, listening to a conversation she had no right 
 to hear; and embarrassment over the knowledge 
 that she must immediately reveal herself. 
 
 No other course would be fair to Betty. And 
 the longer she delayed the deeper would her sense 
 of guilt become. 
 
 Yet courage of a rare sort was required deliber 
 ately to thrust herself unannounced into the presence 
 of the black-haired man at this moment. Some 
 women would have delayed, would have found 
 some excuse to postpone the ordeal. But in an 
 instant Josephine had done it. There was a tight 
 ening of lips, a setting of the eyes, a squaring of 
 the chin that could be so formidable, and she stood 
 in the open doorway, straight, rigid, defiant.
 
 44 WEST ! 
 
 Brannon saw her first, because Betty was facing 
 another direction. Josephine had expected him to 
 exclaim violently or at least betray some sign of 
 excitemen-t or agitation. 
 
 Nothing of the kind happened. Brannon be 
 trayed no outward sign of emotion at sight of her. 
 Not a muscle of his body moved; he did not even 
 change color. His eyes, though, steady as they had 
 been when they had gazed at her that other time, 
 had depths that she could not fathom. 
 
 Of one thing she became certain as she stood 
 looking at him he did not intend to recognize her, 
 or at least betray her to Betty. 
 
 Betty, who knew Brannon better than he sus 
 pected, had observed a change in him. Her gaze 
 had been upon him all along, and she had plumbed 
 the depths that had baffled Josephine. She knew 
 something amused Brannonr 
 
 She turned, and saw Josephine; noted the pale 
 ness of her friend s face, and how her chin was 
 squared. She also became aware of the set bel 
 ligerence in Josephine s eyes. 
 
 But she masked her knowledge with a smile and 
 a courtesy. 
 
 "Jo," she saM, "I want you to meet Mr. Neal 
 Brannon, our ranch-boss." 
 
 "I met Mr. Brannon a few days ago," said 
 Josephine steadily. "If I am not mistaken, he has 
 just been telling you about it. I prevented a hang-
 
 WEST! 45 
 
 ing which would not have been strictly- legal, in 
 my opinion." 
 
 "Jo! You don t mean " 
 
 "Yes," grimly interrupted Josephine; "I am the 
 girl who defended a principle the principle of 
 taking what one wants." She looked straight at 
 Brannon. 
 
 "Mercy!" exclaimed Betty. "Why, I had no 
 idea" " 
 
 She paused, looked at both Brannon and Joseph 
 ine; saw the humor in Brannon s eyes, now grown 
 eloquent; observed in Josephine s eyes the tell 
 tale signs of rage, and instantly leagued herself 
 with her guest. 
 
 "Brannon," she said sharply, "please attend to 
 the matter we were speaking about!" 
 
 Brannon bowed, swung back into the saddle, and 
 rode* away. He had almost reached the corral gates 
 when Betty turned to her friend. 
 
 "Tell me about, it, Jo," she invited, gently. 
 
 "Yes," she sai d, when Josephine had briefly 
 told her story ; "it must have seemed cruel and brutal 
 to you ; and I don t know but that you were per 
 fectly right in interfering. Perhaps I should have 
 done so myself if I had been there. 
 
 "But Brannon told you the truth. Law as law is 
 a farce in this section. What law there is is n t 
 worth talking about ; it is negligible when it is n t 
 positively silly. A man who steals a horse is quite
 
 46 WEST! 
 
 aware of the fate that awaits him if captured; 
 he suffers the penalty made certain by custom. 
 It is n t murder, according to the code which governs 
 such matters. 
 
 "Brannon did n t see the incident as you saw 
 it, though no doubt he had some idea of how you 
 felt. And possibly he irritated you by his habit 
 of secretly laughing at one. Brannon is a real man, 
 Jo." 
 
 She gave Josephine a reassuring hug, then laugh 
 ingly patted the crimson cheeks. 
 
 "Don t you dare feel bad about it," she warned. 
 "I m glad it turned out that way. I did n t order 
 Brannon to hang Artwell, though I knew Brannon 
 was going to catch him if possible; and if I felt 
 any emotion at all over the prospect it was a sort 
 of dumb acquiescence in the customs that govern 
 such matters. 
 
 "But I m glad now, Jo, really glad you saved 
 Artwell. The main fact is that he has gone, and 
 that is what we wanted. I think he will not bother 
 us again. I 11 bet Brannon feels the same 
 way about it. Now you sit right down in 
 the rocker while I get the horses. We are not 
 going to have our ride spoiled by such a silly inci 
 dent." 
 
 Later, mounted on Chesterfield, staid, dependable, 
 and accompanied by Betty, who rode a spirited 
 bay horse, Josephine was conscious that she was
 
 WEST ! 47 
 
 startled by her friend s charity of judgment as 
 applied to Brannon. 
 
 Betty s standards, she felt, were rather elastic, 
 in that they admitted Satan Lattimer to her favor 
 able consideration upon the basis by which she 
 judged Brannon. 
 
 Both, Betty had said, were real men. And in 
 the same breath she had drawn a vivid word-picture 
 which had flatly contradicted the statement, especi 
 ally with regard to Lattimer. 
 
 "Brute" was one word that had gone upon Betty s 
 canvas as a daub of character into the verbal picture. 
 "He is a devil," had been added to it; followed by 
 "He s handsome, terribly, darkly handsome .... 
 ruthless, smiling devil .... would have been 
 pirate." And then ; "But he s a man, Jo ; every 
 inch of him .... he dominates. They are real 
 men" (thus she had included Whitman and Bran 
 non, getting them into the picture with Lattimer), 
 "bonnie men of muscle and brawn and steel and 
 fire. I like them even Lattimer, who would not 
 hesitate to carry a woman away to the mountains." 
 
 Josephine was n t sure that she understood Betty 
 after all. Was she to assume that Betty s stand 
 ards were at variance with those already accepted 
 by the world standards that had been vindicated 
 by time, and under which all human conduct had 
 been appraised and valued? Or was she to believe 
 that despite Betty s frank description of Lattimer s
 
 48 WEST ! 
 
 scarcely admirable predilections, she had discovered 
 in him qualities of character that would entitle him 
 to be accepted by the world as a "real man" ? 
 
 And what about Brannon? He too, according 
 to Betty, was a "real man." Was he like Lattimer? 
 And had Betty merely omitted to mention his 
 charming manners out of consideration of the fact 
 that he was her father s range-boss? 
 
 Or was Brannon different? Josephine thought 
 not. She was convinced that various wild and 
 vicious impulses were concealed behind Brannon s 
 formidably smooth, steel-like exterior, and that only 
 time would reveal them. 
 
 Was that why she was curious about the man, 
 why there reigned in her mind at this instant 
 a desire to stay on at Betty s ranch, a desire to stay 
 that she might watch him betray himself as the 
 wild man she knew him to be ? 
 
 "Betty," she said, after a while, when there came 
 a pause in her frierrd s chatter, while the two horses 
 were breasting some tall saccaton grass at the 
 bottom of a wide depression, "how old is Bran 
 non?" 
 
 "Twenty-seven," replied Betty. Out of the tail 
 of her eye she glanced at Josephine, and her lips 
 took on a queer firmness, as though she was re 
 pressing some disturbing emotion. 
 
 "He looks older," remarked Josephine, after an 
 interval of silence.
 
 WEST ! 49 
 
 "Do you think so?" inquired Betty, calmly, 
 again glancing swiftly at her friend. 
 
 "It s the wind and the sun that have made him 
 look so bronzed and rough, I suppose; and the 
 hard life that has made his eyes seem so so un 
 flinchingly steady. I hate him, Betty!" 
 
 "Uh-huh," returned Betty, inexpressively. 
 
 Josephine did not see the cynical curve on Betty s 
 lips.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 JOSEPHINE had brought away from the Whit 
 man cabin one distinct impression, which had 
 haunted her day and night during the two weeks 
 that had elapsed since her visit that the rugged- 
 ness of the country accentuated Mrs. Whitman s 
 fragility. 
 
 Mrs. Whitman was the mother of Ben Whitman 
 the latter one of that trio of men eulogized by 
 Betty during Josephine s first days at the Lawson 
 ranch a slight, tragic-faced woman who bore her 
 affliction in stoic silence. For two years she had 
 not been outside the walls of the Whitman ranch- 
 house, and her welcome to Josephine had been 
 pathetically eager, as was also her insistence that 
 Josephine should come again, "very soon." 
 
 Josephine had promised, but the second visit was 
 as yet in prospect because Betty Lawson had been 
 very busy too busy to go "gadding," she had 
 frankly told Josephine and Josephine would not 
 make the journey alone. 
 
 For into Josephine s heart had crept a new awe 
 of the country, an awe of the grim strength that 
 seemed to be everywhere around her, that seemed 
 
 50
 
 WEST! 51 
 
 to encompass her when she moved, that oppressed 
 her with a sense of her own relative weakness and 
 aroused a consciousness of futility. 
 
 Strangely, when she paused to attempt to analyze 
 the sensation, she did not know where to begin. 
 For she was aware that everything she saw affected 
 her with its grim, rugged strength. The cattle she 
 watched were tall, gaunt creatures of leathery 
 muscle, wild-eyed, irritable, who could run as fast 
 as a horse. The horses were tough, shaggy, evil- 
 tempered beasts that seemed eternally to combat 
 restraint of every character. The men she had seen 
 were silent, grim, self-sufficient, seeming to reflect 
 the spirit of the country; they looked like bronze 
 images of a prehistoric race with their weather- 
 beaten faces and their serene, steady eyes. And 
 every man wore deadly weapons which, she was 
 certain, he would not hesitate to use. 
 
 The poisonous life that had come under Jose 
 phine s observation had filled her with a dread of 
 doing any walking whatsoever. Loathsome crea 
 tures that wriggled and crawled and hopped had 
 come into view from places most unexpected. On 
 the ride to the Whitman ranch Betty had pointed 
 out some of the lurking denizens of the waste land 
 to her. A diamond-back rattler coiled in the shade 
 of a mesquite-tree ; a scorpion in the lee of a flat 
 rock; a horned toad, rigid, gray, hideous, staring 
 unblinkingly at the horses, impudent, defiant.
 
 52 WEST! 
 
 Josephine shuddered as she stood this morning at 
 the edge of the lower veranda of the ranch-house 
 watching the progress of a dust-cloud that traveled 
 steadily northward through the basin. Ahead of 
 the dust-cloud was the Lawson buckboard, and in 
 the buckboard were Betty Lawson and a cow-boy. 
 
 Betty was on her way to Willets for supplies of 
 a varied character. It was a trip that Josephine 
 had declined because of its attendant inconvenien 
 ces; namely, the heat, the dust, the monotony of 
 travel by such primitive methods, and Willets itself, 
 which she had disliked at sight on the day she had 
 descended from the train to the town s tumble-down 
 station. 
 
 But with Betty s departure a heavy lonesomeness 
 had settled over the ranch-house, and Josephine 
 half regretted that she had not accompanied her 
 friend. She watched the progress of the buckboard 
 through the basin with a regret that was strangely 
 mixed with apprehension; and the farther the 
 buckboard drew away the deeper grew her con 
 viction that she should have accompanied Betty. 
 Betty s comforting presence had had the effect of 
 rendering vague and formless the menacing, lurk 
 ing dangers that seemed everywhere around her; 
 with Betty going away those dangers seemed to 
 draw nearer in inverse ratio to Betty s progress 
 away from the ranch. 
 
 But Josephine was not a coward, even though
 
 WEST! 53 
 
 the smile she gave the surrounding 1 country was 
 slightly stiff-lipped and mirthless. The dangers she 
 had apprehended must be largely imaginary, since 
 Betty had survived them. 
 
 Her smile grew. Inside the house she could hear 
 Chong, the Chinese servant, rattling pots and pans. 
 The sound cheered her, brought her mind abruptly 
 back from the realm of fancy and imaginary 
 dangers. Chong had been the only human being 
 in the ranch-house with Betty since Betty s parents 
 had gone East, some weeks before Josephine s 
 arrival. And apparently Betty had been unharmed. 
 
 Still Josephine was conscious of a strange dis 
 quiet which was almost premonitory. She felt 
 terribly alone, oddly depressed. And yet she knew 
 positively that Chong was inside the house and that 
 Brannon was in the little shack the foreman s 
 cabin which stood on a little level not more than 
 a hundred feet straight west from where she stood, 
 and in plain view. 
 
 Brannon was the only occupant of the foreman s 
 cabin Betty had told Josephine that and he was 
 inside of it now ; for not more than ten minutes ago, 
 from a window, Josephine had seen him entering. 
 And she was positive he had not gone out for she 
 admitted it with a blush she had watched the door 
 rather expectantly. 
 
 She knew the bunk-houses were empty, for at 
 breakfast Betty had told her the outfit had departed
 
 54 WEST ! 
 
 before daylight to spend a few days on the open 
 range, southward, searching for calves and such 
 other stock as they might find unbranded. 
 
 Betty had said nothing about Brannon staying 
 behind. Josephine s explanation for his presence 
 was that perhaps some other duty had delayed his 
 departure. She wondered if Betty knew Brannon 
 had not gone with the other men. 
 
 Occupied with that thought, her gaze wandered 
 toward the bunk-houses. There were two, situated 
 side by side, within fifty feet of the bank of the 
 shallow stream spanned by the corral. The low, 
 rambling building used as a cook- and mess-house 
 stood near the bunk-houses. The three buildings 
 were not more than two hundred feet distant. 
 
 Twice before she had looked at the bunk-houses, 
 and had seen no signs of life about them. Now, 
 as she gazed, she saw a man come into view from 
 around a corner, stand for an instant facing her 
 and then sit down leisurely upon a bench that stood 
 close to the wall of the building. 
 
 The man had walked with a pronounced limp, 
 as though he had suffered an injury to a foot or a 
 leg. But the marvelous clarity of the atmosphere 
 brought his features before her distinctly, and she 
 recognized him as the dark man who had whispered 
 to her that day beside the railroad track the man 
 who had aided her in freeing Les Artwell, the 
 horse-thief.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 NOT until she saw the dark man did Josephine 
 realize that at least part of the vague dread 
 which had afflicted her after Betty s departure had 
 been aroused over the knowledge that Brannon had 
 not gone with the others. She knew now, however, 
 that her instinctive distrust of Brannon and possi 
 bly her hatred of him had invited the strange de 
 pression that had seized her. In no other way 
 could she explain her relief over the fact that Bran 
 non was not the only man at the ranch-house. 
 
 She had no faith in Betty s rather extravagant 
 recommendation of Brannon. She had never been 
 in the habit of accepting friends or acquaintances 
 upon a basis so precarious, and she did not intend 
 to begin now. She would choose her own friends, 
 judging them by her own standards. 
 
 To be sure, there was prejudice, which must be 
 considered ; but she was certain that in spite of the 
 unfavorable impression she had formed of Brannon 
 that day beside the railroad track she would have 
 disliked him. She was certain she would always 
 dislike and distrust him, for she did not care for 
 
 55
 
 56 WEST ! 
 
 men who had the disturbing habit of seeming to look 
 through one. 
 
 From the first, Brannon s eyes had offended her. 
 They were so steady and steely and so irritatingly 
 calm, so serenely mocking in their blue depths, that 
 they had aroused in her a violent antagonism. She 
 was certain that they masked various wild and reck 
 less impulses such as Betty had tacitly ascribed to 
 him when she had compared him with Satan Latti- 
 mer and in the next breath to declare that Lattimer 
 would not hesitate to "carry a woman to the 
 mountains." 
 
 The dark man had impressed her more favor 
 ably. In the first place, the dark man seemed more 
 human. There beside the railroad track, when he 
 had whispered to her, he had betrayed passion ex 
 cusable passion, because Brannon had been about 
 to hang an innocent man. Also, the dark man dis 
 liked Brannon, which fact seemed to establish a 
 bond between the dark man and herself. 
 
 At any rate, if she was to trust to her always- 
 reliable intuitions, she must pin her faith to the 
 dark man. She did n t intend to be very friendly 
 with the dark man either, but she had a certain 
 curiosity that must be satisfied. And so, unhesi 
 tatingly yielding to the urge of impulse, she stepped 
 down from the veranda and walked to the bunk- 
 house. 
 
 The dark man got up at her approach. His
 
 WEST ! 57 
 
 movements were awkward, but she thought he 
 achieved his bow with some grace, considering an 
 injured foot, which was heavily bandaged and 
 which apparently would not bear his weight. 
 
 Also, there was a respectful glow in his eyes, and 
 his voice was flatteringly deferential and gentle. 
 
 "So it s you, ma am," he said. "I thought 
 you d gone with Betty Lawson." 
 
 "You didn t see me standing on the porch?" she 
 asked, for she was certain he had seen her. 
 
 "Just a minute ago?" He smiled. "I reckon I 
 did. Until then, I thought you d gone with Betty. 
 I did n t see her go, though I knowed she was goin . 
 I d been in the bunk-house nursin my foot." 
 
 "How did it happen?" 
 
 "Busted it ropin my hoss this mornin . I reckon 
 it ain t bruk twisted bad, though so s I couldn t 
 drag it with the boys. Tough luck." 
 
 "Have you heard from Artwell?" she asked, 
 guardedly. 
 
 He grinned widely. "Yep. Les is safe. He 
 sent word I was to thank you. You done him a 
 good turn, ma am. Artwell never stole no hoss 
 from anybody!" He looked at her intently, search- 
 ingly. "You ain t mentioned to Brannon that I cut 
 Artwell loose?" 
 
 "Certainly not!" she declared. 
 
 "That s right," he said, his eyes gleaming with 
 satisfaction. "If Brannon was to find out about
 
 58 WEST ! 
 
 that deal he d make things mighty unpleasant for 
 me." 
 
 "I will never tell him!" 
 
 "Don t like him, eh?" he said, a touch of passion 
 in his voice. "Well, there s lots of folks don t like 
 him. He s a lot too fresh." 
 
 She did n t want to discuss Brannon further. 
 She talked of the corral, the horses in it, of the 
 country, and of the feeling of awe the contemplation 
 of it gave her. 
 
 He watched her curiously, evidently a trifle 
 puzzled, though plainly amused when she told him 
 she was afraid of the very bigness and strength of 
 everything. 
 
 "Don t bother me that way," he grinned. "I 
 reckon that s a new one on me. Never heard of 
 anybody bein scared of mountains an draws an 
 trees an flats an such. Don t they raise such 
 things in the East?" 
 
 Of course, after that, she knew he lacked imagi 
 nation. She felt a slight disappointment, though 
 she consoled herself with the thought that she had 
 heard persons rhapsodize over big cities though she 
 herself was so familiar with their wonders that she 
 had ceased to marvel at them. 
 
 "I 11 send Chong down to attend to your foot," 
 she said, turning to go. 
 
 "Shucks; you won t," he said, quickly. "It 
 ain t nothin to get excited over."
 
 WEST ! 59 
 
 "Denver has been hurt worse, Miss Hamilton," 1 
 came a drawling, slightly mocking voice from the 
 corner of the bunk-house nearest the ranch-house. 
 
 Josephine wheeled stiffly to face Brannon. 
 
 He was standing at the corner of the bunk-house, 
 his legs sprawled apart, his arms folded over his 
 chest, and the fingers of the right hand were caress 
 ing his chin. She had seen him in that position the 
 day she had rescued Art well, just before he had dis 
 covered the escape, while he had been standing on 
 the track with the other men watching the departure 
 of the train. The position was characteristic of his 
 saturnine, mocking, and self-sufficient attitude 
 toward his fellow-men. 
 
 He evidently had been listening. How she 
 hated him ! 
 
 "Of course you would n t care for Mr. Denver s 
 foot!" she said, her eyes blazing with scorn. 
 "Men who eavesdrop are too self-centered to do 
 things for the unfortunate." 
 
 "Mr. Denver is n t unfortunate, Miss Hamil 
 ton," he said, placing broad emphasis on the 
 "mister." "A trifle awkward, perhaps. Getting a 
 twisted foot just at this time keeps him from help 
 ing the other boys with a tiresome, dirty job - 
 branding on the open range." 
 
 "It seems Mr. Denver is n t the only man who is 
 avoiding a tiresome, dirty job!" she said, point 
 edly.
 
 60 WEST ! 
 
 "That s so. Maybe I stayed behind to keep 
 Denver from being lonesome." 
 
 Brannon was apparently unaffected by Jose 
 phine s sarcasm. If he felt any emotion at all, it 
 was deep, invisible. The glance he threw at Den 
 ver was oddly vacuous, foreshortened; it was as 
 though he did not see the man at all. 
 
 Denver, Josephine noticed, was sitting tense, his 
 muscles straining. His lips were in a pout ; his 
 black eyes were agate-hard and glittering with fury. 
 
 But it was a fury Denver was trying hard 
 to suppress. It seemed to Josephine that he 
 knew he must suppress it, that he feared to yield 
 to it. 
 
 Also, she felt Brannon was secretly enjoying 
 Denver s struggle to control himself; she was 
 vaguely aware that some sort of a contest was go 
 ing on before her eyes something secret, subtle 
 -an underplay of terrific, primitive forces. 
 
 As when she had seen Brannon the day she had 
 rescued Artwell, he seemed to dominate, was 
 serenely confident of his ability to command, to 
 control any situation that might arise. She felt 
 again the metal-like inflexibility of him, and as be 
 fore the formidable smoothness with which he 
 clothed it irritated her. She was determined to 
 sting him into exhibiting passion of some sort. 
 
 "Does Betty Lawson know you are evading your 
 duty?" she demanded.
 
 WEST! 6 1 
 
 "I don t know what Betty is thinking right now/* 
 he returned. 
 
 "Oh, I presume that is one way of reminding me 
 that what you are doing is none of my business?" 
 
 "Did Betty tell you I was to report to you?" he 
 asked, his gaze steady as it caught and held hers. 
 
 She laughed scornfully, in a vain effort to sup 
 press the fury seething in her veins. She was con 
 scious of defeat. She somehow got the odd im 
 pression that her words were like hailstones striking 
 a metal roof; they rattled but had no visible effect 
 upon the solidity of the structure. 
 
 But she made him see the hatred in her eyes ; she 
 had that small satisfaction. And she was certain 
 the contempt in her manner when she turned and 
 walked away from him must make him realize how 
 insignificant an atom he had become in her estima 
 tion. 
 
 That thought persisted until, reaching the ver 
 anda, she glanced swiftly back. 
 
 Brannon was facing her; he had evidently been 
 watching her. Quite plainly she could see his face. 
 He was smiling. 
 
 Josephine went into the house, into the living- 
 room, where she stood, her face flaming as she 
 yielded to the rage that had seized her a rage 
 which she knew was caused by the knowledge that 
 in Brannon she had met a man whose will was 
 stronger than her own.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 JOSEPHINE spent the remainder of the day in 
 the big living-room, brooding over her clash 
 with Brannon. She was too angry to read any of 
 the books whose covers peeped so alluringly at her 
 from the shelves of the big bookcase that stood 
 against the west wall between a low open window 
 and the outside door; she was too irritable to sew 
 or to retrim the spare hat she had brought, which 
 she could have made more fascinating with little 
 effort. 
 
 Little pleasures and tasks of that character 
 seemed trifling when arrayed against the event of 
 the morning. Life big, vital, elemental was 
 more interesting. 
 
 Her face still flamed when after lunching in the 
 dining-room with the little, almond-eyed Chong 
 attending to her wants, she returned to the living- 
 room and stood for an instant peering out of the 
 west window. 
 
 Denver and Brannon were not visible. 
 
 Josephine selected a book and went out on the 
 veranda, where she dropped into a rocker and tried 
 to read, to get her mind off Brannon. 
 
 62
 
 WEST ! 63: 
 
 The book was dull, uninteresting. She closed it 
 noisily. Her brows were level and her lips in 
 straight lines as she sat staring into the northern 
 distance at the upward sweep of the great green- 
 brown bowl with its splotches of brilliant green and 
 its contrasting stretches of gray and level alkali 
 flats. 
 
 She meant to conquer Brannon. She would 
 show him that she was not to be intimidated by his 
 overmastering self-conceit, by his studied indiffer 
 ence to the wishes and the desires of others, by his 
 absurd pretensions to unassailable authority, or by 
 his ridiculous self-assurance. She would teach 
 him that he could not 
 
 At this point her thoughts became incoherent. 
 The green-brown bowl became a blur, an opaque 
 sea. Josephine was crying. 
 
 Later she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief 
 and bit her lips in vexation, though her shoulders, 
 still moving convulsively, testified to the intensity 
 of her emotions. Her hatred of Brannon had 
 grown bitter, savage, and its strength gave her a 
 vindictive joy, because once while she had been cry 
 ing she had been on the point of conceding that 
 she felt miserable because she liked Brannon in 
 spite of his indifference to her. 
 
 The afternoon had waned when she got up and 
 went into the house. 
 
 Chong was preparing supper, and he smirked
 
 64 WEST ! 
 
 engagingly at her as she entered the kitchen. 
 
 "Gettee pletty lonesome," he said. "Missy Law- 
 son makee plenty noise." 
 
 Josephine was lonesome, far more lonesome than 
 she cared to admit. She went to her room, and 
 when she came down Chong had the cloth laid. 
 By the time she had finished eating the world had 
 darkened, and from the veranda the mighty basin 
 seemed to be enveloped in sinister shadows. 
 
 Twilight continued until the last, piercing rays 
 of the sun vanished from the peaks of some tall 
 mountains on the horizon, and then suddenly the 
 basin vanished in a black pall and Josephine could 
 only dimly make out the shapes of the foreman s 
 cabin and the bunk-houses. 
 
 She went into the living-room and lit a lamp. 
 
 Half an hour later, hearing no sound from the 
 kitchen, and surmising that Chong had gone to bed, 
 she got up and walked to the door, afflicted with a 
 dread premonition that some one was prowling 
 around the house. She intended to close the door 
 and had grasped the knob when a dull, heavy 
 drumming sound reached her ears. 
 
 Poised, ready for instant flight, she listened. 
 The sound came closer, became more distinct. A 
 horse galloping. 
 
 She drew a breath of relief, aware that her nerves 
 had been at an unusual tension. The coming of a 
 horseman probably indicated that one of the men
 
 WEST! 65 
 
 of the outfit had ridden in, perhaps to make a re 
 port to Brannon, who had stayed behind "to keep 
 Denver company." 
 
 Her lips curved scornfully at the thought; but 
 instantly straightened again when she heard the 
 thunder of hoofs at the edge of the veranda and 
 the words, hurled at her ears out of the windless, 
 void: 
 
 "Hullo! Any of the boys here?" 
 
 "Why no Yes. That is Denver and Bran 
 non." 
 
 "Good!" There was satisfaction in the voice 
 a voice that was gruff and deeply masculine. Jo 
 sephine s eyes now accustomed to the outside dark 
 ness could see the dim shapes of man and horse. 
 
 "Lets me out!" Came the voice again. "I ve 
 got troubles of my own, an I m in a hell of a 
 hurry. Been to Laskar. Comin back I looked in 
 at Ben Whitman. His mother s sick got a fit or 
 somethin . Ben wanted me to ride to Willets for 
 the doc. Told him I would if there was n t nobody 
 here to send. That s all ; I reckon I 11 drag it !" 
 
 "Wait!" 
 
 In the sudden excitement that assailed her, Jo 
 sephine had gone out upon the veranda and was 
 half-way to the horseman when she uttered the 
 command. 
 
 "Talk fast!" growled the horseman, impatiently^ 
 
 "Is Mrs. Whitman very ill?"
 
 66 WEST ! 
 
 "She s sick, ma am ; that s all I know. I got 
 a look at her, an she was pretty peaked. Sufferin 
 bad. You d better have Denver or Brannon cut it. 
 So-long, ma am." 
 
 There was a flurry of hoofs, an indistinct shape 
 hurtling through the night, and the horseman had 
 ^vanished. 
 
 For an instant Josephine stood motionless on the 
 veranda helplessly undecided and profoundly agi 
 tated. 
 
 Brannon must go of course, for Denver could 
 not ride thirty-five miles with an injured foot. 
 
 She supposed Brannon was in his cabin. She 
 peered at it through the darkness and saw a narrow 
 streak of light issuing from one of the windows. 
 Apparently Brannon had not heard the horseman, 
 and much as the idea offended her she supposed 
 she would have to go to his cabin to apprise him 
 of what had happened. 
 
 She was at the edge of the gallery when she be 
 came aware of a moving shape at a little distance 
 out into the darkness. 
 
 ""Brannon?" she said, sharply. 
 
 ""It s me, ma am Denver," came the latter s 
 voice, low and smooth. "I heard a hoss, an a man 
 talkin . I seen him slope. Reckon he was in a 
 hurry to get somewheres, eh?" 
 
 "It s about Mrs. Whitman ; she s very ill. The 
 man who was just here told Ben Whitman he d
 
 WEST ! 67 
 
 stop here and have some one go to Willets for the 
 doctor. I suppose your foot " 
 
 "It s in mighty bad shape, ma am an pain 
 ful. I m a heap sorry, but if " 
 
 "Get Brannon then, will you please? And do 
 hurry! The poor woman may be dying!" 
 
 "Brannon s here," ca-me the latter s voice from 
 somewhere in the outer darkness. "What s the 
 ruckus? Who is dying?" 
 
 "Mrs. Whitman. A man rode past just a minute 
 ago. Mrs. W T hitman needs a doctor!" 
 
 Brannon loomed out of the darkness, mounted the 
 edge of the veranda, and stood where the faint 
 glow of light from the open doorway shone on him. 
 
 Josephine thrilled oddly at sight of him. It was 
 as though a cool, calm breath of the night swept 
 over her, stilling her excitement, soothing her jan 
 gled nerves. She knew it was the man s magnetism 
 gripping her, drawing her, holding her the in 
 tense, vital, resistless force of him that she had 
 felt all along. 
 
 She hated him because he possessed the power 
 to dominate, to control every situation without ap 
 parent effort, naturally, as though there was no 
 other way. She hated him because she felt he knew 
 just how she fought against the lure of him ; she 
 hated him just as bitterly for mentally acknow 
 ledging that despite her hatred for him he had 
 intrigued her interest.
 
 68 WEST ! 
 
 She meant to control this situation, was deter 
 mined to show him that she resented his calm 
 assumption of power and authority. 
 
 Denver had limped his way to the veranda. He 
 now stood near Brannon, in the light from the 
 doorway. He was silent; his face was expressionless, 
 though his black eyes were alert, his gaze roving 
 from her to Brannon, and past her into the living- 
 room. His foot was still bandaged. 
 
 "Brannon, I want you to ride to Willets for a 
 doctor !" 
 
 Josephine s voice was cold, authoritative, though 
 she was aware that in it was a hint of vindictive- 
 ness. 
 
 She was also aware of the dead silence that 
 followed her words. For the first time since she had 
 known Brannon she detected emotion in his eyes. 
 She saw them narrow with a pin-point of sardonic 
 derision; saw his lips curve slightly, as with grim 
 amusement. The expression was transient, subtle, 
 and before she could fix it clearly in her mind for 
 future consideration it had gone, and he was watch 
 ing her calmly, attentively. 
 
 "I think you do not understand, Brannon," she 
 said coldly. "Mrs. Whitman is very ill and needs a 
 doctor at once. While you are standing there doing 
 nothing she may be dying!" 
 
 "There is nothing wrong with my hearing, Miss 
 Hamilton," said Brannon. "But I want to remind
 
 WEST! 69 
 
 you that I am still issuing orders for the Triangle 
 L. One boss is all that any ranch needs. Denver 
 will go for the doctor. While he s there the doc 
 can fix up his foot." 
 
 Josephine s first sensation was that of acute 
 shame and mortification. The shock, her astonish 
 ment, the incredible fact that Brannon had dared 
 say such a thing to her, dismayed her, brought on 
 mental incoherence. 
 
 There followed a surge of furious rage and re 
 sentment so violent that it took her close to Brannon, 
 so close that inches separated them when she spoke, 
 and her blazing, scornful eyes were swimming 
 with contempt unutterable. 
 
 "I wonder if you realize how much I hate you, 
 Brannon," she said steadily, despite the tumult of 
 passion which had seized her. "I want you to 
 know it. I want you to know that I chose you to 
 go for the doctor because I did n t want to be alone 
 with you. I hate you, despise, and distrust you! 
 And if Denver rides for the doctor I shall go with 
 him !" 
 
 Brannon s level gaze had not wavered. She saw 
 a faint smile flicker for an instant on his lips, saw 
 his eyes deepen with a subtle meaning that she 
 could not comprehend. Then he said shortly, 
 "That seems to be plenty" ; turned, stepped off the 
 veranda, and vanished into the darkness in the 
 direction of the corral.
 
 DENVER said nothing after Brannon went. 
 He turned, peered after Brannon until the 
 latter could no longer be seen; then limped to the 
 edge of the gallery and seated himself, leaning com 
 fortably against a column. 
 
 Josephine did not move. She stood where Bran 
 non had left her, rigid, still furious, but feeling a 
 vicious satisfaction over the consciousness that she 
 had told Brannon exactly what she thought of him. 
 
 Brannon had not said he would go ; but when she 
 heard hoof-beats from the direction of the corral, 
 gradually diminishing into the distance, she realized 
 that she had won. 
 
 Still she did not move for a long time, though 
 she strained her eyes in an effort to see Brannon 
 riding away. But an impenetrable curtain of 
 darkness hid Brannon from view. 
 
 In an effort to quiet the turmoil of conflicting 
 emotions that seethed within her, Josephine walked 
 to the far end of the veranda, eastward, where she 
 stood for a time staring into the darkness. Her 
 emotions were a curious mixture of humiliation, 
 
 rage, and regret. 
 
 70
 
 WEST! 71 
 
 She kept seeing Brannon s face when he had 
 stood before her on the veranda. She tried to read 
 the strange smile that had appeared on his lips when 
 she had acquainted him with her real feelings 
 toward him; she endeavored to analyze the subtle 
 something that had been in his eyes. 
 
 She was convinced that he had not believed her 
 when she had told him she hated him, for the smile 
 on his lips and the light in his eyes had betrayed 
 him. 
 
 Nor had he seemed angry or hurt. He had been 
 amused ; that was it. But the amusement had been 
 grim, as though he possessed knowledge of a sort 
 that would astonish her if he chose to tell her of it, 
 knowledge of something secret and clandestine, of 
 tragic or threatening import. 
 
 She stood for a long time at the eastern end. of 
 the veranda; how long she did not know. But she 
 started after a while, aware that she had been com 
 pletely engrossed in her mental picture of Brannon s 
 face. Over the eastern rim of the mammoth basin 
 had come a big, full, yellow moon; and she was 
 bathed in the rich, mellow, effulgent glow. 
 
 The veranda was flooded with golden light. Far 
 out in the basin toward Willets the golden flood 
 stretched, sweeping the ridges and hills and touch 
 ing the flats with subdued radiance. 
 
 She did not wonder that she could not see Bran- 
 non; she must have stood at the veranda end for
 
 72 WEST ! 
 
 more than half an hour, and Brannon would have 
 gone many miles. 
 
 Still she searched the northern slope of the basin 
 for sight of him and sighed distinctly when she 
 failed to see him. 
 
 Brannon s cabin was now in plain view; it was 
 clearly outlined; and one window, where she had 
 observed the light streak immediately after the 
 rider from Whitman s had gone, reflected the huge, 
 golden disk swimming above the horizon behind 
 her. 
 
 Denver, she saw with a feeling of satisfaction, 
 was still sitting on the edge of the veranda, where 
 he had gone after the departure of Brannon. It 
 was evident that Denver meant to remain in the 
 vicinity of the ranch-house until Brannon returned. 
 
 She spoke to Denver as she reached the door on 
 her way to the living-room, asking him if he had 
 seen Brannon. 
 
 "No," he answered slowly; "I reckon he must 
 have drug it." 
 
 The expression "drug it" meant no doubt, that 
 Brannon had ridden fast. She wondered how long 
 it would take a good rider Brannon, for instance 
 to reach Willets; and she speculated upon Ben 
 Whitman s ability properly to care for his mother 
 until the arrival of the doctor. Thirty-five miles! 
 That meant seventy miles altogether. It also
 
 WEST ! 73 
 
 meant that Mrs. Whitman s sufferings would last 
 many hours. 
 
 Entering the living-room, she stood for some 
 minutes beside a big center-table, thinking of Mrs. 
 Whitman, of the woman s white, tragic face and her 
 big eyes, eloquent of suffering and filled with the 
 reflection of heroic patience. 
 
 She looked at the comfortable chairs in the room. 
 They invited her, but looking at them she saw duty 
 beckoning. It was ten miles to the Whitman cabin, 
 and the trail was tortuous to one unaccustomed to 
 riding; but she had not been standing at the table 
 for many minutes before she became aware that she 
 had decided to go to Mrs. Whitman. 
 
 Denver would know the trail, and Denver could 
 be depended upon. 
 
 She turned, intending to go to the door and ask 
 Denver to get the horses ready. 
 
 Denver was standing in the doorway. 
 
 He was standing on one foot, the injured foot 
 resting lightly on the threshold of the doorway ; his 
 arms were braced against the jambs, the fingers of 
 his hands outspread in a way that made Josephine 
 wonder at the bigness of them. 
 
 A change had come over Denver. At the bunk- 
 house that day his manner had been respectful, 
 deferential. Now he seemed curiously bold and 
 familiar. His attitude expressed impudence. His
 
 74 WEST ! 
 
 lips were slightly apart in a loose, whimsical, wanton 
 smile; his eyes were hard as agate and gleaming 
 with a passion that she had not seen in the eyes of 
 any man.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 T N Josephine s eyes Denver had become in- 
 * vested with a new personality. He was at this 
 instant the material agent of those invisible dangers 
 which had threatened her since her first day at the 
 Lawson ranch. He was danger itself, evolved 
 from her vagrant imagination; he was the fulfil 
 ment of the dread promise that the waste places had 
 held out to her. In his eyes glowed the cruelty of 
 the country; in his manner was a ruthlessness that 
 the grim, rugged strength of the land had suggested 
 to her. 
 
 She understood now that she had made a mistake 
 in not permitting Brannon to send Denver to Wil- 
 lets. Brannon was the man she really trusted, but 
 she had permitted her foolish prejudices to influence 
 her. She knew, too, that Brannon had been aware 
 that she was making a mistake; it had been that 
 knowledge, secret and clandestine, that she had seen 
 in his eyes when he had stood before her on the 
 veranda. Brannon knew what kind of a man Den 
 ver was, and he had wanted to apprise her of that 
 knowledge. That was why he had rebuked her, 
 why he had insulted her with his cold statement that 
 
 75
 
 76 WEST ! 
 
 the Triangle L did not need more than one boss. 
 
 As this conviction burst upon her she felt her 
 knees weaken, and for an instant they threatened to 
 give way under her. 
 
 Denver must have seen some evidence of the 
 doubt and dread that were torturing her, for as she 
 watched him, her eyes slowly widening, her face 
 paling, she saw him grin hugely. 
 
 "Ketchin on," he said. "I was wonderin if 
 you understood what Brannon meant. Did n t give 
 it a thought, eh? Used him like a dog. That s a 
 woman for you. They ain t got no sense, which 
 is why men have such an easy time with em. If 
 you go to gettin fresh with me I 11 guzzle you! 
 Understand ? " 
 
 She was not more than three or four paces from 
 him, and when she saw him move forward she was 
 certain that he could not mean to harm her, despite 
 his menacing manner, for she knew Chong was in 
 the house ; and she had heard Betty say that Chong 
 was as much a man in a fight as any of the cow 
 boys in the outfit, that he was gentlemanly and 
 brave and dependable. 
 
 But she did not want to call to Chong; she did n t 
 want violence in any form, and she had a hope that 
 Denver would not press her too far. 
 
 She delayed retreating until Denver had taken 
 two steps toward her, for she had been thinking that 
 his injured ankle would retard his movements;
 
 WEST ! 77 
 
 and if he really did mean to harm her she would 
 have no difficulty in evading him until she could 
 call to Chong. 
 
 She could not believe that any man would dare 
 meditate the thing that plainly was in Denver s 
 eyes. 
 
 She gasped when she saw that he used the injured 
 foot as well as he used the other. The realization 
 came tardily, for as she at last moved backward 
 Denver reached out a long arm and grasped her 
 right wrist, jerking her violently toward him. 
 
 For an awful instant she was too stunned to 
 struggle, though her astonishment was greater than 
 the fear she felt. 
 
 Denver laughed. 
 
 "You re sensible," he said; "it ain t no use 
 fightin ." 
 
 It was evident that he took her passivity to mean 
 that she had surrendered, whereas she was merely 
 quiescent until she could gather her strength and 
 her senses into some sort of coordination, until she 
 could get back the breath that seemed to have left 
 her. 
 
 Then she screamed and suddenly braced her 
 hands against Denver s chest, pushing him from 
 her with all her strength. 
 
 Miraculously, it seemed, the movement freed 
 her. 
 
 For Denver s muscles had suddenly become limp.
 
 78 WEST ! 
 
 She heard him catch his breath with a great gasp, 
 saw his face whiten and his eyes widen as though 
 he were staring at some dread apparition. 
 
 She forgot she was free. In her astonishment 
 she stood motionless, watching the miracle of the 
 man s sudden transformation. For he was now 
 cringing away from her, seemingly trying to con 
 tract his body, apparently striving to hide his bulk 
 from somebody or something behind her. She saw 
 his hands slowly rising, the fingers spread wide, the 
 palms toward her. 
 
 As she wheeled her thoughts went to Chong. 
 The man had vindicated Betty s confidence in him; 
 he had come at just the right time. 
 
 Chong was not behind her. Framed in the open 
 window between the bookcase and the corner, one 
 hand holding back the lace curtains, a heavy pistol 
 rigid in the other, was Brannon. 
 
 Josephine stood motionless, rigid. She was glad, 
 unutterably glad to see Brannon, and the shudder 
 ing, dry, gasping sobs that shook her were born of 
 gratitude too great for words. 
 
 Yet she did not change her position, for there 
 was no mistaking the light in Brannon s eyes. He 
 meant to kill Denver. 
 
 She could feel Denver behind her; without look 
 ing at him she knew he was cringing, concealing 
 himself as much as possible from the grim death 
 at the window.
 
 He had come at just the right time
 
 WEST ! 79 
 
 An instant before the appearance of Brannon, Jo 
 sephine s passionate hatred of Denver had been so 
 great that she would have yielded to an overwhelm 
 ing yearning to take his life if she could have laid 
 her hands upon a weapon. Now, with Brannon 
 framed in the window, and satisfied beyond all 
 doubt that she was safe, there came a swift reaction. 
 For the knowledge that Brannon was near seemed to 
 take the tragedy out of the incident, made it seem 
 commonplace, trivial. She felt now that the only 
 significance she could attach to the affair was the 
 shock to her self-esteem ashamed consciousness 
 that she had almost become a victim of Denver s 
 passion. 
 
 She no longer wondered why men in this country 
 had applied the sobriquet "Steel" to Brannon. His 
 face, in the light from the lamp on the center-table, 
 seemed to have been molded from that metal. She 
 felt she could see the gray-white inflexible texture 
 of it beneath the bronzed skin. His lips were in 
 straight, hard, rigid lines, and his eyes were pools 
 in which glowed lights and points of fire that fasci 
 nated her; they coalesced, deepened, became defi 
 nitely centered upon her own. She drew a deep 
 breath of mingled awe and wonder. 
 
 "Step aside, Miss Hamilton," came his voice, 
 cold with authority, though strangely without 
 passion ; "I m going to kill that yellow coyote be 
 hind you!"
 
 8o WEST ! 
 
 She did not move. She meant to save Denver. 
 Not that Denver did not deserve death for his attack 
 on her, but because the thought of violence was re 
 pugnant to her, because her objection to the principle 
 of unauthorized death-dealing was as strong now 
 as it had been in the case of Les Artwell. If there 
 was a perverse passion in her heart that would not 
 permit her to yield to Brannon s will it was be 
 trayed in the defiant look she gave him. 
 
 "You sha n t kill him ; I won t have it !" she de 
 clared. "Why are you always so eager to kill 
 some one? Is there no other way to punish men 
 for crimes like this?" 
 
 She saw Brannon s hard lips curve into a curious, 
 mirthless smile, and at the same instant she felt 
 Denver move swiftly. Assailed with a sudden 
 presentiment that Denver intended to shoot Bran- 
 non, she turned just in time to grip his wrist as he 
 drew at the pistol at his hip. 
 
 Fighting to prevent him from drawing the 
 weapon, she heard a slight sound at her side and a 
 man s bulk loomed close ; an arm flashed by her face 
 with incredible swiftness, the sleeve brushing her 
 face, burning into the flesh as it passed. She saw 
 Denver reeling away, his eyes closed, his knees 
 sagging, his arms hanging limp. 
 
 She watched Denver go down, flat on his back 
 near the south wall of the room, lax, unconscious;
 
 WEST! 81 
 
 and with the swift glance she took at him she saw 
 a bruise and a trickle of red on his forehead. 
 
 When she turned, Brannon was standing close 
 by, looking down at Denver. Brannon s heavy 
 pistol, the barrel gripped tightly in his right hand, 
 had proved an effective weapon. 
 
 Josephine did not speak, and Brannon did not 
 look at her, though the girl watched him, awed, fas 
 cinated by the repressed fury that showed in his 
 pale face and in his blazing eyes. As he stood 
 watching Denver, the girl sensed the terrible force 
 of Brannon s passions; she felt she was seeing 
 Brannon as men knew Brannon. 
 
 She feared he would complete his work, and when 
 Denver began to show signs of returning conscious 
 ness she stepped toward Brannon, intending to pre 
 vent further violence. She halted, though, when 
 Brannon, without looking at her, waved a depre 
 cating hand in her direction, as though to say he 
 knew what was in her mind and that he had no 
 intention of bothering Denver further. 
 
 In silence they watched Denver rise, swaying 
 unsteadily a beaten, whipped, sullen beast masque 
 rading in man s shape. 
 
 When Denver at last succeeded in straightening 
 himself against the wall, Brannon spoke, breaking 
 the silence of the room with the curt order: "Den 
 ver, thank the lady!"
 
 82 WEST ! 
 
 He waited, watching cynically, while Denver 
 stepped forward and muttered something unintel 
 ligible. Brannon s lips twitched when Josephine 
 turned her back upon the man. 
 
 Josephine did not change her position until she 
 heard Denver cross the veranda, until she saw Bran- 
 non walk to the window, part the curtains, and look 
 out into the moonlight. When Brannon finally 
 turned from the window and looked at her with a 
 dry, quizzical smile, she knew that Denver had gone ; 
 and she sank into the nearest chair, weak, nerveless, 
 almost hysterical. 
 
 Brannon expected her to faint or go into some 
 form of hysteria; and when she sank into the chair 
 and sat there trembling, her hands pressed tightly 
 over her eyes, he smiled with slight contempt. The 
 heave and tumult of her bosom revealed to him how 
 desperately she was fighting to retain her self- 
 control. 
 
 Headstrong, he thought her; obstinately wilful. 
 She rather deserved her present punishment for 
 disregarding his orders regarding the sending of 
 Denver to Willets and for her determination to 
 oppose him. 
 
 He had little respect for the aggressive spirit she 
 had exhibited, even though since the first day she 
 had occupied a prominent place in his thoughts, and 
 he had been haunted by her eyes and her hair, and
 
 WEST ! 83 
 
 captivated by the firm, white curves of her chin and 
 throat. 
 
 She was beautiful, distractingly beautiful; and 
 were it not for her aggressive self-reliance and her 
 apparent devotion to the principle of doing as she 
 pleased without regard for the desires of others, he 
 might have yielded to certain amorous impulses in 
 stead of almost succumbing to a malicious desire 
 to antagonize her. 
 
 The last was a satanic impulse tempered with 
 pity. As he watched her now he felt sorry for her, 
 though he was aware of a yearning to remind her 
 of several things that had not rested well on his 
 mind for one thing her frank declaration that she 
 despised and hated him. 
 
 But though there was malice in his heart toward 
 her, a force that made his pulses pound heavily 
 drove him to her side. Before he was aware of 
 what he was doing he had placed a hand on her 
 bowed head and was stroking the wonderfully soft 
 hair; was watching with grim pity how her slender 
 shoulders shook and quivered from the intense 
 emotion she was experiencing. 
 
 But though tenderness surged through him, the 
 malicious devil dominated, drove him to gentle, 
 mocking speech: 
 
 "You trusted the wrong man, eh?" 
 
 Somehow it seemed the most natural thing in the
 
 84 WEST ! 
 
 world for Brannon to stroke her hair, even though 
 no other man had ever attempted it. And Brannon 
 would never know how his touch calmed her, how 
 it made her pulses leap. It was as though through 
 his finger-tips she could feel his strong personality 
 tugging at her. Still she resented the touch, was 
 furious with herself for tolerating the familiarity. 
 And yet the touch thrilled her. She was conscious 
 of a vicious satisfaction when he spoke, taunting 
 her because of her faulty judgment; she felt a 
 thrill of delight over the prospect of quarreling with 
 him. 
 
 "Please stop pawing my hair!" she said coldly. 
 "And I don t think you are very gentlemanly in 
 calling attention to the mistake I made! How was 
 I to know? You certainly did not seem to be very 
 trustworthy, with your miserable habit of looking 
 at one without seeming to see one. And if you 
 had n t been so superior and aloof perhaps I should 
 have should not have spoken as I did when I was 
 talking to you on the veranda !" 
 
 She had got out of the chair and was standing 
 beside it. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were 
 brilliant with passion; she was rigid, defiant, and 
 her satisfaction over the fact that she was having 
 it out with him was apparent. 
 
 Brannon also was enjoying the clash. But his 
 enjoyment was deeper, secret. He presented a 
 calm exterior, masking his emotions, which were
 
 WEST] 85 
 
 varied, though centering upon the malicious thought 
 that he had betrayed her into exhibiting temper. 
 
 "You ve learned something, Miss Hamilton," he 
 said; "you ve learned that a man doesn t always 
 mean what he says. I was trying to make you 
 understand that it was n t safe to leave Denver at 
 the ranch with you. But you were determined to 
 have your way." 
 
 "Indeed! How am I to believe you? How did 
 you know that Denver meditated what what he 
 attempted?" Her eyes were alight with scorn. 
 
 "I know Denver. His foot was n t hurt. I 
 stayed at the ranch to-day because he stayed. I 
 knew he was up to some deviltry. I was pretty 
 close when Callahan of the Star stopped here to 
 night ; I d been hanging around, keeping an eye on 
 Denver, when Callahan came." 
 
 "Callahan?" 
 
 "Callahan was the rider who told you about Mrs. 
 Whitman. The Star is beyond the rim of the 
 basin." 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed astonished to discover that 
 while she had sat in fancied security in the ranch- 
 house, this man had anticipated her danger and had 
 taken steps to. protect her. She was grateful, and 
 yet she was disappointed to learn that her obliga 
 tions to him did not end with his opportune appear 
 ance at the window. Watching him, she got the 
 impression that he was omniscient and possessed of
 
 86 WEST ! 
 
 an uncanny power to anticipate events ; that he had 
 reason to have confidence in himself; that he was a 
 deep, subtle thinker with a certain, unerring compre 
 hension of human nature. For an instant she was 
 afraid of him; alarmed that his knowledge of her 
 self included a suspicion of her reluctant admiration 
 of him, which she had not admitted to herself until 
 her passive acceptance of his caress a few minutes 
 ago. 
 
 She had not meant to admit that she admired 
 him; she was angry at herself because she had been 
 weak enough even to entertain the thought. Until 
 the instant she had felt his hand on her hair she had 
 assured herself that the appeal he had made to her 
 was in the nature of a perfectly natural respect for 
 his strength, such as one might feel for any man 
 who betrayed mental qualities that would distin 
 guish him from the ordinary. In her mind he was 
 merely a symbol of the country; he had taken on the 
 attributes of his environment the rugged strength, 
 the sinister, prepared readiness of the land to betray 
 its grim promise of death and violence, the lurking 
 threat, the secret, cynical knowledge of irresistible 
 power. Perhaps she felt that one day Brannon s 
 strength would break down her reserve, that her 
 will, fighting his to the last as it was fighting now 
 would yield to his. She did not mean to sur 
 render to him. The mastering, elemental strength 
 he had revealed whenever her will clashed with his;
 
 WEST ! 87 
 
 the grim, ruthless potentialities lurking behind his 
 smooth, metal-like exterior; the crudities of life in 
 this section of the world; the naked threat of cru 
 elty that was borne to her upon every breeze that 
 swept her face all these she shrank from. Sur 
 render, even in the slightest degree, would mean 
 she would have to face the alternative of giving up 
 the things that had become dear to her the joys 
 of civilization, the delight of living among people 
 whose natures were as her own ; the companionship 
 of men and women whose destinies were woven with 
 her own; the refinements, the gentle things of life; 
 material things bathrooms, electric lights, the gay, 
 animated streets, theatres, dances, ball-games, mid 
 night suppers, and the wonderful atmosphere of it 
 all all exclusively Eastern. 
 
 In the light of life as she had known it, and in 
 the alluring picture she now drew of the smooth, 
 calm, pleasurable life of the future, Brannon, despite 
 his rugged strength and positive magnetism, despite 
 the fact that the lure of him had seized her, was not 
 worth the sacrifice, even if she were seriously to 
 consider falling in love with him. 
 
 She was glad to know that deep in her 
 heart she still hated him ; she felt a vicious satis 
 faction over the conviction that she got a vindic 
 tive joy out of disagreeing with him, in mocking 
 him. 
 
 "So you were spying," she said. "And you saw
 
 88 WEST ! 
 
 the rider Callahan? And you heard what he said 
 to me, I suppose?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Then when you came to the veranda and asked 
 me what was wrong, you were merely pretending 
 that you had n t heard." 
 
 "That s it." 
 
 Why did you pretend?" 
 
 "I wanted to get a chance to tell you to send 
 Denver to Willets." 
 
 "But I did n t send Denver," she smiled, trium 
 phantly. "I sent you. Why didn t you go?" 
 
 "You know why." 
 
 "But what about Mrs. Whitman?" she inquired 
 sharply. 
 
 "I sent Chong." 
 
 "Chong!" 
 
 His eyes narrowed at her start of surprise. 
 
 "Then," she said, accusation in her voice, "why 
 then, you must have been near the house all the time, 
 even when Denver " She paused and looked 
 sharply at him. 
 
 "Yes," he said, answering the question in her 
 eyes; "I saw it all, from the window, from behind 
 the lace curtains." 
 
 "Then why did n t you why did you permit him 
 to to " She broke off, her face flushing with 
 indignation. 
 
 "When a woman says she hates a man "
 
 WEST ! 89 
 
 "Brute!" She stood rigid, her hands clenched. 
 
 "And despises him " 
 
 "Coward !" Her eyes were glazing pools of scorn. 
 
 "And deliberately sends him away while she keeps 
 a yellow coyote near her, to protect her trusting 
 him, and making the other man feel " 
 
 "O coward! Coward!" 
 
 "Like he does n t seem good enough even to walk 
 on," Brannon continued, as though he did not 
 hear her scathing epithets, "it was about time to 
 permit the coyote to demonstrate his trustworthy 
 qualities." 
 
 She did not answer, but stood facing him, scorn 
 ineffable in her manner. 
 
 "Nor was it her first offence against the despic 
 able tyrant," went on Brannon dryly. "One day, 
 beside a railroad track, she placed her faith in the 
 coyote, to the extent of taking his word concerning 
 the innocence of a horse-thief." 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, astonished. 
 
 "Denver talked, Miss Hamilton ; such men can t 
 keep secrets. He told a crony in Willets, and it 
 got to me. There was a whispered conference be 
 tween Denver and the lady a compact to get Art- 
 well on the train. The lady was very clever, de 
 lightfully clever. I know that. Also, I have 
 known for some time. I knew it when I reported 
 to Betty Lawson. But I did n t tell the whole truth 
 in that report."
 
 90 WEST ! 
 
 "But you will now, I suppose?" Her face was 
 flaming with the red tinge of shame. 
 
 "You know better, I think," he said slowly. 
 
 He saw a signal of distress in her eyes; they 
 were filling with guilty embarrassment, while color 
 slowly came and went in her cheeks. She took a 
 backward step and rested one hand on the center- 
 table, glancing downward, her lashes on her cheeks. 
 
 "Good night, Miss Hamilton," came Brannon s 
 voice. 
 
 She heard his step as he crossed the room, and 
 looked up in time to catch a glimpse of his back as 
 he went out of the doorway.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 BRANNON had taken only two or three steps 
 on the veranda when he heard the girl s voice 
 coming sharply, peremptorily, through the open 
 doorway behind him. He halted, turned, and 
 went back, coming to a pause in the doorway, where 
 he looked inquiringly at her. 
 
 She was sitting beside the center-table. Her face 
 was very white and her eyes were wide with concern. 
 
 "Yes?" said Brannon. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "where are you going?" 
 
 Her voice was low, tense ; but Brannon s sharp, 
 probing glance at her left him puzzled to account 
 for her evident agitation. 
 
 "Why, I said good-night, Miss Hamilton. I 
 don t remember that I thought of going anywhere 
 in particular. I Ve some accounts to look after 
 then, bed." 
 
 "Are you sure that you were n t thinking of any 
 thing else?" 
 
 "Pretty certain." 
 
 She drew a deep breath and watched him with 
 steady, searching eyes that were alert to catch the 
 faintest sign of insincerity in his own. 
 
 91
 
 92 WEST ! 
 
 "You seemed to be in such such a hurry," sh^ 
 said, haltingly. "I I thought, perhaps, you had 
 something er definite in mind. Had you?" 
 
 "I think not." His interest was aroused, though 
 he concealed it from her. It had become evident 
 to him that she had a deep motive in questioning 
 him regarding his intentions. 
 
 "Won t you sit down just a minute?" she asked. 
 "I have something to say to you." 
 
 He removed his hat, crossed the room, and seated 
 himself in a chair near her. He watched her in 
 silence an amused, cynical silence. 
 
 To his astonishment she sat erect in her chair and 
 leaned toward him, and he saw that she was in the 
 grip of some intense emotion. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "when you went out of that 
 door you intended to find Denver. You meant to 
 kill him!" 
 
 "I reckon not." 
 
 "Brannon, don t lie to me. You did mean to 
 kill him ; I saw it in your eyes !" She was vehement, 
 positive. 
 
 Brannon was silent, watching her steadily, won 
 dering what he had done to betray his intentions to 
 her. He had thought he had concealed his impulse. 
 
 "There!" she said; "I knew it! Brannon, I won t 
 have it! Understand?" 
 
 "Denver deserves to be killed." 
 
 "He does n t !" she denied. "That position is
 
 WEST ! 93 
 
 indefensible; it isn t lawful. Men are punished 
 for the things they do and not for the things they 
 attempt to do. What may have been in Denver s 
 mind I do not know ; the fact is that his only offense 
 was in seizing me." 
 
 "Out here we judge a man by his intentions, Miss 
 Hamilton. Denver deserves to be killed for what 
 he had in mind." 
 
 "Then why did n t you kill him earlier in the 
 day, Brannon? You say you knew what he meant 
 to do?" 
 
 "How could I kill a man you trusted, Miss 
 Hamilton? I had to let Denver show his hand or 
 you would not have believed him to be what he is." 
 
 "We shall never get at it, of course, Brannon," 
 she said, realizing that she was to blame for the 
 entire affair, and that if Brannon had come to her 
 to voice his suspicions about Denver she would have 
 accused him of unwarranted interference. How 
 ever, though she had made a mistake, she meant to 
 prevent the killing that, plainly, Brannon meditated. 
 
 "We can t understand each other because we have 
 different conceptions of the rules that govern us in 
 our attitude toward our fellow-men. Violence in 
 any form is inexcusable ; it is founded upon fear, 
 cowardice. Cowardice, Brannon," she repeated, 
 when she saw his eyes narrow as he watched her. 
 "I believe that is what really makes you Westerners 
 carry pistols. You are afraid some one contem-
 
 94 WEST ! 
 
 plates shooting you, and you are prepared to shoot 
 first That is fear, isn t it?" 
 
 "You re doing the talking, Miss Hamilton," he 
 said dryly. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, mockingly, irritated by his tone; 
 "I presume you don t know what fear is?" 
 
 "I ve been afraid." 
 
 "Indeed!" She was slightly disconcerted, for she 
 had expected him to deny that he had ever expe 
 rienced the emotion ; but she meant to gain her point. 
 
 "So Steel Brannon has been afraid," she taunted. 
 
 He smiled thinly, and she had a fleeting impres 
 sion of contempt behind the smile. 
 
 "Yes," he said, evenly. 
 
 "Oh!" she said; "so you admit it?" 
 
 She was conscious of failure, of defeat in the 
 effort she had made to induce him to betray a very 
 human impulse to boast. Through that weakness 
 she had meant to triumph over him ; she had 
 intended to prove to her own satisfaction that he 
 was much like other men she had known. 
 
 Brannon was different. As he sat there silently 
 watching her, not even replying to her final taunt, 
 she was oppressed with an overpowering conviction 
 of his absolute invulnerability to attacks that would 
 have brought confusion upon most men. She knew 
 his strength was in his unaffectedness, in his simple 
 directness, and in his lack of conceit and vanity. 
 He was like a metal structure, undraped, rigid,
 
 WEST! 95 
 
 towering, revealing every linking beam and section. 
 
 Yet she was determined that before he left the 
 ranch-house she would get possession of the huge 
 weapon that reposed in the holster at his hip. She 
 was certain he intended to kill Denver. 
 
 She got up and stood in front of Brannon, look 
 ing down at him with a calm smile which w r as a 
 mask for the tumultuous emotion seething within 
 her. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "I am not going to permit 
 you to kill Denver. I want your pistol !" 
 
 Brannon rose. He kept his gaze on her as he got 
 to his feet ; and though his eyes were gleaming with 
 cold contempt, she held his gaze until she was forced 
 to look up at him. And she stood her ground after 
 ward, rigid, her eyes fighting the silent battle she 
 had brought on a battle she meant to win. 
 
 When she saw Brannon s lips curve with a way 
 ward, whimsical smile she knew she had won. And 
 when he slowly drew the big, somber-looking 
 weapon from its sheath and laid it on the table near 
 her, the startled gasp that she succeeded in smother 
 ing told her she had not really expected to win. 
 
 A fierce exultation seized her. This iron-nerved 
 man, feared and respected by other men in the 
 section, was surrendering to her, was tacitly 
 acknowledging that her will was stronger than his. 
 It was a victory for the principle she had defended, 
 a triumph for her personality.
 
 96 WEST ! 
 
 After placing the pistol on the table Brannon 
 stepped close to her and stood for an instant look 
 ing at her. Her senses groped helplessly before the 
 enigma of his gaze. In his eyes she caught 
 glimpses of varied expressions, none of them dom 
 inant, that they might be singled out and set aside 
 for analysis. She was baffled, confused; and while 
 she stood there she heard his voice : 
 
 "There s the gun, ma am ; I reckon you like 
 Denver more than I do !" 
 
 Then, before she could reply to the caustic remark 
 that accompanied his surrender, he had turned and 
 was walking out of the doorway. 
 
 She stood pale and silent until she heard him cross 
 the veranda floor ; and later, still standing where he 
 had left her, she could hear his step on the hard, 
 barren sand of the level surrounding the ranch- 
 house. 
 
 At last, trembling, elated, and strangely thrilled, 
 she turned, drew a chair to the table, and dropped 
 into it, resting both elbows on the table while she 
 stared at the huge, deadly weapon whose muzzle 
 gaped threateningly at her from the white cloth 
 upon which Brannon had laid it. Shuddering, 
 she reached out a hesitating finger and turned the 
 threatening muzzle in another direction. 
 
 Her satisfaction over the victory was strangely 
 mingled with malice. From the first Brannon s 
 inflexibility had challenged her, had irritated her.
 
 WEST! 97 
 
 She had felt that exercise of the power of life or 
 death over a fellow-being had become the ruthless 
 and domineering impulse of his nature. Other 
 impulses had been revealed later. He had been 
 despotic toward her. Worse, he had humiliated 
 her by calmly disregarding her desires in several 
 instances; and by his cool aloofness toward her he 
 had disparaged her importance as a member of the 
 human family. 
 
 Contemplation of his past offenses against her 
 made the present victory sweeter. She had won! 
 And hereafter she would show him that 
 
 She started, gripped the edge of the table; hold 
 ing on while with white lips she held back a scream 
 that caught in her throat and died in a startled gasp. 
 In the grip of an icy paralysis that held her to the 
 chair as though she were shackled, she turned her 
 head until she faced the open door; and she sat 
 there, staring into the square of moonlight, nerve 
 less, voiceless. 
 
 A pistol-shot, sharp, crashing, had shattered the 
 deep silence of the night. And while she sat there, 
 unable to move or speak, she heard the sound rever 
 berate and die away, carried on the slight breeze 
 that swept the mighty basin. 
 
 And then came a silence, strange, portentous, 
 sinister in the uncertainty it brought to her. She 
 sat, cringing away from the open door, afraid, 
 dreading, listening, waiting.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 NO sound reached her ears. The silence of the 
 great world beyond the open door seemed to 
 press in upon her, to encompass her, to oppress her 
 with a mighty weight that threatened to crush her. 
 Through the door she could see the diamond-glitter 
 of the stars against the soft blue background of 
 the sky ; she caught a glimpse of a distant mountain 
 peak, bathed in the golden radiance of the moon 
 light ; the velvet-green of trees and grass and bushes 
 in the luminous haze was marvelously vivid ; some 
 bare, rugged rocks that were within range of her 
 vision glistened white and clean, like giant pebbles 
 washed by the tides of ages. Even the hard, sun 
 baked sand of the ranch-house yard looked smooth 
 and inviting to her, for at this minute she was 
 aware that she had erred in thinking she had been 
 afraid of the country. 
 
 The country was beautiful. In the clear sweep 
 of moon-touched landscape was the immutable calm 
 that reigns where man is not. Man only, driven 
 by his desires and passions, was to be feared. Sel 
 fish, self-centered, arrogant with his puny power, 
 
 98
 
 WEST ! 99 
 
 man strove against man while nature looked on 
 with inscrutable mien. 
 
 Josephine, too, like the men she had feared, had 
 yielded to impulses aroused by selfishness. She 
 had named her selfishness "principle," but she knew 
 at this instant that the world meant only that she 
 had wanted to have her own way. It had been a lust 
 for power which had driven her to strive for control 
 of Brannon s actions ; and she had sent him to his 
 death merely because she had wanted to show him 
 that her will was stronger than his. 
 
 The luminous outside world swam mistily in 
 her vision as she stared at it; and suddenly the 
 scene was blotted out altogether and she crossed 
 her arms on the table-top, rested her head on them, 
 and yielded to shuddering sobs of remorse and 
 terror. 
 
 Denver had killed Brannon ; she was certain of 
 that. For she had sent Brannon out, unarmed, 
 knowing Denver still had the pistol that he had tried 
 to draw when he had seen Brannon at the window. 
 Brannon had been sacrificed to her ridiculous pre 
 judices against firearms. She knew at this instant 
 that her attitude had been shamefully narrow, that 
 since all Westerners carried deadly weapons Brannon 
 was forced to carry one also, merely as a means 
 of self-defense. Now she could solve the enigma 
 of his gaze as he watched her after placing his 
 pistol on the table; the dominant expression had
 
 ioo WEST! 
 
 been a sort of reckless contempt that she had dared 
 him. 
 
 She shrank from a mental picture that flickered 
 for an instant in her vision that of Denver speed 
 ing the shot that had killed Brannon. There was no 
 doubt in her mind that Brannon had received the 
 deadly missile as he had received her dare, with 
 the cold composure that characterized all his actions. 
 
 She shuddered and sobbed aloud, beating her 
 clenched hands futilely upon the table-top, cringing 
 farther away from the picture her imagination con 
 jured Brannon lying in a pitifully huddled heap 
 on the hard sand of the yard, Denver slinking away 
 into the night. 
 
 But Denver would not run away; with Brannon 
 dead he would remain, to to 
 
 "Here s another concession to your principles," 
 said a cold, mocking voice at her elbow. 
 
 She did not look up. Her convulsive start at 
 the sound of the voice was succeeded by a great joy 
 that left her weak and nerveless. For the voice 
 was Brannon s; and when she did not look up he 
 continued dryly: "It s Denver s; I took it away 
 from him." 
 
 A heavy metal object was laid gently on the 
 table in front of her, and by moving one of her 
 arms slightly she was able to see that the object 
 was a pistol. 
 
 Now, as when Brannon had rescued her from
 
 WEST! 101 
 
 Denver, Brannon s voice soothed her. But she 
 refused to raise her head, because she was reluctant 
 to let him see that she had been crying. 
 
 "Go away, please !" she said in a muffled, unsteady 
 voice. 
 
 "Certainly." His voice was dryly humorous, 
 though strangely unsteady, like her own. 
 
 She waited for him to go, and when she heard 
 no sound she thought that perhaps he had gone as he 
 had come, without her being aware of it. 
 
 She raised her head, to see him standing close, 
 his arms folded over his chest, the fingers of his 
 right hand gently caressing his chin. The attitude 
 was reminiscent of the railroad track and the in 
 cident of Les Artwell. 
 
 The quizzical, mocking light in his eyes brought 
 on an irritation that helped her mightily to regain 
 her composure, though as she defiantly met his gaze 
 a wave of color mounted to her cheeks. Enjoy 
 ment of her victory over him had been premature; 
 as in every clash with her thus far he had emerged 
 the winner. 
 
 If he had betrayed some sign of elation over his 
 victories she believed she would not have cared 
 so much. But his cold, calm, matter-of-fact at 
 titude, which seemed to imply that victory for him 
 self was inevitable and foreordained, aroused in 
 her a furious resentment. 
 
 "I told you to go away!" she said.
 
 102 WEST! 
 
 "I heard you, Miss Hamilton." 
 
 He moved closer to her; so close that the leather 
 chap of one leg brushed her skirt. She sat rigid, 
 wondering, resentful. 
 
 Then his right hand came out, the ringers gently 
 but firmly grasping her chin, and her head was 
 forced slowly back until she had no choice but to 
 meet his gaze which she did with flashing, scorn 
 ful eyes. 
 
 ^Crying!" he said. 
 
 Her eyes were swimming with passionate hatred 
 because he had dared to do what he was doing at 
 this instant, though she yielded to the oddly sub 
 missive impulse that she could not have explained, 
 and sat there looking up at him when she might have 
 escaped by rising. She did not answer but merely 
 glared at him. 
 
 "Thought Denver had been shot?" he said. 
 
 "No !" she denied, sharply. 
 
 "Me, then ?" he said gently. "Oh, don t! There 
 was n t any danger that Denver would shoot me. 
 If you ve been worrying about me you ve been 
 wasting time. Denver never shot anybody when the 
 prospective victim was looking at him. And I 
 never give a man like Denver a chance to shoot 
 me in the back. Denver did n t like it a little bit 
 when I ask him for his gun when I told him guns 
 were n t popular with the new boss. He pulled 
 it right handy and let it off once before I could
 
 WEST! 103 
 
 take it away from him. He was shooting at the 
 moon. But you should n t have cried about me. 
 You don t like me enough for that, do you?" 
 
 "I hate you !" she declared. 
 
 He laughed softly and released her, stepping 
 back and bowing to her. And he said no word to 
 her as he walked to the door. But when he turned 
 on the threshold and looked at her she knew he had 
 not been deceived ; that he was aware that her anger 
 had been a spurious passion, masking consciously 
 or unconsciously her real feelings toward him. 
 She could tell by the amused gleam in his eyes that 
 he knew she had been crying because she feared 
 Denver fed killed him, that he knew she was fight 
 ing against surrendering to him, and that the 
 knowledge that surrender must finally come was 
 goading her to a pretense of hatred which was 
 founded upon a consciousness of her own weak 
 ness.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 T 71 7HILE Brannon had been talking to Jose- 
 V V phine he had taken his six-shooter from 
 the table where he had laid it after yielding to the 
 whimsical impulse to surrender it to the girl. As 
 he stepped down from the veranda after leaving 
 the big room where Josephine still sat at the table, 
 his mood was saturnine, almost savage. He had 
 spoken lightly to Josephine of his taking Denver s 
 gun from him; as a matter of fact the action had 
 been featured by a bitter struggle which, though 
 short, might have ended disastrously for him had 
 his eyes not been alert and his muscles vigorous. 
 
 Denver had concealed himself in a little lean-to 
 adjoining Brannon s shack, and when Brannon 
 passed the building on his way to the door of his 
 house, Denver had confronted him. Denver s six- 
 shooter was drawn ; Brannon s at that moment was 
 lying on the table in the big room of the ranch- 
 house. 
 
 Denver had witnessed the surrender of the weapon 
 to Josephine. Standing there in the shadow of the 
 lean-to he told Brannon about it. Denver s malig 
 nant joy over the thought that he had caught his 
 enemy unarmed was so great that it made him reck- 
 
 104
 
 WEST ! 105 
 
 less. He felt impelled to gloat over Brannon be 
 fore he killed him. But the delay cost him the 
 victory. He pulled trigger at Brannon s leap to 
 ward him, but Brannon s hand touched the weapon, 
 deflecting the bullet, which seared Brannon s side. 
 When Denver came to, he was lying on the ground 
 near the door of the lean-to. Brannon was stand 
 ing over him, gently caressing the knuckles of his 
 right hand. 
 
 "Our new boss don t want any killing, Denver," 
 said Brannon without mirth, "that s why you are 
 getting off with a life that a coyote would n t be 
 proud of. Fifteen minutes ought to be plenty. If 
 you have n t pulled your freight from the Triangle 
 by that time the new boss s orders won t go. Get 
 going !" 
 
 The fifteen minutes alloted to Denver had passed 
 when Brannon emerged from the ranch-house. He 
 did not step out boldly, for the moon was bright 
 and Denver might have taken a notion to use his 
 rifle. So Brannon slipped along the edge of the 
 veranda and made his way cautiously around the 
 ranch-house, coming into view a little later around a 
 corner opposite the veranda where he stood for a 
 time intently scanning the level space that stretched 
 between the ranch-house and the bunk-house. 
 
 Denver was not visible. 
 
 Still, Brannon waited, for he knew the man ; and 
 if he had decided to depend upon a rifle, which
 
 106 WEST! 
 
 might be used to advantage from, say, a window of 
 the bunk-house, he could make the little level an ex 
 ceedingly dangerous place upon which to trespass. 
 
 Therefore Brannon permitted some minutes to 
 elapse before he moved. Then he leaped for a giant 
 cotton wood that stood at a distance of perhaps fifty 
 feet from the ranch-house. From the shelter of the 
 tree he again surveyed his surroundings. There 
 was no sound, no movement. Still, Denver may 
 have decided not to risk a shot; he might possibly be 
 waiting until Brannon grew careless or less active. 
 
 Thus Brannon spent considerable time behind 
 the tree, alert to every sound and movement. 
 Presently he smiled and stepped away from the tree. 
 Southward, perhaps half a mile, went a rider. 
 
 There was no doubt that the rider was Denver. 
 The man s war-bag was behind him ; above the war- 
 bag the familiar outlines of Denver s back, shoul 
 ders, and head. 
 
 For a time Brannon watched; then went to the 
 door of his shack, where he stood for an instant 
 staring into the basin. 
 
 He had left a bracket-lamp burning in the larger 
 of the two rooms of his dwelling, and in its light he 
 stood for several minutes after leaving the door, 
 meditatively gazing floorward, his thoughts upon the 
 girl he had left sitting in the big room of the ranch- 
 house. 
 
 "She s like a bird beating its wings against a
 
 WEST ! 107 
 
 pane of glass, thinking the glass is the open air. 
 She s getting nowhere and is kind of fussed up 
 about it," he mused. "I reckon she d like me if 
 she did n t hate me so much." 
 
 He was n t sure that he liked her. At least he 
 pitied her pitied her because he realized that if she 
 attempted to alter the rules of life of the country into 
 which she had come she must inevitably be disap 
 pointed. She had the spirit to defend her principles; 
 and principles were all right when considerd as 
 ideals, but most humans kept their principles in a 
 hazy background while they continued to follow the 
 whims of impulse. That was what made people 
 human. 
 
 "She s had her own way too much," was his 
 next mental observation. "She s trying to drag 
 her Eastern environment out here, hoping to make 
 ours over whether we like it or not. She d be a 
 pinhead if it was n t for " 
 
 Her hair, he thought and her eyes, which were 
 big and expressive, with depths that held all the 
 charm and mystery and allurements that a woman s 
 eyes may express. 
 
 "West is n t East," was his next thought-frag 
 ment. "If she d study her geography she d find 
 that the Mississippi is West until you get west of 
 it. And then there s still more West, which is right 
 about here. And none of it is Eastern. I reckon 
 she 11 find that out ; give her time."
 
 io8 WEST! 
 
 He returned to the doorway and lounged in it, his 
 gazed centered at a point in the southern distance, 
 where went a rider who had become a mere dot in 
 the luminous haze of the night. He was still watch 
 ing the rider when he heard the dull, muffled crash 
 of a pistol! 
 
 As the sound seemed to come from the direction 
 of the ranch-house he ran in that direction, though 
 since the door in which he had been standing faced 
 west, away from the ranch-house, he had first to 
 reach the southern corner of his shack before he 
 got a view of the ranch-house. 
 
 And when he did see the ranch-house there was 
 no sign of life outside of it. The two west win 
 dows were illuminated as they had been all evening ; 
 and light was streaming out of the door upon the 
 veranda floor. 
 
 As he ran toward the house his concern was for 
 the safety of Josephine, though he could not under 
 stand why she should be in danger, unless some 
 night wanderer had reached the ranch and finding 
 the girl alone 
 
 He was on the veranda before the thought could 
 take complete form. 
 
 Standing in the open doorway, one hand pressed 
 tightly to her bosom, the other dangling limply at 
 her side with a heavy six-shooter about to slip from 
 her fingers, was Josephine. Her face was chalk- 
 white, her eyes alight with helpless terror.
 
 WEST! 109 
 
 On the veranda floor, just at the edge of the light 
 stream that issued from the doorway, lay the body 
 of a man, queerly huddled, as though he had fallen 
 face down and afterward had tried to get to his 
 feet. 
 
 Brannon got that impression from the position 
 of the man s right knee, which was drawn up, and 
 from his right hand, which was close to the knee, 
 limp and crumpled. 
 
 Brannon asked no questions, then. It was plain 
 to him that the man had tried to enter the door 
 and that Josephine had shot him down almost at the 
 threshold. The position of the man s body and Jose 
 phine s agitation seemed to prove the soundness of 
 his conjecture. 
 
 He took a second fleeting glance at Josephine 
 as he stooped beside the man, to see that she had 
 covered her face with her hands and stood leaning 
 weakly against the door-jamb; then he examined 
 a moist spot on the man s back, shook his head, and 
 turned the man over so that he might look at his 
 face. 
 
 The man had been shot in the back, the bullet 
 penetrating the region of the heart. He was al 
 ready dead. 
 
 When Brannon got to his feet after the swift 
 examination his lips were in grim lines. The dead 
 man was Tim Callahan, the rider who some time 
 before had brought to Josephine the news of Mrs.
 
 no WEST! 
 
 Whitman s illness. The Star was on the rim of the 
 basin, eastward, and Callahan had evidently not 
 gone far from the Triangle L when for some reason, 
 which would probably never be known, he had re 
 turned. 
 
 Brannon thought he knew what had happened. 
 Callahan had stepped upon the veranda without pre 
 viously making his presence known to Josephine; 
 and the girl, overwrought by the exciting events 
 of the night, and thinking perhaps that the Star 
 owner was of the type represented by Denver, had 
 shot him down, possibly as Callahan, tardily realiz 
 ing his danger, had turned to escape. 
 
 As Brannon reached his feet he saw the big six- 
 shooter slip from Josephine s fingers and thud dully 
 to the floor of the veranda. Josephine was in 
 danger of following the weapon, for her eyes were 
 closed and she was swaying limply when Brannooi 
 leaped and caught her in his arms. 
 
 He carried her into the big room, laid her on a 
 spacious lounge, watched her for an instant with a 
 sympathetic frown; then left her and picked up 
 the pistol that had dropped from her hand. 
 
 A swift inspection showed him that two cartridges 
 had been exploded. As the weapon was one he had 
 taken from Denver he could account for one empty 
 shell ; the other must have been fired at Callahan by 
 Josephine. 
 
 Brannon returned to Josephine, saw that she was
 
 WEST! in 
 
 breathing deeply and regularly, though still un 
 conscious; then he went outside to the level beyond 
 the veranda. At a little distance from the ranch- 
 house he saw a horse, riderless, standing with droop 
 ing head in the shadow of a juniper-tree. The 
 animal limped when he led it out into the moon 
 light, and he saw that its left foreleg had been in 
 jured, sprained, he thought a bad one. A crude 
 star, branded on the hip, indicated the animal be 
 longed to Callahan. 
 
 The injured leg explained Callahan s return to 
 the ranch-house; Callahan had no doubt sought to 
 get a fresh horse. 
 
 Brannon led the beast to the stable, intending 
 after a while to return and care for the injured leg. 
 When he reached the doorway leading into the big 
 room of the ranch-house Josephine was sitting on 
 the edge of the lounge. She was leaning back, her 
 arms outstretched, her fingers gripping the edge of 
 the lounge, and she was staring at the open door. 
 
 Evidently she had just recovered and was men 
 tally reviewing what had happened. 
 
 When she raised her gaze to Brannon she looked 
 wildly at him, shuddered, and said lowly, quaver- 
 ingly : 
 
 "Is he d-dead?" 
 
 At his grim nod, she covered her face with her 
 hands and sat silent, swaying back and forth. 
 
 Brannon pitied her, But he could do nothing.
 
 ii2 WEST! 
 
 In killing Callahan she had violated the principle 
 that she had so aggressively defended. Many years 
 would pass before she would be able to forget to 
 night s experience ; she would be tortured day and 
 night by the vivid memory of what she had done; 
 countless times the tragedy would be enacted in her 
 mind ; and remorse would bring its inevitable break 
 ing down of her spirits. 
 
 Charity toward her and a wisdom that was his 
 from experience told him that his best course would 
 be silence, and so he said nothing as he walked to 
 the center-table where, after inspecting it, he had 
 laid Denver s gun. He picked it up and slipped 
 it inside his shirt, fearing that she would become 
 hysterical if she saw it. 
 
 For a time he stood silent, watching her, frown 
 ing savagely because there was nothing he could 
 do to assuage the terrible grief that was convul 
 sively moving her shoulders. She sat there, a piti 
 ful little figure, frail, impotent, her former bellig 
 erence gone, cringing from her own thoughts. 
 He would have given much to be able to take the 
 blame for the killing of Callahan; but his taking the 
 blame would not prevent her thinking of the trag 
 edy. And that was what the future held in pros 
 pect for her. 
 
 She looked up at last and ihe saw that her eyes 
 were wide with horrror as they met his. 
 
 "Go away!" she cried passionately. "O my
 
 WEST! 113 
 
 God ! how can you stand there so calmly and look at 
 me like that? When when that man " She 
 pointed toward the open doorway, beyond which 
 lay the body of Callahan. 
 
 She shrank back, staring at Brannon with wide 
 eyes, as though she were seeing new details of his 
 appearance, as though at this instant he had become 
 invested with a new personality. 
 
 "No wonder they call you Steel !" she said, her 
 voice almost a wail. She shuddered and closed her 
 eyes as though looking longer at him would be un 
 bearable. 
 
 "Go away please!" she whispered hoarsely. 
 "Please go and and take him with you. Oh, 
 I can t stand it any longer!" 
 
 Brannon gave her a glance of concern and sym 
 pathy and abruptly left the room, closing the door 
 behind him. 
 
 Josephine heard him moving about on the ve 
 randa; heard him as he walked away with heavy 
 tread as though he were carrying something. Then 
 she shivered through the flat, dead silence that had 
 fallen.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AFTER leaving Josephine s presence Brannon 
 bore Callahan s body to his shack, where he 
 stood for some minutes meditating upon the evil 
 fortune that had befallen him. 
 
 There had always been a lack of cordiality be 
 tween the men of the Star and the Triangle L out 
 fit; a coldness dating back to a day when Lawson. 
 Betty s father, and Tim Callahan had had a dis 
 agreement over range rights. Later Callahan and 
 Brannon had had a clash of wills over the matter, 
 and the Star owner had injected the personal ele 
 ment by speaking deprecatingly of Brannon s ability 
 as range-boss. There had been witnesses to the 
 meeting between Callahan and Brannon, and the 
 witnesses predicted that Callahan s harsh words and 
 Brannon s caustic, unyielding demeanor meant war. 
 
 War did not develop. So far as possible, Bran 
 non and Callahan avoided each other, each, de 
 spite the enmity that had come between them, re 
 specting the other for the manly, honorable quali 
 ties each detected in the other. 
 
 Yet word of their disagreement had gone 
 abroad, and as always, rumor slyly and maliciously 
 widened the breach between the two men. 
 
 114
 
 WEST! 115 
 
 The killing of Callahan on the veranda of the 
 Triangle L ranch house could not be satisfactorily 
 explained to the members of the Star outfit. It 
 was known that Callahan was Brannon s enemy, 
 and whatever explanation Brannon made men were 
 certain to believe him guilty. 
 
 And Callahan had been shot in the back! 
 
 As Brannon stood in the big room of his shack 
 staring down at Callahan s body, he kept seeing 
 Josephine as she had sat on the edge of the lounge in 
 the ranch-house abject, terror-stricken, suffering 
 untold horrors of remorse, her former calm self- 
 possession gone, her spirit broken, her high principles 
 forgotten, shattered accusing her! 
 
 Brannon s face paled in sympathy for her. 
 
 "Hell s fire!" he said, savagely. "She s been 
 some fresh; but she hasn t earned that! And I 
 reckon Callahan ought to have had more sense 
 than to scare her by coming upon her suddenly; as 
 as he must have done to startle her into shooting 
 him !" 
 
 His rigid lips curved into a mirthless smile as he 
 took Denver s gun from his shirt. He removed 
 one of the empty shells from the weapon, replaced 
 it with a loaded one from his own gun, and then 
 slipped the empty shell into the chamber from which 
 he had taken the loaded one. 
 
 "That Star bunch is pretty mean," he reflected as 
 he holstered his own gun and placed Denver s upon
 
 n6 WEST! 
 
 a shelf near the bracket lamp; "they d devil her 
 about it until she went loco." 
 
 He blew out the light, walked to the door, and 
 stepped out, closing the door securely behind him. 
 A few minutes later he emerged from the lean-to, 
 where Denver had waylaid him, carrying saddle and 
 bridle and rope. 
 
 He swung open the corral gates, caught up his 
 horse, saddled and bridled him, and rode awiay 
 eastward. 
 
 He had not attended to Callahan s horse; that 
 task would have to aivait his return. As he rode 
 he peered southward, but Denver had been out of 
 sight a long time and Brannon felt reasonably cer 
 tain the man would not return. Denver knew him 
 well enough to know that he would keep his word. 
 
 Brannon s horse was the black he had ridden on 
 the day of his memorable meeting with Josephine 
 Hamilton. And as Brannon rode, his thoughts 
 went to that first meeting and he meditated upon 
 first impressions. 
 
 "Hated me from the start," was his thought, as 
 he consulted his memory regarding Josephine s 
 first level glance at him. "Her eyes had fire in 
 them that day. Curious about her. Of all the 
 women there she was the one that a man couldn t 
 help looking at. Something about her to make a 
 man take notice. Wanted her own way from the 
 start. Well, I reckon it would stir an Eastern wo-
 
 WEST! 117 
 
 man, coming upon us like that, with us getting ready 
 to swing Artwell off. 
 
 "I reckon she s feel-ing pretty blue about now," 
 he mused. "Principles busted, pride gone, courage 
 plumb petered out. It s a heap odd about a woman. 
 When she s trying to show a little courage and 
 authority to sort of impress a man and make him 
 think she amounts to something, he 11 devil her to 
 to get the notion out of her mind. Then she 11 
 blunder, or do some fool thing which ought to 
 make him poke fun at her and he won t feel a bit 
 like laughing. He 11 be sorry and play the fool 
 for her blaming himself. Then if she cries he 11 
 feel like a sneak and try to play the martyr like 
 I m doing." 
 
 He rode on, heading eastward, following a faint 
 trail made visible by the moonlight. When the 
 dawn came he was climbing the long, gradual slope 
 at the far eastern edge of the big basin, going 
 toward a group of buildings that were huddled to 
 gether on a mesa. 
 
 An hour after sighting the buildings he was dis 
 mounting near one of them a bunk-house. 
 
 His experienced eye had observed many signs. 
 
 Smoke was issuing from the chimney of the 
 mess-house ; the peculiar, acrid odor of a wood fire 
 burned in his nostrils. A hoodlum wagon stood 
 beside the corral fence, its rear flaps down. The 
 "chuck- wagon" stood near it, denuded of supplies.
 
 n8 WEST! 
 
 Three or four score of cow-ponies milled in the 
 horse coral the remuda. A bench outside the 
 bunk-house w;as generously splashed with soapy 
 water; and a roller-towel, limp and sodden, drooped 
 from the wall above the bench. All about were 
 scattered various articles a miscellany of odds and 
 ends of harness, wearing apparel, and riding equip 
 ment. 
 
 By these signs Brannon knew the Star outfit 
 was in, and there was a gleam of saturnine humor 
 in his eyes as he walked to an open doorway. 
 
 A dozen men diligently engaged at a long table 
 ceased eating at Brannon s entrance. There was a 
 concerted stiffening of bodies as Brannon was recog 
 nized, for the average cow-boy outfit is loyal to 
 the authority to which it is allied, and all quarrels 
 become the personal concern of each individual. 
 
 All gastronomic pursuits were placed in abeyance 
 until Brannon stated his business, and at his short 
 word: "I m looking for Cole Meeder," a tall man 
 rose from the head of the table and walked toward 
 the door in which Brannon stood. 
 
 The tall man was young. He could not have 
 been more than twenty-five or six, but capableness 
 was written convincingly upon his countenance. 
 His mouth was large and mobile and strong; his 
 eyes were deep-set, keen, and of a washed blue that 
 gave them an eagle-like vacuity. He was tall as 
 Brannon. In his gaze as he came to a halt and
 
 WEST! 119 
 
 looked at Brannon was mingled respect and hos 
 tility. 
 
 "Reckon I m going to spoil your breakfast, 
 Meeder," said Brannon. 
 
 "Not my breakfast, Brannon. If a Triangle L 
 man was to bust in on Callahan this way, why I 
 reckon his breakfast would be spoiled. But Cal 
 lahan ain t here now; he s in Laskar." 
 
 "Callahan was in Laskar, Meeder. Just now 
 he s in my shack at the Triangle L." 
 
 Meeder started to smile; the smile died at its 
 inception as he noted an almost imperceptible stif 
 fening of Brannon s lips. 
 
 "Meanin what, Brannon?" he demanded. 
 
 "Callahan is dead, Meeder." 
 
 Every muscle in Meeder s body seemed to leap 
 into rigidity. His pale-blue eyes glinted with metal 
 lic hardness. There was a heavy silence, broken 
 presently by a concerted movement as the men at 
 the table left their places and moved forward, their 
 faces expressing eager curiosity and suspicion. 
 
 Meeder had not changed position. But he heard 
 the movement of the Star men and lifted one hand 
 slightly, the palm turned backward, as a warning 
 against interference. 
 
 "You re tellin us how Callahan, died, Brannon?" 
 he said slowly. 
 
 "That s what I m here for, Meeder. I killed 
 him."
 
 120 WEST! 
 
 Meeder s breath was drawn, sharply. He gave 
 no other sign of surprise or passion. But behind 
 him the men of the outfit muttered, moved forward 
 concernedly, and began to exhibit various indica 
 tions of a hostility which would break at a word 
 from Meeder, their range-boss. 
 
 Brannon was aware of the strain and the ten 
 sion his words had provoked, though except for 
 the mere hint of a wanton smile on his lips his 
 face was as expressionless as Meeder s. 
 
 "I reckon if you was any other man we d swing 
 you for that statement, Brannon," said Meeder 
 presently. "But knowin you as we do, an re- 
 memberin there was hard feelin s between you 
 an Callahan, we aim to listen to what you ve 
 got to say before we move. You re doin the 
 talkin ." 
 
 "There is n t much to it, Meeder. You ve heard 
 how Betty Lawson s friend from the East helped 
 Les Artwell give me the slip when I was aiming to 
 swing him from a telegraph pole." 
 
 Meeder nodded; the other men moved closer, 
 through various channels all the men of the outfit 
 had heard the story, and much humor at Brannon s 
 expense had featured their camp-fire talks. 
 
 "There s one point that the gossips did n t see," 
 resumed Brannon. "That point was Denver, Art- 
 well s friend. Having eyes but mighty little brains 
 when Miss Hamilton was talking to me there on the
 
 V 
 
 WEST! 121 
 
 railroad track, I was looking at her pretty much and 
 not paying much attention to Denver. 
 
 "We had Artwell roped, right enough. Denver 
 helped Miss Hamilton to get Artwell on the train. 
 Denver fooled her; she thought he was straight 
 goods, and she hated me for wanting to hang Art- 
 well. 
 
 "Denver has designs on Miss Hamilton. He d 
 been waiting until he got his chance. He thought 
 the chance had come when the Triangle L outfit 
 pulled its freight for the south range yesterday 
 morning. Denver pretended to have a busted foot 
 and would n t go with the outfit. Betty Lawson 
 and Lin Murray drove to Willets, leaving Miss 
 Hamilton behind. 
 
 "That seemed to make things pretty smooth for 
 Denver. But I hung around, not trusting him be 
 cause I d seen his foot was n t hurt. With me 
 hanging around there was n t much chance for 
 Denver to do what he was planning to do. 
 
 "But there s always a hitch somewhere. Not 
 long after dark I was keeping a cottonwood com 
 pany and sort of watching the house to see that 
 Denver did n t try any tricks, when Tim Callahan 
 rode up to the gallery and called in to Miss Hamilton 
 that Mrs. Whitman was sick and needed a doctor. 
 Tim didn t stop long; he told Miss Hamilton he 
 was in a hurry. He hit the breeze pretty lively 
 when he left.
 
 122 WEST! 
 
 "After Tim went I had to show up. Denver had 
 been hanging around close, sure enough. He got 
 to the gallery about as soon as I did, and I aimed 
 to send him for the Willets doctor. 
 
 "Miss Hamilton would n t hear of Denver going. 
 Said she would n t think of sending Denver with 
 that foot. She put it straight up to me, remind 
 ing me of how she hated me. 
 
 "Knowing what was in Denver s mind, I slipped 
 around the house and sent the Chink to Willets, 
 Denver and Miss Hamilton thinking I d gone. 
 
 "After giving me time to get a start toward 
 Willets, Denver started things moving. I was 
 watching him through an open window. Miss 
 Hamilton would n t let me kill the polecat, so I 
 gave him his time and fifteen minutes to pull his 
 freight. He tried a gun-play which did n t work ; 
 so he packed his war-bag and headed south. 
 
 "It was all over I thought. Half an hour 
 after Denver left I was out making sure he d gone 
 when I saw a man moving on the gallery of the 
 ranch-house. Thinking" it was Denver trying to 
 get at Miss Hamilton again, I plugged him. Then 
 I found out I d plugged Tim Callahan." 
 
 The silence that followed Brannon s recital con 
 tinued so long that it grew oppressive. The Star 
 men moved restlessly and cast inquiring glances at 
 Meeder.
 
 WEST! 123 
 
 At last Meeder spoke, doubt and indecision in 
 his voice. 
 
 "It sounds straight, Brannon." His eyes were 
 steady, probing, and still hostile. 
 
 "Where was Callahan s horse, Brannon?" 
 
 Brannon told him how he had found the animal 
 standing under a tree, lamed. 
 
 "That sounds straight, too," admitted Meeder. 
 "But I reckon we 11 be takin a look at Callahan s 
 horse. Where is he lamed?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "The left foreleg," returned Brannon," at the 
 knee, I reckon." 
 
 Meeder looked long at Brannon before he spoke ; 
 and then his voice was non-committal, terse. 
 
 "Much obliged to you for ridin over, Brannon. 
 You tell a pretty straight story. The trouble is, 
 Callahan ain t tellin any. I reckon we 11 ride over 
 to the Triangle L an take a look at the ground 
 an Callahan. You 11 be ridin along with us, I 
 reckon," he added, significantly. 
 
 Shortly a dozen Star men, lead by Meeder, who 
 rode beside Brannon, skittered down the slope of 
 the basin and headed toward the Triangle L. 
 
 Meager was the conversation that featured the 
 ride, for in the hearts of all the Star men lurked a 
 dark suspicion that Callahan s death had not come 
 upon him in the manner described by Brannon. 
 They respected Brannon as much as they could
 
 124 WEST! 
 
 respect an enemy of the man they had served, 
 yet they had in mind always the memory of 
 the ill-feeling between the two. So they spoke 
 in monosyllables lest they betray their suspi 
 cions. 
 
 Brannon had made his lie sound plausible. He 
 had constructed it on the ride to the Star, building 
 it upon a structure of half-truths, and it seemed to 
 him that it must serve the purpose for which he had 
 devised it, that of diverting suspicion from Jose 
 phine, thus sparing her the agony of having to face 
 Callahan s friends to undergo their insistent ques 
 tioning. 
 
 Shortly before noon the Star men, with Brannon 
 and Meeder riding ahead, swept past the Triangle 
 L ranch-house and came to a halt at Brannon s 
 shack, where they dismounted and filed inside. 
 They stood, staring grimly at the rigid form on 
 the floor while Cole Meeder knelt and made a some 
 what prolonged examination of the body. 
 
 Meeder s eyes were blazing with cold rage when 
 he finally got up and faced Brannon. His lips were 
 curved in bitter mockery when he spoke : 
 
 "In the back ! By God ! You did n t take any 
 chances, did you, Brannon?" 
 
 He stepped back, crouching a little, his right hand 
 poised in a menacing curve above the butt of the 
 pistol at his hip. His eyes were glowing with
 
 WEST! 125 
 
 passion; it leaped, cold and sharp, in his voice as 
 he spoke to his men: 
 
 "You guys hold this man ! I m goin to the 
 bottom of this! Tim Callahan didn t have a 
 chance !"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 FROM a window of her room on the second 
 floor Josephine had watched the approach of 
 the Star men. She had seen them when they were 
 still a long distance from the ranch-house; but not 
 until they were very close did she recognize Bran- 
 non, riding ahead, beside a tall, grim-faced man. 
 
 Josephine was not certain the men were from the 
 Star until, when they came close to the window, she 
 saw the large, crude brand on the hips of the horses. 
 Then she shrank back from the window and stood 
 with both hands pressed tightly to her bosom, breath 
 ing fast, dreading what impended, feeling certain 
 that more tragedy would follow. 
 
 All night long she had lain awake, worrying about 
 Brannon, wondering at the man s iron-like control 
 of his feelings. Certainly when he had faced her in 
 the big room after he had killed Callahan he must 
 have felt some remorse over the crime, but in his 
 face she had not been able to discern the slightest 
 sign of emotion. He had been as icily composed 
 as though his appearance in the big room had been 
 in the nature of a formal call. 
 
 She was certain he had killed Callahan, though 
 she knew nothing of the enmity that had existed 
 
 126
 
 WEST! 127 
 
 between them. The circumstances of Callahan s 
 death all pointed conclusively to Brannon as the mur 
 derer. None but Brannon could have killed Calla- 
 han, for beside Brannon and herself there had not 
 been another person within miles of the ranch- 
 house. When Brannon had left, after placing Den 
 ver s pistol beside his own on the table, concern for 
 Brannon had driven her to watch him from a win 
 dow of the big room. From the window she had 
 noted his oddly cautious movements as he crossed 
 the level stretching between the ranch-house and his 
 own shack, and she had seen Denver riding south 
 ward in the moonlight. 
 
 Afterward she had gone into the kitchen to bathe 
 her eyes. She had heard the shot that had killed 
 Callahan, and after a moment of dread sus 
 pense she had forced herself to go into the 
 big room, where she had grasped Denver s 
 pistol. 
 
 She had been standing in the doorway only an 
 instant when Brannon appeared, six-shooter in 
 hand. When she had picked up Denver s pistol 
 from the table she had observed that Brannon s was 
 missing. 
 
 Overshadowing all else in her thoughts this 
 morning was the recollection of Brannon s cold un 
 concern over the murder. He said no word about 
 it, had offered no explanation. His attitude had 
 indicated that he intended to offer no explanation.
 
 128 WEST! 
 
 That was merely another example of his self-suffi 
 cient, contemptuous manner toward her. 
 
 When the Star men rode past the ranch-house she 
 descended the stairs and ran to one of the west 
 windows of the big room, where, from behind a 
 lace curtain she saw the men dismount and vanish. 
 Evidently they had gone into Brannon s shack. 
 
 Wonderingly, she waited; to her half- formed con 
 jectures regarding the significance of the visit of 
 the Star men there came no answer; though it 
 seemed to her that Brannon must have had good 
 reason to kill Callahan or he would not have dared 
 to bring the Star men to his shack to view the body. 
 
 Perhaps Brannon had lied! Perhaps he had ac 
 cused some other person of the murder; perhaps with 
 his usual stoic indifference to the opinion of others, 
 with his attitude of conscious superiority and power, 
 he meant to deny all knowledge of the crime! 
 
 She knew the Star men would question her; 
 her knowledge of the usual procedure of those in 
 authority in murder cases (gleaned through the 
 columns of newspapers) included a recollection of 
 an inquisitorial examination of all witnesses. If 
 the Star men questioned her could she testify against 
 Brannon ? 
 
 She felt she must tell the truth. To her knowl 
 edge Callahan had been innocent of wrong-doing. 
 He had not even attempted to fight back, had not 
 even drawn his gun in self-defense; for at the
 
 WEST! 129 
 
 instant her gaze had rested upon him as he lay 
 oddly huddled on the veranda she had caught a 
 glimpse of his six-shooter in its holster. Appar 
 ently Brannon had shot him down without warning. 
 
 Yet she could not answer the question she had 
 asked herself. Brannon had treated her as he 
 might have treated a child, and his attitude toward 
 her had aroused her to a fury of resentment against 
 him. Yet during Betty s absence he had protected 
 her, risking his life when, unarmed, he had taken 
 Denver s gun from him ; and he had not taken ad 
 vantage of her in any way. 
 
 "He s a man," she told herelf as she stood at 
 the window, breathlessly watching Brannon s shack. 
 "Betty knew. He is a man!" 
 
 She knew now that she would lie for him, that 
 she would never let the Star men hang him if she 
 had to tell them 
 
 She caught her breath at this point, setting her 
 lips resolutely. And when she at last saw a man 
 come around a corner of Brannon s shack and walk 
 toward the ranch-house she left the window and 
 went to the center-table, where she stood, fighting 
 for her composure while awaiting the ordeal which 
 was now inevitable. 
 
 For the man was coming rapidly, straight toward 
 the house; she could hear his spurs whizzing as he 
 mounted the gallery. He was the tall man who had 
 ridden beside Brannon as the riders had passed the
 
 130 WEST! 
 
 ranch-house on their way to Brannon s shack. 
 
 When she opened the door in response to his 
 knock his blue eyes were hard as flint and his 
 lips stiff with passion. But he removed his hat with 
 awkward respectfulness at sight of her, and his 
 hard eyes seemed to soften a little with admiration. 
 
 "I m Cole Meeder, Miss range-boss for the 
 Star. I reckon you re Miss Hamilton. Betty 
 Lawson did n t get back from the Willets yet, I 
 reckon?" 
 
 "I am Josephine Hamilton," she said, calmly. 
 "No, Miss Lawson has not returned. You are a 
 neighbor, aren t you? Won t you come in?" 
 
 "I reckon not." Meeder s voice was a tone 
 lower. It was an added measure of respect. "You 
 see, ma am, this ain t exactly a visit, in the regu 
 lar way. We ve come over to find out why Bran- 
 non killed our boss. I m askin you what you know 
 about it." 
 
 So Brannon had admitted it! That was Jos 
 ephine s first thought. And he had evidently 
 pleaded justification or Cole Meeder would not have 
 asked what she knew of the killing. 
 
 She did not need to ask Meeder how he had 
 learned of the killing; Brannon s arrival in com 
 pany of the Star men indicated that he had vol 
 untarily ridden to the Star. Though her cur 
 iosity was intense she dared not ask Meeder to re 
 peat what Brannon had said to him in justification
 
 WEST! 131 
 
 of the deed. If she wanted to clear Brannon she 
 must not hesitate or equivocate. 
 
 It took every bit of courage she possessed to meet 
 the steady, penetrating gaze of Meeder s cold blue 
 eyes. But she did it. 
 
 "Callahan attacked me, on the veranda. I 
 was struggling with him when Brannon shot 
 him." 
 
 She told the lie with an appearance of truthful 
 ness, and with a vehemence that deceived Meeder; 
 for after one sharp, suspicious glance at her his 
 eyes filled with an expression of shamed embarrass 
 ment. 
 
 "I reckon that s all, ma am," he said thickly. 
 "I did n t think it of Callahan. Brannon did n t 
 tell exactly the same story; he stopped short of 
 say in Callahan had attacked you. He just said 
 he saw Callahan on the porch, an thought it was 
 Denver, come back. Wanted to keep you out of 
 it, I reckon. I m a heap sorry I bothered you. 
 That s all, ma am except this. If I d knowed 
 Callahan was that kind of a man I d never done 
 any range work for him !" 
 
 Josephine stood in the doorway and watched 
 Meeder walk away. She saw him disappear around 
 a corner of Brannon s shack. Then she closed the 
 door and went again to the window, where she 
 saw the Star men climbing upon their horses. They 
 rode to the stable, where one of them dismounted
 
 132 WEST! 
 
 and entered, to emerge an instant later leading Cal- 
 kuhan s horse. Then all of them rode past the 
 ranch-house, heading eastward toward the rim of 
 the basin. One of the riders bore Callahan s body.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IT had been part of Brannon s plan to apprise 
 Josephine of the fact that he had lied about 
 the killing of Callahan to save her the torture 
 of a quizzing by the Star men. He would have told 
 her of his intention before riding to the Star had 
 he not feared she would oppose him and perhaps 
 spoil his plan. And he had meant, after leading the 
 Star men into his shack, to go to the ranch-house to 
 tell Josephine what he had done and warn her to 
 corroborate his story. Meeder s sudden rage upon 
 viewing Callahan s body had spoiled the plan. 
 
 Standing in the presence of the Star men, Bran- 
 non realized that he presently would be enduring 
 the jeers of the men, who would consider his at 
 tempt to shield Josephine a weakly heroic attitude 
 by which he had endeavored to gain the lady s favor. 
 Perhaps even Josephine would take that view of the 
 incident. 
 
 Meeder and his men would not blame Josephine 
 for the killing, conceding she told the story of the 
 incident as Brannon had already visualized it; but 
 her version would soon be told and retold, with 
 various additions and embellishments, with the in- 
 
 133
 
 i 3 4 WEST! 
 
 evitable result that she would have to endure un 
 pleasant notoriety. 
 
 He might have saved her that. Now he was 
 doomed to accept in silence whatever gibes, venom 
 ous or otherwise, his friends and enemies should 
 choose to hurl at him. 
 
 When Meeder returned Brannon was leaning 
 against one of the door-jambs patiently waiting. 
 Meeder halted in the doorway. His face was red 
 with wrath over the discovery of Callahan s moral 
 dereliction, his eyes were blazing with resentment 
 against Brannon because the latter had not ac 
 cording to Josephine s account of the murder told 
 the entire story. 
 
 "Brannon, your story don t gibe with Miss 
 Hamilton s !" he snapped savagely. 
 
 Brannon met Meeder s gaze held it. A faint, 
 mocking smile tugged at his lips. But he made no 
 answer. There was none to make. Of course, 
 since Josephine knew nothing of his plan to shield 
 her, she had told the truth. 
 
 "She admits you shot Callahan," Meeder went 
 on, "but she says you done it because Callahan 
 attacked her. Why did n t you say that in the 
 first place?" 
 
 Watching Brannon keenly, Meeder was not able 
 to detect the slightest change of expression on the 
 other s face. Perhaps Brannon s eyes deepened with 
 some baffling emotion; perhaps the mocking smile
 
 WEST! 135 
 
 on his lips became a trifle more pronounced. 
 Meeder, who knew Brannon, was not certain. 
 
 "Meecler," he said gently, "maybe I did n t want 
 you to know Callahan was that kind of a man." 
 
 The red in Meeder s face deepened. Shame, 
 rage, and suspicion burned in his eyes. He took 
 two or three steps into the room, gruffly ordered 
 his men to carry Callahan s body outside and place 
 it on one of the horses; then stood by silently until 
 the men went out. 
 
 Brannon had stepped outside also, and when 
 Meeder emerged he halted within an arm s length 
 of the other. His voice was hoarse, vibrant. 
 
 "Callahan was n t that kind, Brannon. I m 
 damned if I believe either one of you! There s 
 somethin mighty fishy about the whole business, an 
 before I get through I m goin to get the truth; 
 an don t you forget it!" 
 
 Not waiting for Brannon to reply, Meeder swung 
 angrily around a corner of the shack and climbed 
 upon his horse. Brannon watched the men until 
 they passed the ranch-house; then he sat down on 
 the threshold of the doorway of the shack, resting 
 his elbows on his knees, and with his chin resting 
 on his cupped hands meditated at some length upon 
 the vagaries of woman s mind. 
 
 To be sure, he had been willing to take the blame 
 for Callahan s death, and for that matter he was 
 still willing. But what had been Josephine s motive
 
 136 WEST! 
 
 in accusing him of the crime? Had it been 
 cowardice or merely a constitutional frailty of 
 moral texture, which sought, involuntarily to es 
 cape blame? 
 
 There was a vast difference in her permitting him 
 to assume the responsibility for the crime at his 
 own suggestion, and her deliberately accusing him 
 without his knowledge. And what could he think 
 of those principles that she had so stoutly advo 
 cated ? 
 
 As he sat there staring out into the basin he 
 became aware of a dust-cloud that traveled steadily 
 southward, toward him. When the cloud came 
 nearer he finally made out the outlines of a buck- 
 board which meant that Lin Murray and Betty were 
 returning. 
 
 The buckboard was still a long way off, and 
 Brannon had plenty of time to debate the question of 
 having a talk with Josephine before Betty could 
 arrive. Betty would have to be told of the killing 
 of Callahan, and Brannon wondered if Josephine 
 would stick to the story she had told Meeder, shield 
 ing herself from blame and fixing responsibility for 
 the killing upon him. 
 
 He felt little inclined to talk to her; there was 
 in his heart a malicious impulse to permit her to lie 
 as much as she pleased, since her lying could do no 
 harm other than to bring upon him the shame of 
 being pointed out as the man who had shot an enemy
 
 WEST! 137 
 
 in the back. But he would carry the burden of that 
 shame to shield her unless she chose voluntarily to 
 confess. 
 
 He was at the corral gates when Lin Murray 
 brought the tired horses to a halt, and he helped 
 Murray carry Betty s purchases into the house. 
 
 Brannon had determined to give Josephine a 
 chance to speak first; and so when once he was 
 alone with Betty at the buckboard and she remarked 
 that she thought it had been his plan to ride to the 
 south range with the outfit, he answered shortly, 
 though with a smile into her bright, inquiring 
 eyes: 
 
 "Changed my mind. I had some accounts to 
 check up. I m joining the outfit in the morning." 
 
 Later, lugging an armful of supplies and walking 
 behind Betty, he almost ran into Josephine, who was 
 crossing the kitchen. Several times while making 
 trips from the buckboard to the house he had heard 
 Betty and Josephine talking, though this was the 
 first time he had seen the girl since the preceding 
 night. And now as he almost brushed against her 
 she flushed, averted her head and walked past him 
 without looking at him. 
 
 The buckboard had been unloaded and Brannon 
 was talking with Lin Murray both men stand 
 ing near the door of the mess-house when Betty 
 approached. 
 
 Her eyes were steady, inquiring, and held a glint
 
 138 WEST! 
 
 of perplexity as she walked to Brannon and stood 
 close to him. There was a slight flush on her 
 cheeks, and her lips had a slight belligerent curve. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "where is Chong? I asked 
 Josephine the same question and she told me to ask 
 you. Well, I m doing it. Where is Chong?" 
 
 "I sent Chong to Willets for a doctor for Mrs. 
 Whitman." 
 
 "Oh," said Betty, still perplexed. "I don t know 
 what there is about the sending of Chong to Wil 
 lets that would make it necessary for Jo to be so 
 secretive. Do you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Brannon, what on earth is the matter with you 
 with both you and Jo? Jo acts terribly odd; 
 and I don t like you to drawl in that irritating way 
 when you speak to me. How did you come to send 
 Chong to Willets for the doctor? Who told you 
 Mrs. Whitman was sick?" 
 
 "Tim Callahan rode by. He d been to Laskar 
 and had stopped at Whitman s on the way back." 
 
 "You ve been alone here with Jo?" The color 
 jn her cheeks deepened with the question. She liked 
 Brannon, and she certainly was not jealous of Jo 
 sephine ; but she was conscious of a queer constric 
 tion somewhere inside of her at the thought of 
 Brannon and Josephine being the only persons at 
 the ranch during her absence. 
 
 Brannon gave her a sharp, oblique glance.
 
 WEST! 139 
 
 "Denver was here until early this morning," he 
 said. 
 
 "He isn t here now, though?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "I gave him his time this morning. He rode 
 south." 
 
 "Why did you discharge him, Brannon?" 
 
 "We had a disagreement." 
 
 Ordinarily Betty would have been satisfied with 
 such a statement; men came and went and there 
 was never very much bother about the matter. 
 But she had detected in Brannon s manner a con 
 straint that had made her suspicious that he was 
 reluctant to talk, and she was determined to make 
 him talk. 
 
 "What did you disagree* over, Brannon?" 
 
 "Nothing much." 
 
 "Nothing much," she said, mockingly, imita 
 ting his tone. "How remarkable! You have dis 
 agreement with one of the men over over noth 
 ing much , and you discharge him." 
 
 Murray turned his head and grinned into a hand ; 
 Brannon faced Betty, whose eyes were bright with 
 determination and truculence. The girl s cheeks 
 were tinged with a warm color; her chin was up- 
 tilted as she gazed at Brannon with a directness 
 that would have been disconcerting to another man 
 but which brought into Brannon s heart a sudden
 
 140 WEST ! 
 
 realization that Betty was prettier than he had 
 thought and that she was much more wholesome 
 and human in her anger than Josephine. Also, 
 Brannon became aware of the bewitching curve of 
 Betty s chin and the winsome lines of her mouth. 
 
 He was struck with the odd thought that he had 
 never noticed her beauty; or if he had noticed it 
 he had done so subconsciously, without half ap 
 preciating it. He was trying to think of an evasive 
 answer when he saw Betty s eyes glow with deep, 
 abashed light; saw her eyelashes droop; wonder- 
 ingly watched the warm color already in her cheeks 
 quickly suffuse her neck and forehead. 
 
 Puzzled, he looked quickly at Murray, thinking 
 the latter might have caused the blush. Murray s 
 back was turned. Brannon again faced Betty, 
 whereat he saw deep scorn and mockery in her 
 eyes : observed that her chin had come forward 
 defiantly, and that her lips were resolutely set. 
 
 And then when his perplexed eyes met hers 
 she laughed, shortly, tauntingly. But in the laugh 
 was a note of elation; for though she had longed 
 for it, this was the first time since she had known 
 Brannon that she had seen the fire of admiration 
 for her in his eyes. 
 
 "Nothing much," she said, her voice a mere 
 ripple of tantalizing, restrained mirth. "You 
 don t feel like talking, do you, Brannon? And 
 my questions bother you. And you don t want
 
 WEST! 141 
 
 me to try to make you talk, do you, Brannon?" 
 
 She turned abruptly and walked toward the 
 ranch-house, leaving Brannon, more deeply puzzled 
 than ever, staring after her. 
 
 "She was funnin you, Brannon," chuckled Mur 
 ray. 
 
 No answer from Brannon. 
 
 "I don t make no claim to knowin why she was 
 funnin you, Brannon," went on Murray in a 
 stifled voice. "But she was funnin you about some- 
 thin , sure as shootin , sure as shootin . But I 
 reckon she knows. Nuthin much/ he said, 
 mimicking Betty s voice, " nuthin much, she 
 says, ca m as you please. Nuthin much ! 
 Which she means is plenty which you don t 
 sabe!" 
 
 Brannon got rid of Murray by the simple expedi 
 ent of walking down to the creek where he stood for 
 a time trying to solve the puzzle of Betty s manner. 
 He gave it up after a while and returned to his 
 shack, where he sat for a time on the threshold of 
 the doorway. 
 
 When he heard a sound at the corner of the shack 
 he raised his head to see Betty coming toward him. 
 Her face was pale, now ; her eyes were serious. 
 
 "Brannon," she said after she had come close 
 to him, "why didn t you tell me about Calla- 
 han?" 
 
 "I figured you d hear about it after a while."
 
 142 WEST ! 
 
 "Why did n t you tell me, Brannon? It is n t like 
 you to dodge responsibility. You were talking to 
 me a few minutes ago. Why did n t you tell me 
 then, instead of waiting for Jo to do it?" 
 
 "She told you, eh?" drawled Brannon. He was 
 wondering if Josephine had stuck to her original 
 story the story she had told Meeder. 
 
 "It was a shame to make her tell it, Brannon; 
 she was almost hysterical. It must have been a 
 terrible thing for her to have seen !" 
 
 "I reckon it could n t be helped," he said. 
 
 He knew from Betty s words, "a. terrible thing 
 for her to have seen," that Josephine had repeated 
 the story she had told Meeder which, in effect, was 
 that Brannon had killed Callahan while she looked 
 on. He had decided he would corroborate anything 
 Josephine said, and because he was still in doubt as 
 to whether Josephine had mentioned that Callahan 
 had attacked her, he hesitated to comment further. 
 
 Betty s next words indicated that Josephine had 
 repeated her original version. 
 
 "I can hardly believe Callahan was capable of 
 doing a thing like that, Brannon!" 
 
 Betty s clear, direct eyes were probing Brannon s, 
 and lest she detect the insincerity in them he 
 looked past her, into the farther reaches of the 
 basin. Betty s eyes had always made Brannon feel 
 slightly uncomfortable, especially when she looked 
 at him as she was looking now, with a challenging
 
 WEST ! 143 
 
 honesty that made him wonder at the clean purity of 
 her thoughts. 
 
 "Brannon," she said firmly, "look at me !" 
 
 Brannon obeyed. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "Callahan was shot in the 
 back. Did you shoot him?" 
 
 He could have lied to her, but he knew he could 
 not deceive her. 
 
 "You told me Miss Hamilton told you about it," 
 he evaded. 
 
 "I want you to tell me, Brannon!" 
 
 "I m not doing any talking." 
 
 "Brannon, I want an answer !" 
 
 She saw his eyes glint with derision; a saturnine 
 smile flitted thinly over his lips. She knew these 
 things were signs of that unyielding quality in him 
 that had earned him the sobriquet "Steel." In 
 situations of gravest danger, where sheer courage 
 alone was the one element that would save him, she 
 had seen in his eyes the expression that was in 
 them now; and she knew the futility of insisting. 
 
 Yet there was a calm serenity in her eyes despite 
 Brannon s refusal to answer. Brannon was not 
 "Steel" Brannon to her. She could remember the 
 day, several years ago, when Brannon had joined the 
 Triangle L outfit, and her idealistic first impression 
 had been strengthened by the years. To her at that 
 time he had seemed a hero who had ridden out of 
 one of her well-thumbed romantic novels; and
 
 144 WEST! 
 
 though there had been disappointing revelations of 
 character, which were the inevitable results of con 
 trasting the real with the ideal, Brannon was still 
 the knight of her girlhood days. 
 
 Which does not mean that she had failed to 
 value him by the standard by which she judged 
 other men; if anything, her practical common sense 
 and her uncanny intuitive instinct had subjected 
 him to tests that she would not have thought of 
 applying to other men. She had watched him, 
 studied him ; had deliberately manoeuvered him into 
 positions where she could test the temper of the 
 metal of his make-up, positions that gave her little 
 intimate, illuminating glimpses of his character. 
 She had searched and probed and peered at and 
 prodded the mental structure of him, and in not one 
 important detail had she found him lacking. 
 
 She knew him. The material from which he 
 had been made was sound; he had no veneer, no 
 exterior polished smoothness with which to conceal 
 unpleasant imperfections. 
 
 But he never seemed to think of her except as 
 merely Betty Lawson, the daughter of his employer. 
 And of course until he did begin to think of her 
 in another way she must not let him understand 
 that for years she had been secretly wishing and 
 hoping for a light in his eyes which would tell 
 her that she was desirable. To-day she had seen 
 that light, the dawning of admiration an admira-
 
 WEST! 145 
 
 tion which was not quite sure of itself, an un 
 developed, mildly astonished admiration. And 
 then, coincident with the longed-for moment, had 
 come Josephine s story of the killing of Callahan! 
 
 But her faith in Brannon had not been shaken. 
 Therefore as she stood before him at this minute 
 she was conscious of a serenity that dulled the 
 exasperation she felt over his refusal to answer 
 her question. 
 
 "I take that back, Brannon," she said, smiling 
 calmly. "The Brannon I know does n t shoot people 
 in the back; he did not kill Tim Callahan. Do 
 you think there is enough grass on the southern 
 range for the cattle, Brannon?" 
 
 Brannon s eyes glowed. Betty saw the fingers of 
 both his hands slowly clench ; saw his lips straighten 
 into rigid lines, while his cheeks showed white 
 through the deep tan upon them. For the first 
 time since she had known him she saw him in the 
 grip of some mighty emotion. 
 
 It was swiftly transient; had she not been keenly 
 watching him she would not have detected it at all. 
 
 "I reckon there s plenty of grass," he said. And 
 again she saw in his eyes a gleam of that which 
 had been in them some time before. And again he 
 stood perplexed before the miracle of Betty s flaming 
 cheeks and abashed eyes. 
 
 But only for an instant. Then she was walking 
 toward the ranch-house.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HERSELF convinced that Brannon had sped 
 the bullet that had killed Tim Callahan, Jose 
 phine s recital of the incident to Betty had been 
 featured by a determination to tell the truth. As 
 an extenuating circumstance she had repeated a 
 possibility, suggested by Cole Meeder when she had 
 undergone the trial of being questioned by the 
 Star ranch-boss, to the effect that Brannon had 
 mistaken Callahan for Denver. Thus she sought 
 to assuage the keen horror suffered by Betty as she 
 listened to the story. 
 
 Betty did not let her friend realize how the news 
 of the killing had shocked her; and when Betty 
 returned to the ranch-house after her talk with 
 Brannon she did not again refer to the matter. 
 Watching Betty furtively during the late afternoon 
 and evening Josephine decided that Betty appeared 
 rather unconcerned over the killing, which uncon 
 cern might be attributed to Betty s having been 
 born and reared in a section of country in which 
 most people betrayed a calloused indifference toward 
 violence in every form. 
 
 Josephine of course was not aware of Betty s 
 146
 
 WEST ! 147 
 
 knowledge of Brannon s character, or she would 
 have been troubled over the perplexed expression 
 of Betty s eyes whenever they rested upon her. 
 Betty was wondering how much of the real story 
 of the death of Callahan her friend had told, and 
 she was entertaining a natural contempt for Jose 
 phine s secretiveness a contempt which, despite 
 Betty s mental denial of jealousy, was founded 
 upon the conviction that somehow the killing of 
 Callahan was connected with the rather clandestine 
 aspect of Josephine s overnight stay at the ranch- 
 house with Brannon. 
 
 However, Betty was Josephine s hostess, and her 
 interest in her friend s activities must be limited 
 by the requirements of courtesy; and Betty delicately 
 forebore to question. As a matter of fact, she 
 rather strained her patience to be polite to Josephine, 
 and as soon as she decently could she went to bed, 
 pleading weariness after the tiresome ride from 
 Willets. 
 
 Josephine did not accompany Betty upstairs. 
 Betty had spoken of meeting Chong in town during 
 the early hours of the morning, telling Josephine 
 she had sent Chong to the Whitman cabin for the 
 purpose of bringing home news of Mrs. Whitman s 
 condition after the doctor s visit. 
 
 Chong, Betty had said, would very likely reach 
 the ranch-house long before midnight; and Jose 
 phine was anxious for the news he would bring.
 
 148 WEST! 
 
 After Betty retired Josephine went out upon the 
 veranda and dropped into a rocker. 
 
 There was a big moon, and in its soft, mellow 
 light the basin loomed vast and beautiful. But 
 Josephine found herself watching Brannon s cabin, 
 observing how the lamp-light streaked out between 
 the window s shade and the sash, wondering about 
 Brannon. Brannon must know she had lied for 
 him, and yet he had made no effort to thank her 
 when she had seen him in the kitchen during the 
 day. 
 
 She found it hard to think of Brannon as a mur 
 derer, however. There had been something in the 
 man s manner the night before that had puzzled 
 her. She was sure she had seen sympathy in his 
 eyes when he had been standing near the center- 
 table watching her as she sat on the lounge trying 
 to conquer her horror over the dread scene she had 
 witnessed. Why should he sympathize with 
 her? If any one needed sympathy it was him 
 self! 
 
 And yet he seemed not to need it after all. In 
 his eyes as he had stood there had gleamed the 
 enigmatic light that had distinguished all his 
 glances at her, though behind the light had been 
 the old self-sufficiency and consciousness of power 
 and authority that had so irritated her. 
 
 She was drawn to him even now, and she blushed 
 when she remembered how she had thrilled at the 
 touch of his hand on her hair, and how she had
 
 WEST ! 149 
 
 vibrated to his voice when he had placed Denver s 
 pistol on the table close to her head. 
 
 Had Brannon been an Easterner, had he been a 
 product of that polite society to which she was 
 accustomed, were he less uncouth and not so 
 completely enveloped in the vital, rugged, and over- 
 poweringly stern atmosphere of the country, she be 
 lieved she could love him. Still she knew this rea 
 soning was purely of the brain; while she was think 
 ing her heart was saying, "I want him ; I want him." 
 
 She got up, self -contemptuous because she had 
 correctly interpreted the inner voice, and stepped 
 down from the gallery. She walked to the eastern 
 side of the ranch-house and stood there for a time 
 reflectively gazing into the moonlit distance, aware 
 of her hot cheeks and of the odd yearning that had 
 seized her. Brannon s magnetism was not to be 
 dispelled by mere reasoning! 
 
 A patch of level grass at a little distance south 
 of the house attracted her and she walked toward 
 it, reveling in the beauty of the night and filling her 
 lungs with the marvelously sweet air, laden with 
 the blended aromas that were carried to her on the 
 breeze that blew against her from the unfathomed 
 distances of this strange land. 
 
 To reach the grass patch she was forced to pass 
 close to the stable; and when she heard a sound, 
 seeming to come from the interior of the building, 
 she halted irresolutely, almost persuaded to go 
 back.
 
 150 WEST! 
 
 While she stood there she heard sound again, 
 and fearfully turned to the big door from where, 
 if danger lurked, it would have to emerge. 
 
 The door was half-open. In the aperture, cling 
 ing weakly to the jamb, swaying back and forth 
 on unsteady legs, his head sagging almost to his 
 chest was a man. 
 
 She wheeled, terror goading her, stifling the 
 scream that leaped to her lips. But on the instant 
 came the man s voice, low appealing: 
 
 "Don t, ma am; I m hurt!" 
 
 She paused uncertainly. The man s words, 
 "I m hurt!" held a piercing, hopeless appeal. And 
 the voice was familiar. 
 
 She again faced the door and the man, peered 
 intently at his face, which was strangely white, al 
 most ghastly in the moonlight; then she caught her 
 breath and said sharply, breathlessly : 
 
 "Les Artwell!" 
 
 "It s me, ma am," came the answer, whisper- 
 ingly. "I m hurt bad shot. Don t make a fuss, 
 for God s sake ! An don t run away from me, 
 ma am." 
 
 He lurched, sagged against the door-jamb, and 
 went to his knees. In an instant she was beside 
 him, frenziedly eager to help him, though as help 
 less in her excitement as he in his weakness. 
 
 He was certainly Les Artwell. His boyish face 
 was dirty and seamed and lined with pain wrinkles;
 
 WEST! 151 
 
 though through the grime the skin of his nostrils 
 showed white, betraying his effort to suppress the 
 agony that sought expression. His eyes sullen 
 eyes that she had observed that day beside the rail 
 road track were glazed with misery and fixed on 
 hers with mute appeal. 
 
 "What shall I do? What shall I do?" she cried, 
 frantically. "O my God, that s blood!" she gasped 
 as, placing a hand upon his chest to keep him from 
 falling against her, she touched a moist spot and 
 recoiled, the moonlight revealing crimson stains on 
 her fingers. 
 
 "Don t make a fuss," he admonished weakly. 
 "They 11 get me if you do Brannon an Murray. 
 I shot myself accidental this mornin . I was 
 ridin this way, lookin for help an expectin to 
 bring up at Whitman s. Must have lost my 
 bearin s. My hoss throwed me, an sloped." He 
 paused to breathe huskily and heavily; then went 
 on: "Brannon he d swing me. If you could help 
 me get to Lattimer s place it s fifteen miles 
 south I d get help. Lattimer s my friend." 
 He broke off and rested his chin on his chest, mum 
 bling. 
 
 "Lattimer!" 
 
 Josephine spoke the name aloud. That was the 
 man of whom Betty had said : "He would n t hesi 
 tate to carry a woman away to the mountains." 
 
 And Brannon had said that Denver and Artwell
 
 152 WEST! 
 
 were friends. Did the two remarks identify that 
 trio as outlaws, or had Betty said that, meaning 
 to be picturesque? And had Brannon linked Den 
 ver s and Artwell s names together merely to 
 frighten her? 
 
 Concern for her personal safety was strong in 
 her at this instant. Lattimer lived south of the 
 Triangle L; Denver had ridden southward the 
 night before; and now Artwell was asking her to 
 take him to Lattimer s ranch, which act would very 
 probably bring her into the presence of at least one 
 man who had meditated a vicious attack upon her. 
 However, she remembered more of the things Betty 
 had said about Lattimer : "He s a man, Jo a 
 real man" ; or something to that effect. And cer 
 tainly a real man would not offer to harm her. 
 
 Anyway she must run the risk. She could not 
 let Artwell remain in the stable to die, nor could 
 she deliver him to Brannon that the latter might 
 hang him ; and it was very evident that Artwell was 
 not strong enough to ride fifteen miles without as 
 sistance. 
 
 It is one thing to entertain a principle; it is still 
 another thing to carry one into effect at the risk of 
 one s personal safety. Josephine considered the 
 difference as she stood in the stable doorway watch 
 ing Artwell. Her reluctance to act in this crisis 
 was overpowering; she was frankly afraid. 
 
 But when she saw Artwell slowly turn, steady
 
 WEST! 153 
 
 himself, and begin to walk into the darkness away 
 from the doorway, she followed him; heard his 
 voice as he tottered ahead of her. 
 
 "I got a saddle an bridle on a hoss. Took me 
 most all day. But I couldn t get on him no way. 
 Too weak. If you d help me a little, mebbe I 
 could manage it. An maybe if you re afraid, 
 an don t want to take no chances on the folks in 
 the house findin out you could go a little ways 
 with me, just to sort of get me started right. I 
 reckon I could make it." 
 
 The moonlight streaming into the open doorway 
 made a subdued light in the stable, and somehow 
 she managed to help Artwell into the saddle. The 
 horse stood in a wide stall, and by making use of 
 the manger and the low partition of an adjoining 
 stall, the task was accomplished. 
 
 But once in the saddle Artwell seemed to col 
 lapse completely. He slumped against the high 
 pommel, inert, helpless. 
 
 Pity for Artwell goaded her to a quick decision. 
 The stable was large, and Chesterfield was some 
 where in it. She found him after a while stolidly 
 standing in a stall in a corner ; and though her awk 
 wardness and her lack of familiarity with riding 
 equipment made the work slow and exasperatingly 
 difficult, she finally got saddle and bridle on Ches 
 terfield, mounted him, and urged him beside Art- 
 well s horse.
 
 154 WEST! 
 
 A little later she led Artwell s horse out and rode 
 southward, casting apprehensive glances over her 
 shoulder at the ranch-house; fully conscious of the 
 risk she was taking in going with Artwell, accept 
 ing the risk with a high courage that filled her with 
 a strange exultation.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WITH the coming of the first faint light of 
 dawn Josephine caught the dim tracery of 
 a group of buildings that stood on a level at the 
 edge of a timber clump. A thin mist that had 
 swathed the basin was slowly rising, with delicate, 
 veil-like wisps drooping here and there, clinging 
 to the earth as though reluctant to join the slowly 
 disintegrating mass above. 
 
 Urging Chesterfield forward, though at a pace 
 which was rather slower than a man could walk, 
 Josephine glanced back at Artwell. 
 
 The man was unconscious; though whether he 
 had reached that state from a loss of vitality be 
 cause of his wound or from weariness, Josephine 
 did not dare to determine. It was enough that 
 she had brought him within sight of Lattimer s 
 ranch without his having fallen from the saddle. 
 She knew she would never be able to touch him, 
 and for that reason she had kept Chesterfield at a 
 slow pace that had been distressing to her strained 
 nerves; though there was no doubt that by travel 
 ing slowly she had saved herself the horrible alter 
 native of seeing him fall from the saddle. She 
 was convinced that she could never help him mount
 
 156 WEST! 
 
 again; she could not have touched him. How he 
 had ever clung to the saddle during the fifteen-mile 
 ride she could not understand, though she supposed 
 it was due to instinctive muscular action. 
 
 She was dead tired herself. In that ghostly 
 time when night was not yet gone and morning 
 not yet come, she had ridden forward without 
 having the slightest sense of direction; but with 
 the first light she could distinguish a dim trail which 
 Chesterfield must have been following either from 
 instinct or by knowledge. It made little difference 
 now; she was almost there. 
 
 As she guided Chesterfield down a gentle slope 
 that merged with the level upon which stood the 
 buildings that were now very close, she realized 
 that Artwell was not unconscious, for he was mum 
 bling words that were unintelligible at first; though 
 finally she made them out : 
 
 "Clear grit ; she s hangin right on could n t 
 have made it must have been out of my head 
 never made a longer ride why, no woman 
 
 Then his voice trailed off into incoherence ; and 
 she screamed with horror as, reaching the level, 
 she saw him topple sidewise and fall heavily into 
 the tall grass beside his horse. 
 
 She screamed again and sat helplessly in the 
 saddle, seeing the dread limpness of Artwell s body, 
 and how his arms were outflung with the entire
 
 WEST! 157 
 
 abandonment of muscular control. Artwell could 
 go no farther. 
 
 She had dismounted, desperately controlling her 
 jangled nerves, grimly determined to go to Artwell 
 despite the terrible dread that oppressed her, when 
 she heard a shout and saw a horseman riding to 
 ward her from the group of buildings. 
 
 She must have fainted then, for when she again 
 became conscious of what was going on around her 
 she realized that she was sitting in a big roomy 
 chair on a wide veranda, and that within half a 
 dozen paces of her a big man stood silently watch 
 ing her. 
 
 Artwell and the horses had vanished. A breeze 
 was blowing directly into her face, bathing her hot 
 cheeks with refreshing coolness ; her hair was in ter 
 rible disorder, for some stray, stubborn wisps were 
 waving before her eyes ; and she knew she must tuck 
 them in to be presentable, for the big man who was 
 watching her was handsome and she did n t want 
 him to think she was a dowd. So she tucked the 
 wisps in, drew a deep breath of thankfulness for 
 the cooling breeze, and smiled at the big man. But 
 she was very tired, the big chair was very comfort 
 able, and she made no effort to get up. She would 
 get up presently, though, for she must get back to 
 the Triangle L. 
 
 "Feeling better?" asked the big man.
 
 I 5 8 WEST! 
 
 "How is he?" she questioned, not answering the 
 question. 
 
 "Artwell will get well," he said. "He is n t badly 
 hurt. Weak from loss of blood. He s inside, 
 sleeping it off." His gaze was keen, bright, in 
 terested. "Who are you?" he asked. 
 
 "I m Josephine Hamilton." 
 
 "I see. Betty Lawson s guest. From the East. 
 Went to school with Betty. You see, I have heard 
 of you." 
 
 "Evidently," she smiled. "And you are Mr. 
 Lattimer, of course." 
 
 "Why, of course ?" he said. 
 
 She was almost on the point of saying she knew 
 he was Lattimer because he answered Betty Law- 
 son s decription of Lattimer, which was, "He s 
 terribly, darkly handsome." Instead she blushed 
 and told him about fin-ding Artwell at the stable 
 door, detailing the incident and ending with the 
 statement that Artwell had indicated that the Latti 
 mer ranch would be found southward. 
 
 Never had Josephine seen a man like Lattimer. 
 As he stood there watching her, his legs slightly 
 a-sprawl, his arms folded over his chest, his chin 
 lowered so that he could look into her eyes without 
 effort, she was reminded of another illuminating 
 scrap of Betty s description of him: "If he had 
 lived two hundred years ago he would have been a 
 pirate." And "Lattimer s ancestors were very
 
 WEST! 159 
 
 likely buccaneers or swash-buckling gentlemen of 
 fortune." 
 
 But what a pirate he would have been! Still 
 Josephine did not believe he would have been a 
 pirate. "Gentleman," even if it were necessary to 
 add "swash-buckling," described him more ac 
 curately, she thought. For despite the fact that 
 about him lurked an atmosphere of bold reckless 
 ness, which she could feel but could not definitely 
 analyze, there was gentle consideration in his eyes, 
 and deference, even though they were somewhat 
 contradicted by a hint of guile and cynical amuse 
 ment. 
 
 Physically he looked like an athlete out of train 
 ing. For under his woolen shirt were muscles that 
 bulged the garment, especially at the shoulders ; 
 and the collar, carelessly left open, revealed a strong 
 neck sheathed by smooth bronzed flesh, healthy and 
 firm. 
 
 He had accumulated some flesh about the middle ; 
 but not enough to detract from the symmetrical 
 proportions of the rest of him; and the girl per 
 ceived that even with the surplus flesh he carried 
 he was as lithe and springy as a runner. 
 
 His hat was off, crumpled on another chair. 
 His head was well shaped, and his short, close-cut 
 black hair was glossy, virile. Above his forehead, 
 which was white and well-formed, some of the 
 black hair had matted from perspiration which
 
 160 WEST! 
 
 clustered in glistening beads. Josephine thought 
 that was one reason she had got the impression of 
 recklessness; a serene, methodical, and careful man 
 would have brushed the moisture away when facing 
 a woman. 
 
 The rest of the recklessness was in his eyes, in the 
 lines of his mouth and in the bold contour of his chin 
 and the sweep of his jaw. Josephine could under 
 stand why Betty had got so much respect into her 
 words : "He is a man !" 
 
 Yet Lattimer s masculinity was not aggressive. 
 It was a subtle quality that insinuated itself by the 
 very restraint the man put upon it. It seemed to 
 Josephine that though Lattimer knew he was mas 
 culine to the limits of his sex, consciousness of sex 
 was not visible in his eyes. 
 
 Observing that Josephine betrayed no inclina 
 tion to leave her chair, Lattimer drew another in 
 front of her and dropped into it. 
 
 "You and Artwell have met before," he said. 
 "I Ve heard about that. You sort of spoiled 
 Brannon s plans there, didn t you?" His eyes 
 glowed with deep, humorous appreciation of her 
 actions in antagonizing Brannon. 
 
 "I didn t want Brannon to hang an innocent 
 man!" she declared. 
 
 "Then Artwell was innocent ? You knew that, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 "He he looked innocent. Besides, he was so
 
 WEST! 161 
 
 young too young to die for stealing a horse 
 even if he did steal it." 
 
 "H m. Steel will have his way in the end, 
 though. There s no stopping Brannon, once he 
 takes hold of a thing. Steel just fits him. Strike 
 you that way?" 
 
 "I think he is merely stubborn." 
 
 "Well, you d think that, of course him oppos 
 ing you. But Brannon is reasonable. If you are 
 right he ll let you have your way; if he s wrong 
 he 11 admit it." 
 
 She had no comment to make on that statement, 
 so she was silent, looking out into the basin where 
 a painted butte frowned upon the waters of a little 
 river, now glittering in the rays of the silvery sun 
 just sticking its rim over the crest of the low hill 
 on the edge of the basin. 
 
 And now she was agitated by the disquieting 
 realization that she would have explanations to 
 make when she returned to the Triangle L; for she 
 would be missed, of course, as would Chesterfield 
 and the horse Artwell had ridden. She meditated 
 upon the embarrassing position in which she had 
 placed herself that of having to explain her activ 
 ities of the night to Betty, or of having to lie, which 
 she would do, of course, to keep Brannon from 
 riding over to capture Artwell. And she blushed, 
 betraying her agitation by nervously gripping the 
 arms of the chair in which she was sitting.
 
 1 62 WEST! 
 
 "Look here," said Lattimer instantly, "You re 
 upset. You ve had a mighty tough night of it. 
 You sit where you are for a few minutes while I 
 rustle you some grub." 
 
 "I I don t believe I could eat a bite," she said 
 smiling wanly. "Besides, I have n t time. I 
 must go right away this minute! Betty will be 
 worried about me ; she will " she paused, pressing 
 her lips tightly together to suppress an emotion that 
 was filling her eyes with a suspicious mist. She 
 did n t wa-nt Betty to think ill of her; she felt she 
 could not endure the stea-dy gaze of her friend s 
 honest eyes while she attempted to explain the 
 night s adventure. 
 
 "Worrying," said Lattimer soberly. "Well, 
 that s right you would. But if you don t mind 
 telling a white lie, we can manage it. I 11 get you 
 some breakfast and then you can light out for the 
 Whitman cabin. Tell Mrs. Whitman just what 
 has happened. She s helped Artwell out of more 
 than one bad fix, and she 11 help him again. She 
 likes Artwell believes in him. And she 11 lie to 
 save his life. It s mighty simple. All you have to 
 do is to have Mrs. Whitman tell Betty or Brannon 
 or anybody that you were with her all night." 
 
 "But the horse Artwell rode?" inquired Jose 
 phine. "They 11 miss it, and they 11 think " 
 
 Lattimer s low laugh interrupted her. 
 
 "I reckon whatever thinking they do won t
 
 WEST ! 163 
 
 amount to much," he said. "I ve stripped the sad 
 dle and bridle off the horse Artwell rode and headed 
 him toward the Triangle L. Maybe he 11 go 
 straight there, or maybe he ll decide to loaf around 
 the range for a while. It won t make any differ 
 ence. When they find you ve gone away on Ches 
 terfield they 11 decide you carelessly left the stable 
 door open and the other horse got out. That hap 
 pens frequently, you know. I ve got the saddle 
 and bridle put away. Some day a Triangle L man 
 will find it and will wonder why it was overlooked. 
 Come now, brace up. You ve saved a man s life; 
 you Ve shown grit. Don t spoil it." 
 
 "If you are sure about Mrs. Whitman 
 ," began Josephine. She was eager now; 
 filled with admiration for Lattimer s resourceful 
 ness. 
 
 "Shucks !" he interrupted, smiling with broad as 
 surance. 
 
 He went into the house. Josephine could hear 
 him moving about. A little later he appeared in 
 a doorway. 
 
 "Breakfast is ready, Miss Hamilton," he said, 
 quietly. 
 
 She got up, hesitated, blushed, and stood irres 
 olute. She was hungry now, but the act of 
 breakfasting with a strange man in a house occupied 
 only by themselves and a sick man who could not 
 act as chaperon was startlingly unconventional and
 
 164 WEST! 
 
 at variance with her preconceived ideas of wom 
 anly deportment. 
 
 Lattimer observed her hesitation. 
 
 "Breakfast is served for one, of course, Miss 
 Hamilton," he said, with a faint hint of mockery 
 in his voice. "I had mine some time ago. Also, 
 I expect to enjoy the air while you are inside." 
 
 He stepped out upon the veranda, bowed to her 
 as she passed him with an embarrassed smile and a 
 blush, and then seated himself on the veranda edge 
 and smoked a huge pipe while waiting for her to 
 finish. 
 
 When at last she came out Lattimer knocked the 
 ashes from his pipe, got up, and smiled at her. 
 
 "Feeling better?" 
 
 "Decidedly better." 
 
 In the glance they exchanged as they stood close 
 together, each betrayed knowledge of the other s 
 thoughts. It was plain to Josephine that Lattimer 
 had enjoyed her embarrassment; a light in his eyes 
 which said plainly: "Well, you had no reason to 
 fear me, after all, did you?" convinced her. 
 
 "You had no breakfast," she said. 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "There would have been signs dishes, pans. 
 Besides, I heard you building a fire in the stove. 
 It was selfish of me," she admitted, reddening 
 again. "But you see " 
 
 "I see many things, Miss Hamilton. For one
 
 WEST ! 165 
 
 thing, word of the evil reputation I bear has 
 reached your ears. Betty Lawson has been talk 
 ing about me. She said: Satan Lattimer is not 
 to be trusted. Wasn t it that?" 
 
 "No." Josephine s gaze was steady. "Do you 
 think I should have come here if I had heard that 
 about you? Not even to save Artwell from hang 
 ing! Betty told me you were a real man. You 
 have proved it this morning; and I thank you." 
 
 She saw his eyes light with a strange fire. He 
 drew a deep breath. Then the light died out of 
 his eyes; they glinted with a mocking incredulity, 
 which passed swiftly to be replaced by steady, 
 serene amusement. He laughed, lowly, vibrantly. 
 
 "Betty s a wonder." He was serious again ; 
 his gaze was level, direct. 
 
 "I expect Betty is n t feeling any too joyful 
 right now," he said. 
 
 "What do you mean?" Josephine s color 
 changed; her eyes were troubled. "Oh," she 
 said, "I suppose you refer to her discovering my 
 absence." 
 
 "Referring to Brannon killing Callahan. It 
 is n t generally known, but Betty thinks a great deal 
 of Brannon; and Brannon hasn t eyes to see it." 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, astonished. "How did 
 you hear about Callahan?" 
 
 "Cole Meeder rode over here yesterday after 
 noon. Meeder is n t satisfied with Brannon s story
 
 1 66 WEST! 
 
 nor with yours, for that matter. You see, the 
 two stories did n t gibe. You told Meeder Callahan 
 attacked you on the gallery; Brannon said he saw 
 Callahan prowling around on the porch, and shot 
 him, thinking he was Denver. Remembering the 
 bad blood between Callahan and Brannon, Meeder 
 is suspicious that either you or Brannon is lying." 
 
 Josephine could not endure Lattimer s steadi 
 gaze. Her own dropped; she felt a wave of tell 
 tale color slowly surging into her cheeks. When 
 at last she defiantly raised her eyes to Lattimer s, 
 there was an amused, comprehending smile on his 
 lips. 
 
 She gasped; Lattimer laughed softly. 
 
 "You did the fibbing, Miss Hamilton," he said. 
 "No, I am not a mind-reader, though you gave 
 yourself away just now. But I did n t use that 
 evidence. You see, I knew Callahan. Callahan 
 wouldn t do what you accused him of. Of course, 
 you had to make it strong to Meeder if you wanted 
 to save Brannon. What I can t understand is 
 why you wanted to save Brannon at the cost of 
 Callahan s reputation. If Brannon did the kill 
 ing he ought to be man enough to take the blame 
 without depending upon such a story as you told." 
 
 "He did take the blame!" she declared. "You 
 said so only a minute ago!" 
 
 "Well," he said, his eyes glowing with admira-
 
 WEST ! 167 
 
 tion, "you Ve got the spirit to stick up for your 
 friends." 
 
 "Brannon is n t my friend !" she declared. "I 
 I merely said that " 
 
 She paused, frightened, realizing that she had 
 been on the point of betraying herself; aware that 
 she had already said enough to make Lattimer s 
 suspicion a certainty. She was convinced of it 
 when she caught Lattimer s glance. 
 
 "Miss Hamilton," he said gravely, "Your secret 
 is safe with me. As a matter of fact we both have 
 secrets. For if it were known that I am shielding 
 Les Artwell, if Brannon and the Triangle L boys 
 knew about me appropriating the saddle and bridle 
 I took from that Triangle L horse a little while 
 ago, this country would be very unsafe for me. It 
 seems we ve both got to be careful what we say." 
 He laughed. "If we are not careful, our principle 
 of helping the under dog will get us both into 
 trouble." 
 
 She was watching him with startled eyes. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that if it were discovered 
 that you had taken Artwell in after after 
 I brought him here; that you that Brannon 
 would be justified in accusing you of complic 
 ity?" . 
 
 "If I kept Artwell here as I mean to do until 
 he gets well enough to travel. Yes, Brannon 
 could accuse me of that, and under present condi-
 
 1 68 WEST! 
 
 tions he d very likely be supported by the entire 
 country." 
 
 "W what conditions?" 
 
 "You haven t heard, eh? Well, there is no 
 proof, as yet; but there is a rather well-founded 
 suspicion in the minds of nearly all of the cattle 
 men in the vicinity that a well-organized band of 
 horse-thieves is working in the section. A good 
 many men are under suspicion perhaps myself. 
 Les Artwell is another, though I believe he is as 
 innocent as I am." 
 
 "Why, then if Artwell is guilty I have helped 
 him!" 
 
 She stood, appalled. The possibility of Art- 
 well s guilt had not occurred to her. He was so 
 young, and his sullen eyes had seemed so com 
 pletely to express a conviction that he was being 
 persecuted, that she had not thought it possible he 
 could be guilty. 
 
 "Artwell is n t guilty," came Lattimer s voice re 
 assuringly. "Don t be frightened; and don t let 
 anybody wheedle you into talking as you talked to 
 me a few minutes ago about Brannon." 
 
 She felt one of his hands on her shoulder, gently 
 urging her off the porch to the ground beside it. 
 She looked up at Lattimer, wondering at the easy 
 familiarity of his touch; surprised that there was 
 no resentment in her heart over the action. Was
 
 WEST! 169 
 
 it that the culpability of both under the "condi 
 tions" he had mentioned had created a bond between 
 them ; or was she under the spell of that insinuat 
 ingly subtle dominance which she had felt with her 
 first glance at him the dominance of the con 
 queror of women, supremely confident of his pow 
 ers? 
 
 She did not know. She was aware that she 
 liked him ; that his touch thrilled her more deeply 
 than had Brannon s when he had placed a hand on 
 her hair in the big room of the Triangle L ranch- 
 house. And as she rode toward the Whitman 
 cabin, after Lattimer had got her horse and pointed 
 out the trail to her, she mentally acknowledged, 
 though she blushed at the admission, that she rather 
 enjoyed being dominated by the man. 
 
 Lattimer watched her from the porch, until she 
 diminished to a mere dot in his vision. Then, his 
 eyes chilling, he entered the house, walking heavily 
 through the kitchen and entering another room in 
 which, on a bed, lay Les Artwell. Seated on the 
 edge of the bed was Denver. 
 
 Denver had been attending Artwell s wound, as 
 Artwell s shirt, open at the chest where there was 
 a ragged hole through a big muscle, testified; and 
 Artwell was again conscious, though his eyes were 
 rather bright and his color high. 
 
 Denver looked up as Lattimer entered; but Lat-
 
 1 70 WEST! 
 
 timer paid no attention to him. He strode to the 
 bed and stood over Artwell. The chill was still in 
 Lattimer s eyes. 
 
 "Artwell he said coldly, "why did you kill Tim 
 Callahan?" 
 
 The wounded man s color heightened; his gaze 
 shifted; a deadly fear glinted his eyes. 
 
 "The damn fool stumbled right onto me," he 
 finally blurted. "I was headed for here, and tryin 
 to get back without anybody seein me. Callahan 
 come a-tearin out of some timber about a mile an 
 a half from the Triangle L. My hoss had thro wed 
 me an was cuttin it. I was aimin to ketch 
 him when Callahan busted out of the timber 
 an throwed down on me him recognizin me 
 by the moonlight, I reckon, which was plenty 
 bright. 
 
 "I tumbled down into a shallow gully, an I reckon 
 I was laid out for a time; for when I come to an 
 crawled back to the top of the gully I saw Callahan 
 leadin his hoss back toward the Triangle L the 
 hoss bein lamed bad. I d lost my temper a little 
 an I followed Callahan, gettin within range just 
 as he got to the door of the ranch-house. I figgered 
 he d gone back there for a fresh hoss. 
 
 "I let him have it. Then, feelin pretty weak, 
 an knowin some one was in the house an in the 
 foreman s shack, I slipped around back an got into 
 the stable, figgerin to saddle a hoss an light out.
 
 WEST! 171 
 
 I must have keeled over, for the next thing I 
 knowed " 
 
 "I know the rest of it," said Lattimer. "You 
 took a big chance, Les, by letting your temper get 
 the best of you. Do you know Brannon was in his 
 shack when you got Callahan?" 
 
 The chill left his eyes; they narrowed, gleamed 
 with sardonic amusement. 
 
 "Luck!" he exclaimed, laughing deeply. "You 
 did a good job after all, Les. By sending Callahan 
 out you settled a personal grudge and got rid of a 
 man who was beginning to get mighty suspicious 
 of us. And you ve got Meeder and all the rest of 
 them thinking Brannon put Callahan out of the 
 way, which, because of the bad blood between the 
 Star and the Triangle, will keep both outfits pretty 
 busy watching each other. 
 
 "But Brannon s got me guessing. Artwell, you 
 did for Callahan. What do you suppose made 
 Brannon ride over to the Star and tell Cole Meeder 
 he killed Callahan ? We ve got to watch ourselves 
 on that point; Brannon s got something up his 
 sleeve!" 
 
 Denver laughed harshly. "It s a petticoat !" 
 he said venomously. 
 
 "Betty Lawson?" Lattimer had wheeled to face 
 Denver; he was watching Denver with a coldly 
 speculative gaze. 
 
 "Haw! haw!" laughed Denver. "Brannon ain t
 
 172 WEST! 
 
 got sense enough to see that Betty s dead in love 
 with him. It s that female which has just pulled 
 her freight away from here that Brannon s got his 
 eye on!" 
 
 "How do you know, Denver?" Lattimer s voice 
 was low, even ; but there was passion behind it. 
 
 "How do I know? Hell!" Denver got up from 
 the bed and leered into Lattimer s face. With bra 
 zen disregard for the moral aspect of the tale, and 
 seemingly with no shame for his own dastardly 
 part in the affair, he related the story of his attack 
 on Josephine, together with his clashes with Bran 
 non. He told how he had stood outside the house 
 while Brannon had patted Josephine s hair, and 
 how he had watched Brannon surrender his gun to 
 the girl. 
 
 "I reckon when a guy will do them things a girl 
 has got him goin pretty strong," he laughed in con 
 clusion. 
 
 Lattimer had not changed position during the tell 
 ing of Denver s story, nor had his face changed 
 expression. But when Denver finished Lattimer 
 walked close to him and looked into his eyes. 
 
 Denver must have correctly read the expression, 
 for his pallor became ghastly, and he muttered 
 thickly, rapidly, "I only meant to kiss her, boss, 
 so help me Gawd!" 
 
 "Even that was too much," said Lattimer. His 
 voice was dry and light but well-controlled, though
 
 WEST! 173 
 
 with a sinister threat lurking in it that blanched 
 even Artwell s face. Denver seemed paralyzed by 
 the menace of Lattimer s manner, and he stood mo 
 tionless, loose-lipped, fearful. 
 
 "Too much, Denver," repeated Lattimer in the 
 same voice. "Don t touch her; don t even look at 
 her again where I can see you. She belongs to 
 me!"
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 AT daybreak a thin column of smoke spiraled 
 upward from the Triangle L foreman s 
 shanty, flattening out when it met a thin mist like 
 that which had attracted Josephine s attention fifteen 
 miles southward. 
 
 Shortly after the smoke appeared Brannon 
 emerged from the cabin, went to the windmill for 
 water and returned. Half an hour later he was in 
 the corral roping his horse the big black. 
 
 He had got saddle and bridle on the animal, had 
 trailed the reins over its head, and was closing the 
 corral gate, when he glanced toward the stable. 
 Unhurried, he locked the corral gate, patted the 
 black horse affectionately on a hip, and walked to 
 ward the stable. 
 
 Passing the bunk-house Lin Murray called to 
 him sonorously: 
 
 "I 11 be with you soon s I can rustle up some 
 grub!" 
 
 "Take your time, Lin," returned Brannon. 
 
 He was walking on when Murray s voice reached 
 him again: 
 
 "Chong came in about midnight. His hoss is 
 in the corral. Says Mrs. Whitman s a lot better." 
 
 i74
 
 WEST ! 175 
 
 Brannon s eyes quickened. While at the corral 
 gates his glance stableward had shown him a horse, 
 saddled and bridled, standing in the lee of a lean-to 
 at the side of the structure a building used for 
 the storing of miscellaneous articles. His first 
 thought was that Chong had left his horse saddled 
 and bridled during the night, thus being guilty of 
 reprehensible negligence. For he, too, had heard 
 Chong ride in, had heard him muttering softly in 
 his unintelligible jargon. 
 
 But Murray s statement that Chong had turned 
 his horse into the corral indicated that the horse 
 standing near the lean-to was not the one Chong 
 had ridden ; and Brannon s interest was now keenly 
 suspicious rather than critical. 
 
 Standing close to the strange horse, Brannon 
 gravely inspected him, his eyes gleaming when he 
 saw on the beast s hip a well-defined "L," lying on 
 its side. It was Lattimer s brand, the Lazy L. 
 
 Brannon spoke gently to the horse and walked 
 slowly around it. The saddle was covered with a 
 thick layer of dust; the high pommel was battered 
 and looked as though it had been driven deeply into 
 the ground, for there were hardened particles of 
 earth clinging to it. The cantle, too, was battered, 
 as though some heavy weight had struck it. The 
 bridle-rein was broken and the latigo-strings had 
 been torn from their holes. 
 
 "He s been rolling," was Brannon s mental ob-
 
 1 76 WEST! 
 
 servation. "Roaming the country without a rider, 
 for well, maybe last night or longer," he con 
 cluded after examining the dust on the saddle 
 and the battered horn and cantle. 
 
 Brannon unstrapped the slicker, laid it on the 
 ground, and unrolled it, Various articles were dis 
 closed a tin cup, a bit of mirror, a shaving-brush, 
 soap, a small coffee-pot, a can of tomatoes an ad 
 mirable thirst quencher a canvas-covered can 
 teen full of water, several other articles, and some 
 food and matches. 
 
 Brannon s interest centered upon the shaving- 
 brush. It was a cheap affair with a wooden handle 
 upon which had been cut, apparently with a knife, 
 the initials "L. A." 
 
 Brannon could find no marks on any of the 
 other articles. But, apparently satisfied, he re 
 stored them all to the slicker, rerolled the latter, 
 and strapped it to the cantle of the saddle. 
 
 Then, his eyes gleaming, he peered intently at the 
 ranch-house, to see that the window-shades were 
 still drawn and that no smoke came from the kitchen 
 chimney. Chong was usually astir at this hour, 
 but evidently his night ride had wearied him. 
 Betty, he knew, would not arise until about sun 
 rise. 
 
 Leading the strange horse behind the stable 
 where he could not be seen from the house, Bran 
 non relaced the cinch-straps and tied the broken
 
 WEST! 177 
 
 reins together. Then he swung into the saddle and 
 rode slowly toward the river, still keeping the stable 
 between himself and the house. The river was 
 fringed with timber for a point near the corral 
 fence. Then came a break, where he was forced to 
 risk being seen from the house; but after that tim 
 ber and brush made a screen behind which he rode 
 in security. 
 
 He rode the horse half a mile down the river, dis 
 mounted and tied him to a tree with a hackamore 
 that was fastened to the pommel of the saddle, left 
 the animal there, and walked back to the stable. 
 
 The ranch-house was still swathed in silence; 
 even Murray had not made his appearance; and 
 Brannon had apparently not been seen. 
 
 He had observed that the stable door was open. 
 He entered, glanced swiftly into the stalls and at 
 the pegs from which half a dozen saddles dangled; 
 his examination resulting in the conviction that two 
 horses and saddles were missing. 
 
 "Billy and Chesterfield," he remarked aloud. 
 His eyes took on an expression of cynical amuse 
 ment, tempered with a hint of the grim coldness 
 that had brought upon him the cognomen "Steel." 
 
 "She s sure fanning it some!" was his mental 
 comment upon the evidence that Josephine was 
 again interfering with matters that should not con 
 cern her. He was convinced that no one but Jose 
 phine would ride Chesterfield. Certainly Betty
 
 i;8 WEST! 
 
 would not ride the staid old animal; and if Les Art- 
 well s companion were a man he would have chosen 
 any of the several remaining horses in the stable in 
 preference to Chesterfield. 
 
 But Brannon wanted to be sure; and before he 
 left the ranch-house to go southward with Murray 
 he meant to invent some excuse that would enable 
 him to arouse the occupants of the ranch-house 
 either Chong or Betty to discover if Josephine had 
 gone out. 
 
 He walked to the door of the stable and glanced 
 at the house. His gaze went downward when he 
 observed that there were no visible signs of move 
 ment inside. Instantly he went to his knees and 
 intently examined a crimson stain on some matted 
 straw in the doorway. He got up presently, the 
 movement bringing his face close to one of the 
 door-jambs, upon which were other crimson stains, 
 made, undeniably, by fingers a woman s fingers! 
 
 Brannon reentered the stable. When he again 
 came to the door he was convinced; for in the 
 straw of a box stall was the impression of a man s 
 body, and other red stains, showing that he who 
 had been wounded had been in the stable for many 
 hours. 
 
 Brannon closed the stable door and went to the 
 mess-house, where he found Murray just finishing 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Took me longer n I thought it would," growled
 
 WEST! 179 
 
 Murray when he saw the other. "-Ain t it like 
 that, though, all the time? If you re in a hurry, 
 not wantin to disappoint some one, every damned 
 thing seems to go wrong. There s that mis able 
 stove. I built one fire in that mis able stove, an it 
 went out. It s worse n a " 
 
 "Brannon," came Betty s voice from the mess- 
 house door, "will you please come here for a 
 minute ?" 
 
 Brannon turned swiftly. Betty s face was pale; 
 her lips were white. The forced calmness of her 
 voice was oddly contradicted by the restrained 
 excitement that glowed in her eyes. 
 
 She did not speak until Brannon had followed 
 her half-way to the ranch-house; and before she 
 spoke Brannon knew what she was going to say. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "something has happened to 
 Josephine! Her bed has not been slept in, and 
 Chesterfield is gone! What do you suppose has 
 happened? If any harm has come to her, I I shall 
 never forgive myself! 
 
 "I reckon there is n t much that could happen," 
 consoled Brannon. "She s gone riding, prob 
 ably. Yesterday she was worried about Mrs. 
 Whitman. It s likely she s ridden over there. 
 I 11 send Murray to the outfit and I 11 slip over 
 to Whitman s." 
 
 "I ll go with you, Brannon! You don t think 
 Denver came back could have intercepted her
 
 i8o WEST! 
 
 if she did go to Whitman s? Brannon!" she cried 
 in exasperation when he merely shook his head 
 negatively at her mention of Denver; "have you 
 no nerves? You don t seem to realize that Jo is 
 my guest, Brannon, and that I am responsible for 
 her!" 
 
 "Sure," he agreed, quickly. "But there s no 
 need of two of us going to Whitman s/ He was 
 certain Betty would not find Josephine at Whit 
 man s; and he was thinking of the Lazy L horse 
 htiched to a tree in the river bottom, 
 
 He caught Betty s horse, and while she was inside 
 the ranch-house changing her clothes he saddled 
 and bridled the animal. 
 
 "Don t get to worrying," he advised her with a 
 smile as he helped her into the saddle ; "you 11 
 find nothing has happened. I reckon you won t 
 be in so much of a hurry that you 11 ride plumb 
 into that quicksand at the north ford?" 
 
 He watched her horse skitter down the side of 
 a little gully, up the other* side, and across* an alkali 
 flat. 
 
 Later, he was standing at the corral gate with 
 Murray, who had mounted and was waiting for 
 him. 
 
 "Lin," he said, "I ve changed my mind about 
 going to the south range. Look for me to-mor 
 row."
 
 WEST! 181 
 
 "Sure," said Murray. He did not voice his mild 
 surprise over the change in Brannon s plans. 
 
 "Well, so-long," he said. He rode half a dozen 
 paces, pulled his horse up, and said banteringly over 
 his shoulder : 
 
 "I would n t be playin no lone hand right now, 
 Steel." 
 
 "A clean miss," smiled Brannon. "It is n t the 
 Star outfit." 
 
 Murray s expression indicated plainly that he 
 was curious; but he shut his lips disappointedly 
 and loped his horse southward. 
 
 Not until Murray was a mere dot on the horizon 
 did Brannon move. Then he mounted and rode 
 down the river trail to where he had left the Lazy L 
 horse. A few minutes later, he also rode away 
 leading the other beast, following a dim trail 
 that led slightly southwestward. The trail Murray 
 had taken went directly south. 
 
 After riding several miles Brannon glimpsed a 
 moving dot on- a low ridge at his right. He 
 abruptly left the trail he had been riding and drop 
 ped into a dry arroyo, which he followed half a 
 mile to a sweep of grassy land which melted into 
 the ridge upon whose crest he had noted the moving 
 dot. 
 
 When he reached the crest of the ridge he saw a 
 horse grazing in a little grass-carpeted valley below
 
 182 WEST! 
 
 him. The animal was a sorrel; with an irregular 
 patch of white on its right side, back of the 
 shoulder and below the withers; and at sight of 
 him Brannon s lips straightened. 
 
 "Billy," he said softly. 
 
 A doubt that had been disturbing Brannon had 
 been dispelled. If Billy had merely strayed from 
 the stable in search of grass he would not have 
 come in this direction when there was an abundance 
 eastward, nearer the ranch-house, where there was 
 also water. 
 
 Brannon trailed the reins over the head of the 
 Lazy L animal and urged the black down into the 
 valley, approaching Billy, slowly. He wanted a 
 closer look at Billy. 
 
 He roped the animal and threw him. And when 
 Billy got over his resentment Brannon walked close 
 to him, while the black still kept the rope taut, and 
 inspected him. 
 
 Billy had been confined to the stable for several 
 days to undergo treatment for some digestive dis 
 order. Carson, the horse-wrangler, had taken ex 
 ceptional care of him, currying him daily. Several 
 times Brannon had looked in at the animal to note 
 his progress. 
 
 The patch of white behind Billy s shoulder was 
 stained darkly. Upon his back were prints of a 
 saddle, upon his ribs was the impression of a saddle- 
 skirt, and around his belly were deep, smooth,
 
 WEST ! 183 
 
 sweat-matted lines where the broad cinch-straps 
 had been pressing against him. The stains on the 
 white patch were blood-stains, and they showed only 
 in a narrow streak near Billy s shoulder at a point 
 left exposed by the saddle-blanket. 
 
 Brannon took his rope off the animal and sent 
 him scurrying over the back trail, riding after him 
 for a considerable distance, until Billy was far ahead 
 and traveling steadily. 
 
 Then Brannon returned to the Lazy L horse and 
 again rode the south trail. 
 
 The story of the killing of Callahan was as 
 plain to Brannon now as though it were printed on 
 the pages of a book. After removing Callahan s 
 body to his shack he had examined the gun in the 
 man s holster, to find one chamber empty. Because 
 he had concluded that Josephine had shot Callahan 
 he had been puzzled by the empty chamber in the 
 man s weapon, though he finally decided that Cal 
 lahan had previously done some shooting and had 
 carelessly neglected to reload the weapon. 
 
 It was now evident that Les Artwell had re 
 ceived the bullet from Callahan s weapon; though 
 of course the shooting must have been done at a dis 
 tance from the ranch-house or the sound would have 
 been heard. Therefore Artwell must have trailed 
 Callahan after being shot, killing the Star owner 
 when the latter had turned his back while on the 
 veranda.
 
 184 WEST! 
 
 The fact that Artwell had concealed himself in 
 the stable accounted for the fact that Brannon, 
 after running to the veranda immediately after the 
 shooting had heard no scurrying hoof-beats which 
 would indicate that the assassin had fled. 
 
 Josephine had found Artwell in the stable and 
 had helped him to escape. Artwell was badly 
 wounded, and Josephine had taken him to Lattimer s 
 place. 
 
 The only obscure point was that which hinged 
 upon the finding by Brannon of the horse, saddled 
 and bridled, bearing Lattimer s brand; though even 
 that point was not so puzzling when one took into 
 account the condition of the saddle, the broken- 
 reins, and the discovery of the initials on the shav 
 ing-brush that Brannon had found in the slicker. 
 Artwell had ridden the horse, of course; but whether 
 he had stolen it from Lattimer, or whether Lattimer 
 had sold or lent it to him was a question. The 
 fact that Josephine had taken Artwell to Lattimer s 
 ranch seemed to indicate friendliness between the 
 two men; and any sort of a friendship between even 
 an honest cattle-man and a known horse-thief was 
 a suspicious circumstance which required rigid in 
 vestigation. 
 
 However, Brannon did not intend to voice his 
 suspicions. Nor did he intend to make any im 
 mediate effort to capture Les Artwell. It had been 
 through his instrumentality that Artwell had been
 
 WEST! 185 
 
 apprehended the other time: and he was rather 
 glad now that Josephine Hamilton had interfered; 
 was glad that she had again meddled with the mat 
 ter ; for by doing so she had brought suspicion upon 
 Lattimer, had developed a new lead which might 
 result in the apprehension of the entire band of 
 thieves, instead of only Les Artwell. 
 
 Beneath Brannon s satisfaction was a deeper 
 emotion a vast relief over the discovery that Jose 
 phine had not shot Callahan. Her championship of 
 Artwell, her activities of last night, and her mistake 
 in riding with the horse-thief to Lattimer s ranch 
 could be explained by her devotion to the principles 
 she had already expounded and defended, and by 
 her determined, if somewhat arbitrary, attempts 
 to regulate human conduct in her new environment. 
 
 But the emotion that struck deep into Brannon s 
 consciousness, that filled him with a solemn exhil 
 aration which he attempted to fight with cynical 
 amusement and could not was caused by the re 
 alization that Josephine had lied to save him! 
 
 The sun was swimming high when Brannon rode 
 up to the veranda of the Lazy L ranch-house and 
 brought the black horse to a halt. He did not dis 
 mount, and the reins of the led horse were looped 
 in his left arm. 
 
 Inside the house Lattimer, Denver, and Artwell 
 heard Brannon s call. They had been watching 
 him for fifteen minutes; and when the black horse
 
 1 86 WEST! 
 
 halted at the edge of the veranda Lattimer coldly 
 ordered Denver to drop the rifle he had picked up. 
 
 "None of that, you damn fool ! You d have the 
 whole country on top of us!" 
 
 In the interval between Brannon s first call and 
 the next, he permitted his gaze to rove around. 
 Leisurely he scrutinized the corrals, the level around 
 the house, various tracks of iron shoes on the 
 hard ground; observing particularly a square 
 of white linen that lay crumpled on the ground 
 at the edge of the veranda a woman s handker 
 chief. 
 
 But he gave no sign of astonishment or interest 
 at what he saw. The keen, suspicious eyes that 
 watched him from inside the ranch-house were un 
 able to communicate to the brains of their owners 
 any odd gleam of Brannon s eyes that would provide 
 proof that Brannon saw anything unusual. 
 
 And yet, besides the handkerchief, Brannon s 
 leisurely gaze had discovered other proof that Lat 
 timer had visitors. Denver s horse was in the cor 
 ral. 
 
 Thus Brannon felt he was being watched. How 
 ever, he betrayed no indication of embarrassment or 
 suspicion. With the reins of the led horse still in 
 the crook of his left elbow he rolled a cigarette, 
 lighted it, and sat there calmly smoking. 
 
 "That s the horse I let you take, Artwell," said 
 Lattimer. "Damn him!" he laughed with a grim
 
 WEST! 187 
 
 admiration for Brannon s unconcerned demeanor; 
 "he s got nerve !" 
 
 "You guys lie low; I ve got to show, or he ft 
 get suspicious," he added. 
 
 He slipped out of the back door, ran for an out 
 building, skirted it, ran low behind a wind-break 
 near the stable, and came into view at the other 
 side of the structure. He answered Brannon s 
 third call with a shout: 
 
 "What s up!" 
 
 Brannon waved a hand in greeting, and pulled 
 the black around so that he faced Lattimer when 
 the latter approached, smiling a counterfeit wel 
 come. 
 
 Brannon s smile, equally insincere, had more 
 depth and guile than the other s ; for he had caught 
 a glimpse of Lattimer as he passed from the wind 
 break to the stable. 
 
 "I ve brought you a horse, Lattimer," he said. 
 
 "Hell it s Streak ! " said Lattimer. "We missed 
 him and a saddle !" He met Brannon s level gaze 
 steadily. "Brannon," he said angrily, "those 
 thieves are getting damned bold when they 11 take 
 a horse right out of a man s stable!" 
 
 "That s so, Lattimer. When did you miss your 
 horse?" 
 
 "Yesterday morning. Stable door was wide open 
 Where did you pick him up, Brannon?" 
 
 "About ten miles back. Murray and me were
 
 i88 WEST! 
 
 heading for the south range. I sent Murray on. 
 
 Lattimer had caught sight of the handkerchief 
 on the ground at the edge of the porch. It was 
 close to him and he placed a foot on it. He cast 
 a swift glance at Brannon, but apparently Brannon 
 had not seen the movement for he was puffing un 
 concernedly at his cigarette. 
 
 "Much obliged to you, Brannon," said Lattimer. 
 
 "Don t take on any airs, Lattimer," said Brannon, 
 smiling blandly as he met the other s gaze. "These 
 thieves are not playing favorites. This morning 
 a Triangle L horse turned up missing. Also a 
 saddle and a bridle. But I reckon whoever stole 
 him wanted a bridle worse than a horse. For 
 about six miles out I ran into the horse, heading 
 home. There were saddle-marks on him, but no 
 saddle or bridle. Whoever took him must have had 
 another horse holed up somewhere or is hoofing it. 
 You have n t seen a rider with two saddles passing 
 this way?" 
 
 "Not even with one saddle," laughed Lattimer. 
 "Nobody s been past here at least if they did 
 they passed before I rolled out." 
 
 "Well, I reckon I 11 be getting on," said Brannon. 
 "South range to-morrow. Might as well make it 
 a day, now. I m stopping to look at Ben Whit 
 man s mother. Wanting to send any word?" 
 
 "Tell her I m glad she s better. Heard she was
 
 He met Brannon s level gaze steadilv
 
 WEST ! 189 
 
 sick the other night the night Tim Callahan got 
 it." He looked straight at Brannon. 
 
 "Never thought it of Tim," said Brannon. 
 There s two stories ; mine and Miss Hamilton s. 
 She says Callahan attacked her. Maybe he did ; I 
 did n t see it. She d fought him off and closed the 
 door, most likely. For when I got there the door 
 was closed and Callahan was on the gallery. I 
 downed him, thinking he was Denver, who d been 
 deviling the girl." 
 
 Since he had seen the handkerchief on the ground 
 and had observed Lattimer s eagerness to conceal 
 it, he was positive that Josephine had brought Art- 
 well here; was convinced that both Artwell and 
 Denver were in the house and that one or both of 
 them had been watching him. 
 
 Brannon told the lie with a steadiness quite as 
 convincing as that with which he had confronted 
 the Star outfit. Knowing Brannon was lying, 
 something was added to Lattimer s grim respect 
 for the man s iron-like imperturbability. 
 
 Brannon was aware that Lattimer knew he was 
 lying, for by this time Les Artwell must have given 
 the other some inkling of what had happened. 
 Also the fact that Denver s horse was in the corral, 
 the presence of the handkerchief on the ground un 
 der Lattimer s foot, together with Lattimer s obvious 
 determination to keep secret Josephine Hamil-
 
 190 WEST! 
 
 ton s visit, indicated knowledge that was almost 
 complete, with the possible exception of a few un 
 important details. 
 
 While there had never been any sort of a friend 
 ship between Brannon and Lattimer nor any pre 
 tense of cordiality, there had been in the hearts of 
 both of them a sober respect for the manly quali 
 ties each had exhibited. This respect on Brannon s 
 part was founded upon his unerring estimate of 
 Lattimer s rugged, aggressive manhood, instinc 
 tively determined by his steady, probing gaze into 
 the other s eyes. He never had liked Lattimer 
 and he knew something of the man s way with 
 women, yet he knew Lattimer could be a steadfast, 
 loyal friend or a royal enemy. 
 
 Lattimer had formed his estimate of Brannon 
 in much the same manner. Confronting Brannon 
 at this minute, Lattimer knew that his verbal fencing 
 meant merely that though Brannon, was suspicious 
 perhaps entirely convinced he meant to defer action 
 until he obtained complete, damning evidence. 
 
 Malicious amusement was Lattimer s present 
 emotion. 
 
 "Cole Meeder was telling me both stories, "he 
 said. "I was believing the one Meeder said Miss 
 Hamilton told. Tim being shot in the back sort of 
 indicated you had to shoot mighty quick which 
 you d do if he was doing what Miss Hamilton said 
 he was doing."
 
 WEST! 191 
 
 Brannon s face betrayed no emotion Lt the 
 other s subtle slur. 
 
 "If I remember, I was telling you I thought 
 Callahan was Denver," he said. "I wasn t figur 
 ing to waste any time on that polecat." 
 
 Casually, it seemed, with no hint of an ulterior 
 purpose in his eye, he glanced toward the corral; 
 his gaze seeming to center upon Denver s horse. 
 
 Lattimer s gaze involuntarily followed Brannon s. 
 A dark flush stained Lattimer s neck and cheeks; 
 but when he shot a furtive glance at Brannon the 
 other seemed not to have noticed; did not even 
 look toward him. Yet now Lattimer had recov 
 ered his self-possession. 
 
 "Denver, eh?" he said, smoothly. "If you d 
 look right close you d see Denver s horse in my 
 corral. That roan, with the black fetlocks. Den 
 ver drifted this way early yesterday morning. 
 Said he was heading west, thinking of Laskar. 
 I traded him a black outlaw horse for the roan. 
 I was sort of suprised at him leaving the Triangle 
 L, but did n t ask any question. It s mighty 
 plain now. So you had trouble with him?" 
 
 "Shucks!" Brannon s smile was coldly con 
 temptuous. "A man don t have trouble with a 
 hombre like Denver; he just takes his gun away 
 and turns him loose. Denver s brain is n t very 
 active, Lattimer; he s got to be told a thing straight, 
 so he won t misunderstand. If he was broad-gage,
 
 192 WEST ! 
 
 like you, Lattimer, I would n t have had to be so 
 sudden with him." 
 
 He turned now and looked at Lattimer. For an 
 instant Lattimer s eyes chilled as when he had 
 looked at Les Artwell and Denver inside the house. 
 They then took on a coldly appreciative glint, oddly 
 mingled with a bold, reckless humor. 
 
 Brannon dropped the reins of the Lazy L horse, 
 wheeled his own animal, and rode away northward, 
 omitting the customary parting word, "So-long," 
 leaving Lattimer to stare after him with a full 
 consciousness of the sinister, subtle threat that had 
 been concealed by his reference to "broad-gage" 
 men.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ALTHOUGH Betty had tried her best to main 
 tain her usual friendly concern for Josephine 
 the night before, after she had talked with Brannon 
 near Brannon s cabin, Josephine had detected the 
 constraint in Betty s manner. It had been the first 
 time since Josephine had been a guest at the Triangle 
 L that Betty had not accompanied her to her room, 
 to sit on the bed for a few minutes exchanging 
 feminine confidences. 
 
 However, Josephine had seen nothing significant 
 in Betty s omission of the nightly communion, until, 
 riding toward the Whitman cabin this morning, 
 she began to seek justification for her action in tak 
 ing Artwell to Lattimer s place. Her mind, in 
 voluntarily groping for some excuse, seized upon 
 the memory of Betty s perplexed expression during 
 the interval between supper and Betty s rather stiffly 
 formal good-night, and magnified it into distrust. 
 
 Resentment quickly followed; and Josephine s 
 cheeks burned. Why, Betty s manner of last night, 
 her neglect, her constraint, and her perplexity con 
 stituted an affront. It was very plain to Josephine 
 that Betty had not believed her story of the killing 
 of Callahan! 
 
 193
 
 194 WEST! 
 
 Josephine s indignation was righteous until she 
 remembered that she had lied about claiming to 
 have seen Brannon shoot the Star owner, and in 
 asserting that Callahan had attacked her. Then 
 Josephine s cheeks again grew hot. 
 
 She remembered, though, that when she had told 
 Betty that she and Brannon had been alone at 
 the ranch-house during the night, Betty had looked 
 sharply at her, and that later Betty had talked 
 with Brannon while Brannon was unloading the 
 buckboard; that still later, Betty had gone to 
 Brannon s cabin. Josephine had watched her, and 
 she now remembered that Betty s coolness to 
 ward her began when she returned from Brannon s 
 cabin. 
 
 Was it possible Betty thought there was some 
 thing reprehensible in the fact that she had been 
 alone with Brannon during the night? Did Betty 
 suspect she had not told the truth about the killing 
 of Callahan ; and had Brannon told the truth, thus 
 convicting her of a rather grotesque falsehood? 
 
 She believed Brannon had done just that; and 
 therefore her attempt to justify his shooting of the 
 Star owner had made her appear ridiculous in 
 Betty s eyes. 
 
 Josephine s formidable chin grew more formid 
 able as she drew near the Whitman cabin. An 
 accession of stubbornness, following certain rebel-
 
 WEST! 195 
 
 lious impulses, brought a flash into her eyes and 
 made her lips set rigidly. 
 
 If Betty could think these things of her, if she 
 chose to accept Brannon s word against hers, it 
 seemed there was nothing to do but to pack her be 
 longings and return East. She could not endure 
 Betty s suspicion; she could not remain at the Tri 
 angle L and have her every action subjected to an 
 alysis, with the expectation that something clandes 
 tine would be discovered. That sort of thing would 
 be intolerable! 
 
 And vet she discovered that she was reluctant to 
 
 </ 
 
 leave. Subtle forces, which she was not as yet 
 prepared to describe which she could not have 
 described if she had tried were resisting her im 
 petuous decision. 
 
 The solemn grandeur of the country was begin 
 ning to cast its spell upon her. Insidious, subtle, 
 gradual, had come her realization of the beauty of 
 the virgin country, though perhaps she would not 
 have detected her enthralment had she not been 
 confronted with the possibility of leaving. 
 
 Yet, though she admired the country, her thoughts 
 were dwelling upon Lattimer; and she kept seeing 
 the man as he had stood before her with one hand 
 resting familiarly on her shoulder. 
 
 Against her will she had been impressed by 
 Brannon, realizing the intense vitality of him and 
 subconsciously sensing the appeal he had made to
 
 196 WEST! 
 
 all that was feminine in her. But the impression 
 Brannon had made upon her was not to be compared 
 with the lure of Lattimer. 
 
 Lattimer was bigger than Brannon. Brannon was 
 cold, unemotional, and of steel-like smoothness. 
 Lattimer was rugged, intensely human, volatile, 
 eager a slumbering firebrand of passion. He 
 was a danger to be dreaded, a mystery to be solved ; 
 and the very hazard of coming into contact with 
 him, in arousing him to a sense of her desirability, 
 was insinuatingly delightful. 
 
 So, without definitely understanding why, she 
 decided she could not leave, despite her resentment 
 of Betty s conduct towards her. 
 
 On her previous visit to the Whitman cabin she 
 had not encountered Ben Whitman; and when she 
 rode up to the gate of the little corral within a few 
 hundred yards of the cabin, she stared in amaze 
 ment at the lithe, clear-eyed young giant who 
 greeted her with : 
 
 "Good mawnin , ma am." 
 
 Betty had spoken of Mrs. Whitman s son, Ben; 
 and because Mrs. Whitman was small and slight 
 and delicate, Josephine had supposed her son to be 
 like her. 
 
 "Are you Mrs. Whitman s son? she asked. 
 
 "You ve hit it first pop, ma am," he drawled. 
 
 His voice was certainly not small or delicate. It 
 was deep, vibrant, and delightfully Southern, as
 
 WEST! 197 
 
 was his courtly, deferential bow as he smiled at her. 
 
 "I reckon you re Miss Hamilton, ma am," he 
 said she thought to cover her obvious embar 
 rassment. "You must be Miss Hamilton, of 
 course," he went on ; "because you re the only 
 stranger around hyeh just now. You ve come to 
 see mother, I reckon?" 
 
 He helped her from Chesterfield and preceded her 
 to the house; she walking behind him, observing 
 how supremely unconscious he seemed of her pres 
 ence. 
 
 At the door he halted, opened it for her. 
 
 "You 11 find mother in the sitting-room," he said 
 gently. "She 11 be mighty glad to see you, for 
 she s beeen talking about you ever since you were 
 hyeh before." He flashed a smile at her as she 
 entered. 
 
 Josephine had some difficulty in stating the object 
 of her errand. But once she began, the invalid s 
 obvious sympathy made the task an easy one. 
 
 Mrs. Whitman was sitting in a big chair, which 
 was padded with soft cushions and blankets ; and 
 her birdlike eyes, gleaming with kindness and in 
 terest, never wavered from Josephine s while the 
 latter talked. 
 
 "It s too bad about Les," she said when Joseph 
 ine finished. "Certainly I 11 tell Betty you were 
 hyeh all night. There 11 be no harm done. Les 
 is an odd boy," she went on. "He don t seem to
 
 198 WEST! 
 
 have any will-power whatever. He s always in 
 trouble. I reckon some folks are born that way, 
 though; which is no reason why the rest of us nor 
 mal folks should be hard on them." She smiled 
 at Josephine. "Just go to the door and call Ben, 
 won t you, my dear?" 
 
 The young giant came in silently in response to 
 Josephine s call; and at his mother s injunction to be 
 careful to tell any inquirers that Josephine had 
 stayed all night at the cabin he gravely said : 
 
 "I reckon I 11 be gettin the trappin s off her 
 hawss, then." 
 
 Evidently he did not intend to ask any questions, 
 for he turned to go. 
 
 Mrs. Whitman s voice halted him. 
 
 "Les is in trouble again." 
 
 "What s he been doin now?" 
 
 "Miss Hamilton found him in the Triangle 
 stable badly wounded. It was late last night. She 
 took him over to Lattimer s !" 
 
 "Lattimer s?" The giant s eyes glowed with a 
 deep fire. Under his intense gaze Josephine felt 
 uncomfortable; it was as though he was trying to 
 read her thoughts and was expecting to find them 
 shameful. When she looked straight at him, the 
 fire went out of his eyes ; his gaze became quizzical, 
 kindly. 
 
 "Why did you take him to Lattimer s, ma am?"
 
 WEST ! 199 
 
 "He asked to go there. Why do you ask? Is 
 there any reason why he should n t have gone 
 there?" 
 
 She caught the swift glance that passed between 
 Ben and his mother, but she could attach no signi 
 ficance to it because Ben s eyes had no expression, 
 and Mrs. Whitman s gaze was steady with seeming 
 indifference. 
 
 With Ben giving his silent attention, 
 Mrs. W T hitman related the story told by Josephine. 
 
 "I reckon you re right," said Ben; "Brannon 
 would swing him quicker than a wink if he knew 
 he was at Lattimer s. Brannon ain t to be mon 
 keyed -with!" His gaze was level. "You say you 
 saw Brannon shoot Callahan?" 
 
 "Yes." The blood mounted to her face. She 
 didn t want to lie in Mrs. Whitman s presence; but 
 she must not let them know that Brannon had 
 deliberately murdered Callahan, for since Lattimer 
 had told her there had been "bad blood" between 
 Brannon and Callahan a motive for the killing had 
 been established in her mind, and she was fearful 
 that if she did n t stick to her story the Star man 
 would exact vengeance from Brannon. And then 
 there was Lattimer s warning, to the effect that she 
 must not let anybody "wheedle" the truth out of 
 her. 
 
 "Callahan attacked you?" asked Ben.
 
 200 WEST ! 
 
 "I told you he did, Ben," mildly replied Mrs. 
 Whitman, speaking for Josephine. 
 
 Ben scratched his head. His eyes were 
 perplexed, troubled. "I can t get that through my 
 haid, seems like," he said, looking at Josephine; 
 "though of course if you say so it must be true." 
 He turned to the door. "I 11 be puttin your hawss 
 away," he finished, as he went out. 
 
 "Brannon s hard," said Josephine, ending a si 
 lence that followed Ben s exit. 
 
 "He can t be driven, my dear, if that is what you 
 mean," said Mrs. Whitman gently. "Several men 
 have tried it. Men like Brannon are a wonderful 
 help in a lawless country like this. Even the out 
 laws are careful not to antagonize him. They all 
 know him as a man who cannot be intimidated. 
 They know that when he gives his word he will keep 
 it, and that he never gives an inch after he makes 
 up his mind. But there s a sweet, gentle side to 
 him; and he is just and very honorable." 
 
 Mrs. Whitman s bright, kindly eyes seemed to 
 search the inner recesses of Josephine s mind; she 
 felt as though a powerful light was being turned 
 upon it. Whereat she blushed. 
 
 "You don t like Brannon, my dear?" 
 
 "No," said Josephine, shortly. "That is, I I 
 believe I respect him, of course. But he is ar 
 rogant, domineering," 
 
 Mrs. Whitman s smile was inscrutable. She did
 
 WEST! 201 
 
 not answer. She seemed to be listening for out 
 side sounds while watching Josephine. 
 
 "Some one is coming," she said, presently. "It 
 will be somebody from the Triangle L, my dear, 
 searching for you. 
 
 It was Betty. She came in, her face rather pale, 
 her hair wind-blown, her eyes and her rapid breath 
 ing betraying the excitemen-t she had been laboring 
 under. When she saw Josephine, who was facing 
 the door through which she had entered, she gasped, 
 placing her hands over her bosom and leaned weakly 
 against the door-jamb. 
 
 "Merciful heaven, Jo; but you did give me a 
 scare!" she cried. "What on earth made you do 
 it?" 
 
 Josephine had got to her feet. She had a feeling 
 that Betty s present concern was rather hypocritical 
 in view of her cold constraint of the preceding 
 night. And Josephine s resentment, carefully treas 
 ured during the ride from Lattimer s to the Whit 
 man cabin, was visible in the steady, slightly defiant 
 smile she gave Betty. 
 
 "I just wanted to ride, I suppose. Besides 
 Chong had n t returned, and I wanted to know how 
 Mrs. Whitman was getting along." 
 
 Betty tried hard to smile at Josephine s belligerent 
 tone, remembering the courtesy due her guest. 
 But Betty could not play the hypocrite, and the 
 smile was a failure.
 
 202 WEST ! 
 
 She felt it was a failure. And she knew she was 
 entitled to fair treatment, even if Jo was her guest. 
 In an attempt to suppress the indignation she felt, 
 she smiled brightly at Mrs. Whitman and expressed 
 sympathy for her illness. 
 
 Then she turned to Josephine. This time her 
 smile was gentle, inviting peace. 
 
 "You might have told me you were going, Jo," 
 she said. "I should n t have worried. Perhaps I 
 should have come with you. You were here all 
 night?" 
 
 Involuntarily she glanced at Mrs. Whitman as 
 though seeking confirmation of Josephine s rather 
 vicious affirmative nod. Josephine s cheeks paled 
 with anger, for she saw in Betty s glance at Mrs. 
 Whitman a suspicion that she was not telling the 
 truth. 
 
 "Betty, I hope you don t think I was roaming 
 about the country all night !" 
 
 "Why, Jo !" 
 
 Betty s cheeks grew crimson. Jo s determination 
 to quarrel was unmistakable, though the provocation 
 was not visible. Betty had known Jo possessed a 
 temper, but that she should suddenly become vindic 
 tive for apparently no reason at all indicated there 
 was a side of her character which had been kept 
 secret. 
 
 "Why, Jo!" she said; "what do you mean?" 
 
 "I think you know what I mean, Betty Lawson,"
 
 WEST ! 203 
 
 said Josephine, coldly; her resentment having 
 resolved itself into a determination to let Betty know 
 that she had noted her constraint of the preceding 
 night. 
 
 "You know exactly what I mean," she went on 
 spitefully. "Do you think I did not notice the look 
 you gave me when I told you about Brannon and 
 myself having been at the ranch-house all night 
 while Chong and Denver were away? Oh, don t 
 pretend, Betty! she scoffed at Betty s gasp of 
 astonishment. "You are jealous of any one who 
 speaks to Brannon ! You hardly looked at me last 
 night, after I told you what had happened; you 
 were n t even civil to me, your guest." 
 
 "Jo!" expostulated Betty vehemently, her face 
 aflame. 
 
 "I shall not go back to the ranch-house of 
 course," declared Josephine, her voice coldly scorn 
 ful. "I could never think of forcing myself upon 
 people who do not want me who are afraid I am 
 going to" 
 
 "Why, Jo" 
 
 "I assure you I do not want Brannon," said 
 Josephine, smiling vindictively at Betty s obvious 
 confusion a confusion, Josephine thought, brought 
 on by the knowledge that her secret was known to 
 the other. "Brannon is n t the kind of man I d 
 care to spend the remainder of my days with. 
 
 "But I saved him from Cole Meeder saved him
 
 204 WEST ! 
 
 for you. For I lied to Meeder; I lied to you; I 
 lied to Mrs. Whitman. You knew I lied to you, 
 Betty ; for you took the trouble to show me you did. 
 If I had n t lied, Cole Meeder and his men would 
 have hanged Brannon ! For Callahan did n t attack 
 me ! I was in the house when I heard the shot ; and 
 when I opened the door Callahan was lying dead on 
 the veranda. And Brannon was standing close to 
 him, a pistol in his hand !" 
 
 For an instant, as Betty covered her face with her 
 hands, Josephine regretted the tempestuous confes 
 sion. But a perverse impulse seemed to have seized 
 her, and she met Betty s agonized look with one of 
 cold indifference. 
 
 As Betty flung out of the door, Josephine took 
 one step after her ; then she stood rigid, pale, and 
 defiant, listening to drumming hoof-beats that 
 rapidly receded. 
 
 It was out, now; and no one had "wheedled" it 
 out of her. She had yielded to the passionate 
 resentment which had been growing upon her all 
 morning through the continued contemplation of the 
 fancied ill-treatment accorded her by Betty; but she 
 was certain she would have said nothing had she 
 not been half crazed by the nervous strain brought 
 on by the incident of the finding of Artwell and 
 the long night ride into the ghostly silence of the 
 big basin. 
 
 She never had acted that way before; she never
 
 WEST! 205 
 
 before had experienced the violent passions that had 
 seethed through her all morning. It seemed she had 
 changed overnight ; she felt that the veneer of 
 civilization had been stripped from her, revealing 
 her as a creature of primitive impulses, of atavic 
 urges. For an instant as she stood looking at the 
 closed door, she was in danger of succumbing to 
 hysteria; but she heard Mrs. Whitman s voice, calm, 
 gentle, soothing: 
 
 "Come here, my dear." 
 
 And then she was on her knees in front of the 
 invalid, her head in the other s lap. Mrs. Whit 
 man s hands, light, consoling, were smoothing her 
 hair; and the woman s voice was coming, calmly 
 as before: 
 
 "There, there, my dear. I understand I under 
 stand. It must have been a terrible trial to you, 
 and I don t wonder that you lost your self-control. 
 This is a grim, cruel country, my dear to those 
 who have ideals and the courage to fight for them."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 T N Lattimer s code of ethics it was no crime to 
 take what one wanted. And because he was a 
 supreme egotist he acknowledged no moral law 
 except that which governed his own desires. The 
 God men talked of he had not seen; and he would 
 have none of the doctrine that prohibits the taking 
 of life, even if that life belonged to a friend. He 
 was what Betty Lawson had termed him : "a. ruth 
 less, smiling devil." 
 
 He acknowledged a wholesome respect for 
 Brannon ; yet had not that respect been tinged with 
 fear he would have found some excuse to quarrel 
 with the man when the latter had visited him on 
 the morning Josephine Hamilton had brought Les 
 Artwell to his house. 
 
 Had Lattimer been a mere murderer he would 
 have permitted Denver to use the rifle he had picked 
 up when Brannon had halted his horse at the edge 
 of the Lazy L veranda that morning. But murder, 
 such as stabbing a man in the back or shooting him 
 without warning, never had been Lattimer s method. 
 If he sought a man s life he gave him what must 
 seem to the other an even chance, though in reality 
 the victim would have no chance at all. 
 
 206
 
 WEST ! 207 
 
 In the case of Brannon, a satanic impulse to play 
 with the man had been the influence which 
 had impelled him to warn Denver not to use the 
 rifle. 
 
 The incident of the killing of Callahan had 
 provided Lattimer with an opportunity to dispose of 
 Brannon without bringing upon himself or his men 
 the burden of blame; and the discovery that 
 Josephine had lied to save Brannon would simplify 
 his plans. 
 
 He wanted Josephine; he meant to have her. 
 From the day he had heard from Denver how the 
 girl had frustrated Brannon s plan to hang Les 
 Artwell, he had admired her spirit. When he had 
 carried her from the spot where she had fainted 
 after bringing Les Artwell almost to the door of his 
 house, the passion she had aroused in him had been 
 deeper and more violent than he had felt for any 
 woman. While talking with her on the veranda 
 he had sternly repressed his passions, lest she feel 
 them and become frightened. But his determina 
 tion to have her was as deep as ever. 
 
 After Brannon rode away, Lattimer picked up 
 Josephine s handkerchief, brushed the dirt from it, 
 smoothed it out on his knee, and gazed speculatively 
 at it. 
 
 He decided Brannon had not seen it, and yet a 
 doubt assailed him. Brannon was a man who kept 
 his emotions to himself; he was crafty, subtle,
 
 208 WEST! 
 
 keen-witted, and his veiled warning upon leaving 
 indicated that he considered his suspicions well 
 founded. Did Brannon know that Josephine had 
 visited the Lazy L? Had he been referring to the 
 girl when he had asked if Lattimer had seen "a 
 rider with two saddles pass this way?" 
 
 If Brannon did know the girl had visited the 
 Lazy L, his knowledge would make the game more 
 interesting for Lattimer; it would make Lattimer s 
 ultimate triumph more complete, for he would 
 have the satisfaction of beating Brannon in spite 
 of the latter s knowledge. 
 
 There was no occasion for haste in the prose 
 cution of his plan to dispose of Brannon. Know 
 ing, through Les Artwell s story and through his 
 questioning of Josephine, that Brannon did not kill 
 Callahan, Lattimer was aware that Brannon felt 
 he was doing the girl a service in taking the blame 
 for the shooting. And of course he would not as 
 sume responsibility for the deed if he knew that Les 
 Artwell had been near the Triangle L that night. 
 Being ignorant of Artwell s part in the affair, and 
 desiring to shield Josephine, Brannon would take 
 no offensive action conceding he knew of Jose 
 phine s visit to the Lazy L until he was certain 
 the girl would not be involved. 
 
 There were faults in Lattimer s reasoning, and 
 he was aware of some of them; yet the outstand 
 ing fact was that Brannon had merely warned him
 
 WEST ! 209 
 
 when if he had positive evidence, or even a strong 
 suspicion, he would have acted instantly. 
 
 At noon of the day following Brannon s visit, 
 Lattimer rode up to the gate of the Whitman horse 
 corral and dismounted. He looked around for Ben, 
 but the latter was not visible, and Lattimer walked 
 to the house, entering after his heavy knocking 
 at the door brought a hospitable "Come in!" from 
 Mrs. Whitman. 
 
 The invalid s welcoming smile was faint. In the 
 bright eyes was a hint of perturbation, of anxiety. 
 
 "Sit down, John," she said. And then, before 
 Lattimer could settle firmly into the chair, she asked 
 eagerly, anxiously: 
 
 "John, have you had a doctor for Les?" 
 
 "He is n t hurt much, Mother Whitman," con 
 soled Lattimer. "Not bad enough to have a doctor. 
 He s just weak ; he s lost a lot of blood." 
 
 "Oh, my!" she sighed, "Why can t Les be dif 
 ferent? Why don t you talk to him, John?" 
 
 Lattimer flushed under the deep appeal of her 
 voice. 
 
 "I ve talked, Mother Whitman. It does n t seem 
 to do any good. Les is headstrong." 
 
 Mrs. Whitman folded her hands resignedly. "I 
 wonder which of my two afflictions will take me," 
 she smiled; "Les, or this?" she turned the palms of 
 her emaciated hands upward, with a gesture of 
 mute hoplessness.
 
 210 WEST! 
 
 "I don t remember having sinned enough to de 
 serve either affliction," she said. "Though I pre 
 sume God knows why I am selected. My first 
 husband was just like Les." She blushed. "But 
 of course you know that; your father must have 
 told you about him; your father knew him before 
 I married him. 
 
 "Les always was headstrong," she went on. "He 
 would n t mind. He got worse after his father 
 died and I married Mr. Whitman. And he always 
 seemed to resent Ben. I Ve thought I made a mis 
 take in marrying again ; but Ben never crossed Les ; 
 he always let Les have his own way and was 
 very kind to him. But Les always was vindictive; 
 and he left home before we came here." 
 
 "And never hinted to anybody about you 
 being his mother," said Lattimer. "He s a strange 
 boy." 
 
 "That was because he resents Ben," said Mrs. 
 Whitman. "I believe I would have been more satis 
 fied if he had n t come here at all," she went on, 
 "for then I would n t know of the things he has 
 done. "John," she added in a low, apprehensive 
 voice, "did Les kill Tim Callahan?" 
 
 "I m afraid he did, Mother," reluctantly an 
 swered Lattimer. 
 
 Mrs. Whitman drew her breath sharply, but the 
 only evidence of emotion that was visible to Latti 
 mer was in her birdlike eyes, which were shining
 
 WEST! 2ii 
 
 through a mist of tears that the man knew would 
 not be shed. 
 
 "How do you know, John?" 
 
 "He told me." 
 
 Mrs. Whitman shuddered. She leaned forward, 
 whispering, the material instinct to provide protec 
 tion for her offspring seeking a way to save him 
 from the punishment that would inevitably follow 
 if his guilt became known. 
 
 "John," she said, "does Brannon know?" 
 
 Lattimer shook his head negatively, though not 
 with conviction. 
 
 "Are you sure?" she persisted. "You can t tell 
 about Brannon ; he is so silent, so deep, so clever at 
 anticipating the actions of others." 
 
 "I reckon Brannon don t know," said Lattimer. 
 "I m intending to keep him from knowing until 
 I get Les well and get him out of the country. I 
 rode over to tell you about Les, thinking that Hamil 
 ton girl would n t get it straight. I want to get 
 word to her some way that you want her to come 
 and nurse Les. I d go myself, but I m afraid 
 Betty Lawson would suspect something. Have 
 Ben ride over to the Triangle L and tell the Hamil 
 ton girl you want her for company for a few days. 
 Then she can sneak over to my place and take 
 care of Les." 
 
 "Miss Hamilton is staying here now, John," said 
 Mrs. Whitman. "She and Betty quarreled." Her
 
 212 WEST! 
 
 keen eyes, were fixed steadily upon Lattimer s, and 
 she saw the deep exultant gleam- that came into them. 
 
 But Lattimer s voice was low, even. "What did 
 they quarrel about?" 
 
 "Miss Hamilton was not quite herself. She felt 
 offended because she thought Betty doubted the 
 story she told about shooting Callahan. She ad 
 mitted she had lied; she said Brannon killed Calla 
 han without her knowledge." 
 
 Lattimer frowned; then he smiled. If Betty told 
 Brannon about Josephine s charge, Brannon would 
 hear no more than he already knew. But if the 
 story got to Cole Meeder s ears before Lattimer 
 was ready, Lattimer could not be sure that Jose 
 phine would not deny the confession in order to 
 keep Meeder from hanging Brannon. 
 
 "Miss Hamilton does n t know who killed Calla 
 han," said Mrs. Whitman. "I knew, the instant 
 I heard about it, that she did n t do it. I think she 
 sincerely believes Brannon did it. But I I knew, 
 John. Just as soon as Miss Hamilton told me 
 about finding Les in the Triangle L stable, I knew 
 Les was the the murderer. But I could n t let 
 Betty know." 
 
 "Let Miss Hamilton go on thinking Brannon 
 did it," said Lattimer. "If she finds out Les 
 did it she ll blurt it out some day; she s that 
 kind." 
 
 Lattimer got up. He succeeded in making the
 
 WEST! 213 
 
 gravity of his expression impressive, so that Mrs. 
 Whitman, watching him, drew her breath tremu 
 lously. 
 
 "What is it, John?" 
 
 "I reckon I 11 have to get back to the ranch. 
 Les is alone. He 11 need care, if he s to pull 
 through. Where s Ben?" 
 
 "He went down the river. To Boskin s ford. 
 He s thinking of driving some cattle over to-mor 
 row." 
 
 "Where is Miss Hamilton?" 
 
 "She went with Ben, John." Noting the quick 
 fire that smoldered in Lattimer s eyes, she added : 
 "She did n t want to leave me, but she looked so 
 pale and tired this morning that I thought the 
 ride would do her good." 
 
 "Just as well she ain t here, maybe," said Lattimer, 
 "It would n t look right for me to ask her ; but 
 Les has sure got to have a woman s care. We 
 can t get Betty Lawson; there s no other woman 
 in the basin, except you. And you can t go. The 
 women in Willets won t do. I reckon it s got to 
 be Miss Hamilton. 
 
 "Maybe she won t want to come. It 11 be your 
 job to make her see that she ought to come. She 
 pities Les thinks he is being persecuted. Make 
 her come, even if you have to tell her the truth 
 that Les is your son. That 11 bring her," he added, 
 smiling grimly. "If it does n t, you might remind
 
 2i 4 WEST! 
 
 her that you lied to Betty about where she spent 
 the biggest part of a night!" 
 
 "Lattimer!" 
 
 The passionate reproach in Mrs. Whitman s voice 
 and eyes brought a deep color to the man s cheeks. 
 
 "That s all right," he said soothingly; "I just 
 wanted to impress upon you how badly Les needs 
 her." 
 
 He halted in the doorway and looked back as 
 though he had suddenly thought of something more. 
 
 "Have Miss Hamilton come over to-night," he 
 said; "I 11 be waiting for her."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 JOSEPHINE HAMILTON was able to look back 
 upon her week s stay at the Lattimer ranch with 
 a rather amused complacency. 
 
 In the first place, the startling unconventionality 
 of her action in coming had not seemed so much 
 of a violation of the proprieties after all, because a 
 life had been in jeopardy. Besides, her presence at 
 the Lattimer ranch was known only to those most 
 interested, and would never be known to the out 
 side world. Even Betty would be kept in ignorance. 
 
 But Mrs. Whitman had been compelled to use 
 her final argument in an effort to induce Josephine 
 to come, that of confessing to the girl that Les 
 Artwell was her son. Incidentally the confession 
 had explained to Josephine the reason for Lattimer s 
 positive assurance that Mrs. Whitman would lie for 
 Les Artwell. 
 
 Artwell was getting better. His improvement had 
 not been rapid, but he was growing undeniably 
 stronger, and his cheeks were revealing signs of 
 restored circulation. And Josephine s sympathies 
 were more firmly established than ever. 
 
 Lattimer had ridden away a short time before; 
 215
 
 2i6 WEST! 
 
 and Josephine was sitting in a rocker on the ve 
 randa, thinking of him. 
 
 The night was much like another that she would 
 always remember the night Tim Callahan had been 
 shot to death. A big moon, minus a quarter, was 
 streaming its mellow flood into the big basin, dis 
 closing the farther reaches of the slumberous green 
 bowl, touching hilltops with a luminous splendor, 
 filling the valleys and draws with mystery. 
 
 Lattimer had treated her fairly and honorably. 
 He had not forced himself upon her; he had per 
 mitted her as much privacy as she desired. 
 
 To be sure, she had noticed that at times he 
 seemed to be watching her speculatively, with an 
 expression that could not be mistaken. But she 
 was not a prude, and she realized that Lattimer s 
 admiring glances were not more offensive than those 
 she had received from other men in an environment 
 which was supposed to produce gentlemen. 
 
 Also, being a woman, Josephine was not averse 
 to being admired. She had a subconscious impres 
 sion that it was nature s scheme to make women so 
 that they would be admired of men, and she would 
 have been disappointed to find that her charms were 
 negligible. 
 
 Lattimer s evident ability sternly to repress his 
 passions gave her confidence in him. Passion for 
 her was in his heart, she knew; and though the 
 knowledge was strangely satisfying to her, she was
 
 WEST! 217 
 
 afraid of it because it was a new emotion to her, 
 and she did n t know enough of the passions of men 
 to be able to determine just how far she could per 
 mit them to go and still be able gracefully to 
 retreat. 
 
 Her impulses were not those of the coquette. 
 Had she been inclined to flirt with Lattimer her 
 course would have been simple. She was serious ; 
 she earnestly tried to analyze her feelings toward 
 the man; and she did not intend to permit herself 
 to surrender her independence in the slightest degree 
 until she was convinced of Lattimer s entire worthi 
 ness and of her own intentions. 
 
 But she knew that during the week the man s in 
 tense magnetism had gripped her, had made a power 
 ful appeal to her imagination. Several times while 
 going about her tasks she had caught herself men 
 tally dramatizing the moment of her surrender to 
 him; and during his absence from the ranch-house 
 she could always see him. At such times, realiz 
 ing that the moment of surrender might come, she 
 was afraid of herself. 
 
 She thought she knew why Lattimer intrigued 
 her interest. It was because he was different from 
 the men she had been accustomed to seeing in the 
 East. It was because, having passed her days in 
 the society of people of refinement, she craved a 
 change. She felt that she must always have had 
 a subconscious admiration for the primitive; that
 
 218 WEST! 
 
 the repression that had governed the actions of all 
 the people of her acquaintance merely masked their 
 natural impulses toward reversion to type. 
 
 Eastern men were undoubtedly just as manly as 
 the Western males she had met. The difference 
 was that the Western male, not having had some of 
 the advantages of civilization, was more direct of 
 speech, more natural than his Eastern brother. 
 
 She was beginning to feel that at heart she was 
 Western. In the life she had known something 
 had been lacking. She had always felt an urge to 
 be an individual quite apart from others ; she had 
 wanted to do things in an original way, to follow her 
 own impulses, to be a force in life. She was half 
 convinced her action in arbitrarily insisting that 
 Brannon yield to her wishes in their several clashes 
 was a manifestation of dormant capacity to rule. 
 
 She believed that was why she liked Lattimer. 
 He typified her conception of the ideal man big, 
 handsome, vital, electric, vibrant with power and 
 force, elemental in thought and action, dominant and 
 individualistic. 
 
 At first she had thought Brannon was the ideal 
 man. She saw her mistake now. And that was 
 why her subconscious mind had fought against 
 yielding to the lure of him. Brannon was n t the 
 man. He was too self-confident, too inflexible, too 
 irritatingly conscious of his ability to rule. 
 
 She believed she felt a vindictive delight in op-
 
 WEST! 219 
 
 posing him; certainly in her heart at this instant 
 was a grim satisfaction over the knowledge that, 
 until now, at least, she had kept him from hanging 
 Les Artwell. 
 
 She was no longer mystified over her action in 
 defying Betty Lawson. She felt that the sudden 
 accession of passion which had driven her to the 
 break with her friend had been merely an involun 
 tary demonstration of a new independence of 
 thought. She had discovered the primitive in her 
 character, the elemental instinct to fight to defend 
 herself from aggression. The old inclination to 
 depend upon custom and convention had gone : 
 it had been succeeded by a consciousness of power, 
 by a satisfying confidence in her ability to achieve 
 her own destiny. She was an integral part of the 
 country she thought she had feared, but which she 
 really loved ; she was Western, in mind and heart.
 
 222 WEST ! 
 
 "It s perfect," she returned. 
 
 "How is Les?" 
 
 "He is much better." 
 
 She had been wondering why he did not put the 
 horse away. She now looked sharply at him, and 
 for the first time became aware that he was changed 
 from the Lattimer she had grown to know. 
 
 He was watching her closely, and she saw that his 
 eyes were intent, cold, and a-gleam with a specula 
 tion that somehow impressed her as being sinister. 
 His lips were in straight, hard lines, with the merest 
 suggestion of a wanton, whimsical smile in the 
 corners. 
 
 She caught her breath sharply, her thoughts leap 
 ing instantly to Brannon and Artwell. Evidently 
 Lattimer divined her thoughts, for he stepped for 
 ward, placed both his hands on her shoulders ; and as 
 she got to her feet in response to the dread fear that 
 tugged at her, he leaned forward and looked into 
 her eyes, searchingly, speculatively. 
 
 "How brave are you?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 She found no words with which to answer. The 
 intensity of his gaze, the surprising suddenness of 
 the question, brought on mental incoherence. 
 
 "Brave enough to play the string out?" he asked. 
 "I reckon you know what has happened," he said, 
 laughing softly with mirth. "Brannon is suspicious. 
 I ve got a man in the Star outfit and one with the 
 Triangle L. There s a lot of mysterious talk go-
 
 WEST! 223 
 
 ing around. We ve got to get Artwell away from 
 here before Brannon s suspicions become too 
 strong." She felt his fingers tighten on her 
 shoulders. "Are you brave enough to go with 
 Artwell and me to a place where Artwell will be 
 safe?" 
 
 She nodded affirmatively without any definite idea 
 of what would be required of her. She understood 
 that Artwell was in danger, and in this crisis she 
 was conscious only of a savagely intense desire a 
 determination to save him. 
 
 She felt the muscles of Lattimer s arm stiffen; 
 he drew a deep breath; his eyes gleamed brightly in 
 the clear moonlight. 
 
 "Good !" he said, his voice carrying an exultant 
 note: "I ll get things ready." 
 
 He gripped her shoulders tightly, though she 
 somehow got the impression that the grip was meant 
 as a caress. Vaguely disturbed, suddenly disquieted 
 by his evident haste, she asked haltingly as he 
 dropped his hands from her shoulders : 
 
 "Do do you mean that you are going now 
 right away?" 
 
 "As soon as I can get horses ready." He was 
 about to step down from the veranda but at her 
 question he halted and looked back at her. 
 
 "You re staying game, aren t you?" he said, 
 grimly bantering her. 
 
 "Of course. But where are we going?"
 
 222 WEST! 
 
 "It s perfect," she returned. 
 
 "How is Les?" 
 
 "He is much better." 
 
 She had been wondering why he did not put the 
 horse away. She now looked sharply at him, and 
 for the first time became aware that he was changed 
 from the Lattimer she had grown to know. 
 
 He was watching her closely, and she saw that his 
 eyes were intent, cold, and a-gleam with a specula 
 tion that somehow impressed her as being sinister. 
 His lips were in straight, hard lines, with the merest 
 suggestion of a wanton, whimsical smile in the 
 corners. 
 
 She caught her breath sharply, her thoughts leap 
 ing instantly to Brannon and Artwell. Evidently 
 Lattimer divined her thoughts, for he stepped for 
 ward, placed both his hands on her shoulders ; and as 
 she got to her feet in response to the dread fear that 
 tugged at her, he leaned forward and looked into 
 her eyes, searchingly, speculatively. 
 
 "How brave are you?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 She found no words with which to answer. The 
 intensity of his gaze, the surprising suddenness of 
 the question, brought on mental incoherence. 
 
 "Brave enough to play the string out?" he asked. 
 "I reckon you know what has happened," he said, 
 laughing softly with mirth. "Brannon is suspicious. 
 I ve got a man in the Star outfit and one with the 
 Triangle L. There s a lot of mysterious talk go-
 
 WEST ! 223 
 
 ing around. We ve got to get Artwell away from 
 here before Brannon s suspicions become too 
 strong." She felt his fingers tighten on her 
 shoulders. "Are you brave enough to go with 
 Artwell and me to a place where Artwell will be 
 safe?" 
 
 She nodded affirmatively without any definite idea 
 of what would be required of her. She understood 
 that Artwell was in danger, and in this crisis she 
 was conscious only of a savagely intense desire a 
 determination to save him. 
 
 She felt the muscles of Lattimer s arm stiffen; 
 he drew a deep breath; his eyes gleamed brightly in 
 the clear moonlight. 
 
 "Good !" he said, his voice carrying an exultant 
 note: "I ll get things ready." 
 
 He gripped her shoulders tightly, though she 
 somehow got the impression that the grip was meant 
 as a caress. Vaguely disturbed, suddenly disquieted 
 by his evident haste, she asked haltingly as he 
 dropped his hands from her shoulders : 
 
 "Do do you mean that you are going now 
 right away?" 
 
 "As soon as I can get horses ready." He was 
 about to step down from the veranda but at her 
 question he halted and looked back at her. 
 
 "You re staying game, aren t you?" he said, 
 grimly bantering her. 
 
 "Of course. But where are we going?"
 
 224 WEST ! 
 
 "It 11 be Laskar, I reckon. You re not afraid, are 
 you?" 
 
 "No!" she declared, defiantly. "But Laskar is 
 far isn t it?" 
 
 "Fifty miles." 
 
 "Do you think Artwell can stand it?" 
 
 "He 11 have to. I reckon he d rather ride than 
 swing. You go in and ask him while I get the 
 horses ready. Mine s done ; I 11 have to get a 
 fresh one." 
 
 "Why," she said, "do you mean that Brannon 
 that some one has been after you? 
 
 "Not as bad as that," he laughed as he stepped to 
 the ground. "I ve just got wind that Brannon is 
 suspicious, and I m getting Artwell away in time. 
 Don t get excited. We 11 take our time and be 
 in Laskar by sun-up, all regular and safe. We 11 
 turn Artwell over to some friends of his there, and 
 you can go back to Whitman s." 
 
 Reassured by his voice, which she thought held 
 a note of humorous tolerance for her fears, she went 
 in to Artwell. 
 
 Artwell was asleep, and when she awakened him 
 to tell him what impended, he sat up, pale of face 
 and visibly fearful. For the first time the girl got a 
 glimpse of the man s real character; she saw the 
 serpent malignity of his soul lying naked in his 
 eyes, and she shudderingly turned away. 
 
 "You won t go back on me, now, ma am ?"
 
 WEST! 225 
 
 He had grasped one of her hands and was gripping 
 it tightly. "I m in pretty bad shape, ma am. But 
 that would n t make any difference to Brannon. 
 He d swing me, anyway. But he won t, if you re 
 with me." 
 
 "Brannon won t hang you if I can prevent it," 
 she told Artwell. 
 
 When she went out of the room to get her be 
 longings together, Artwell was getting up, mutter 
 ing in a hoarse undertone something about Brannon, 
 the Triangle L, Callahan, and Cole Meeder. 
 
 By the time she had got her things into a slicker 
 that Mrs. Whitman had given her when she had rid 
 den to the Lazy L to nurse Artwell back to health 
 various articles of wearing-apparel that Ben Whit 
 man had brought over from the Triangle L at her 
 request Artwell had got his clothes on and was 
 standing in the outside doorway. He was a pallid, 
 sullen ghost of his former self, and a look into his 
 wildly staring eyes sent a shiver over her. But 
 when she saw him sway unsteadily and hang weakly 
 to one of the door-jambs she ran to him, remorseful, 
 pitying. He was only a boy, after all; Mrs. Whit 
 man s erring offspring, misguided, of course, and 
 sullenly defiant toward a world that had persecuted 
 him. No wonder he was resentful! 
 
 Lattimer had the horses ready. She held one 
 horse while Lattimer lifted Artwell into the saddle; 
 she was helped upon another horse by Lattimer
 
 226 
 
 WEST! 
 
 not Chesterfield, for she had sent him home by Ben 
 Whitman and when Lattimer himself climbed on 
 his mount the three rode around a corner of the 
 ranch-house and headed into the moon haze south 
 ward.
 
 AFTER his talk with Lattimer at the Lazy L 
 ranch-house Brannon had headed the black 
 horse toward the Whitman cabin. But he did not 
 stop at the cabin. He had intended to stop, but 
 when he reached a timber clump that surrounded the 
 level near the Whitman buildings, he halted the 
 black and sat motionless in the saddle, to gaze saturn- 
 inely at Chesterfield, who was being turned into the 
 horse corral by Ben Whitman. 
 
 There could be no doubt now concerning the 
 ownership of the woman s handkerchief that Latti 
 mer had covered with his boot while he had been 
 talking. Josephine had helped Les Artwell to get 
 to Lattimer s ranch, had dropped her handkerchief 
 at the edge of the veranda and had then ridden 
 to the Whitman cabin. 
 
 That Ben Whitman was just caring for her horse 
 indicated that she had only recently arrived; and 
 when Brannon saw a saddle hanging on the top 
 rail of the corral fence a saddle which he recog 
 nized as belonging to the Triangle L he knew it 
 had just been removed from Chesterfield, for Ben 
 Whitman was notoriously particular, and would not 
 neglect it. 
 
 227
 
 228 WEST ! 
 
 Brannon scanned the corral and the level around 
 the cabin for sight of Betty s horse. Betty had 
 not yet come, it seemed, though she should have 
 reached the cabin long ago. But Betty, he re 
 flected, had been excited and anxious, and there was 
 a possibility that she had ridden miles out of her 
 way on a chance that Josephine had strayed from 
 the dim trail leading from the Triangle L to the 
 Whitman cabin. She would be beset with con 
 flicting impulses, and would yield to some of them. 
 
 A little later, still sitting quietly in the saddle, 
 Brannon smiled in self-vindication, for he saw a 
 dust-cloud sweeping toward the Whitman cabin 
 from the north, and ahead of the cloud was Betty. 
 She had been far off the trail. 
 
 Brannon waited. There was now no occasion 
 for him to make his presence known, and he in 
 tended to circle the cabin without letting himself 
 be seen. Later he would join the outfit. 
 
 He saw Betty ride up, dismount, wave a hand 
 at Ben Whitman and enter the cabin. He observed 
 that Ben Whitman made haste to get Chesterfield s 
 saddle out of sight which was a suspicious cir 
 cumstance that caused Brannon s brows to come to 
 gether in a puzzled frown. 
 
 Whitman s stealthy haste, together with Betty s 
 abrupt exit from the cabin within a very few min 
 utes after her entrance, coupled with the fact that 
 Betty was crying when she came out, were per-
 
 WEST ! 229 
 
 plexing incidents that caused Brannon to change his 
 mind about joining the outfit. 
 
 He saw Betty mount her horse and ride furiously 
 eastward toward the Triangle L ; he saw Ben Whit 
 man wag his head with an odd, negative motion at 
 the sight. But Chesterfield stayed in the corral. 
 
 Brannon made a wide circuit to avoid being seen 
 by Ben Whitman as he rode away. It took him 
 fully an hour to reach the Triangle L trail, but once 
 on it he made the black horse travel fast, so that in 
 slightly more than an hour and a half altogether 
 he was dismounting at the Triangle L corral gates. 
 Betty s horse was already in the corral, and Brannon 
 strode to the ranch-house, to pound heavily on the 
 front door that opened upon the veranda. 
 
 When Betty came toward him through the sub 
 dued light of the big room he saw that her eyes 
 were wet and her cheeks crimson; but he pretended 
 not to notice her agitation. He was also success 
 ful in veiling his curiosity. 
 
 "I ve looked around considerable, Betty," he said. 
 "If she rode south she did n t leave much evidence." 
 He thought of the handkerchief he had seen at Latti- 
 mer s. He did not intend to tell what he knew. 
 
 Brannon saw that Betty was in the grip of some 
 strong passion. It was scornful indignation or 
 bitter resentment; he could not tell which. 
 
 Betty s voice was cold and even.. "Miss Hamil 
 ton is visiting Mrs. Whitman, Brannon," she said.
 
 230 WEST ! 
 
 "I thought she would n t go very far," he re 
 turned. "She explained why she went away with 
 out saying anything to you, I reckon?" 
 
 "She said she was worried about Mrs. Whitman." 
 
 There was a chilling smile on Betty s lips and a 
 truculent set to her chin. Also, there was suspicion 
 in the steady eyes that were probing Brannon s 
 expression, that were studying him, trying to pene 
 trate the mask of unconcern with which he was con 
 cealing his curiosity. 
 
 "She rode back with you?" asked Brannon. 
 
 "I believe she intends to stay with Mrs. Whitman, 
 indefinitely," said Betty. 
 
 "Sort of a sudden decision, was n t it," smiled 
 Brannon. 
 
 Betty s lips became tightly set; her eyes flashed. 
 
 "Apparently," she said. 
 
 "She must have got plenty tired of us," suggested 
 Brannon. 
 
 "She was at the Whitman cabin all night, Bran 
 non," Betty flushed. "That was one thing we quar 
 reled about. Jo seemed to think I did n t believe 
 she had stayed there. But I did believe her, Bran 
 non; I was merely astonished for I thought if she 
 had known she intended to stay there, she might 
 have told me. Of course I knew she had been 
 somewhere all night, for her bed here had not been 
 slept in. Oh, without a doubt she was there all 
 night, Brannon; Mrs. Whitman corroborated her."
 
 WEST! 231 
 
 Brannon s face was expressionless, telling nothing 
 of his thoughts, which were concerned with his latest 
 evidence of a new link in the chain of mystery which 
 was enmeshing Josephine Hamilton. 
 
 Mrs. Whitman had lied to protect the girl; Ben 
 Whitman had been attempting to conceal the visible 
 evidence of her late arrival at the Whitman cabin; 
 and Lattimer had concealed her handkerchief with 
 his boot. Lattimer had also hidden the saddle that 
 had been on Billy when Artwell had ridden the horse 
 to Lattimer s ranch; and Denver s horse had been 
 in Lattimer s corral. 
 
 Brannon was convinced that Josephine had not 
 knowingly joined forces with Lattimer, Artwell, 
 and Denver. He thought she had merely co 
 operated with Lattimer and Artwell in order to 
 save Artwell s life through a mistaken conception 
 of justice and possibly because of a deliberate 
 determination to force her principles upon the 
 country. But how was he to interpret the attitude 
 of Ben and Mrs. Whitman? Were they, too, mem 
 bers of that organized band of thieves of 
 which according to the suspicion that had been 
 growing in his mind Satan Lattimer was the 
 head? 
 
 Though he had respected Lattimer because of 
 certain qualities of rugged manhood, he never had 
 trusted the man; and beneath his cold civility 
 toward the other there always had been a lurking
 
 232 WEST ! 
 
 contempt, aroused over the stories that had been 
 told regarding Lattimer s way with women. 
 
 And just at this minute he was filled with con 
 cern for Josephine, though he gazed quizzically at 
 Betty. 
 
 "You say you quarreled with Miss Hamilton?" 
 he said. "Well" at her severely stiff nod that s 
 too bad!" 
 
 "Brannon," she said firmly, "you are at the bot 
 tom of this. There is something about the killing 
 of Tim Callahan that has n t been told something 
 that I believe both yau and Jo know ! When I 
 got back from Willets Jo told me you had shot 
 Callahan because he had attacked her. You re 
 fused to talk about it. This morning Jo declared 
 you shot Callahan without visible provocation, and 
 that she lied to Cole Meeder telling him the story 
 she told me, at first to keep Meeder and his men 
 from hanging you. I want to know the truth!" 
 
 "I reckon the lady would n t lie," said Brannon. 
 
 "Brannon, you did n t kill Tim Callahan. You 
 did n t ! You know you did n t ! And you know 
 who did. I want you to tell me! And I want 
 you to tell me exactly what happened the night I 
 was in Willets!" 
 
 Betty s faith in Brannon was great. She was 
 positive that Brannon had not committed the crime ; 
 and at this instant she was not so much concerned 
 over the discovery of the real murderer as she was
 
 WEST! 233 
 
 over the knowledge that she was outside of Bran- 
 non s intimate counsels; that he was deliberately 
 holding her off, keeping her in ignorance of the 
 secret that existed between himself and Josephine. 
 
 She was furiously angry with Brannon; she now 
 hated Josephine because Josephine had dared to 
 intimate that she was jealous of Brannon al 
 though she knew she was jealous, and that jealousy 
 was the force which agitated her at this instant. 
 She stood rigid, on the verge of tears because of 
 her conviction that Josephine did like Brannon 
 despite her denial; because she knew that Josephine 
 had liked Brannon from the beginning; because she 
 was convinced that Josephine could not help liking 
 him, as she herself liked him. 
 
 Had n t Jo questioned her about Brannon on the 
 day they had ridden together to Mrs. Whitman s? 
 Had n t Jo asked about Brannon s age ? And 
 had n t she commented upon Brannon s appearance, 
 remarking in this fashion : "It s the wind and the 
 sun that have made him look so bronzed and rough, 
 I suppose; and the hard life that has made his eyes 
 seem so so unflinchingly steady"? Wasn t that 
 evidence that Jo was interested in him ? And had n t 
 Jo told her that same day that she hated Brannon? 
 
 Perhaps Jo had thought then that she hated Br-an- 
 non; but her interest in him showed that she 
 really liked him. She had merely felt resentful 
 toward Brannon because she had been testing his
 
 234 WEST! 
 
 mental strength and had found it superior to her 
 own, and women who felt that way toward men in 
 the beginning always fell in love with them in the 
 end. 
 
 Jo s manner at the Whitman cabin that morning, 
 her unprovoked and vindictive attack, together 
 with Brannon s somewhat cynical demeanor when 
 ever Jo s name was mentioned in his presence, con 
 vinced Betty that Jo and Brannon had quarreled, 
 and that Jo s real reason for wanting to stay at 
 the Whitman cabin was that she wanted to be where 
 Brannon could not see her. And had n t Brannon 
 been reluctant to search for Jo this morning? He 
 had known all the time that Jo had left the Triangle 
 L, and he had permitted her to ride over there to be 
 insulted ! 
 
 She wanted Brannon for herself; she had always 
 wanted him. And now she was to lose him because 
 she had foolishly invited Jo out here. 
 
 Theirs was a lovers quarrel. They would feel 
 bitterly resentful toward each other for a few days; 
 but they would patch up their differences and be 
 more in love than ever. And she would lose 
 Brannon ! 
 
 She saw that Brannon did not mean to explain ; 
 would not answer her question. For she saw his 
 eyes glint with derision, as they always did when an 
 opposing force challenged him, or when a contrary 
 passion seized him.
 
 WEST! 235 
 
 "I m not doing any explaining now, Betty," he 
 said gently. 
 
 Taking Betty into his confidence might disrupt 
 his plans. At the least he would be compelled to 
 go into unpleasant detail, which would involve dis 
 closing his suspicions concerning Lattimer, Joseph 
 ine, Ben Whitman, and Mrs. Whitman. Although 
 he knew Betty was dependable, he could not afford 
 to risk having her speak an unguarded word that 
 would warn Lattimer, Ben Whitman, or any of 
 them. He was convinced that conceding Lattimer 
 were a member of a band of thieves there might 
 be men in the Triangle L outfit who would carry 
 tales to him. And with Betty and Josephine at 
 odds there was danger that in a moment of anger 
 Betty would say something that would give Joseph 
 ine a hint of his intentions. 
 
 At his refusal he saw Betty catch her breath. 
 Her face flamed ; then paled. She looked reproach 
 fully at him while one might have drawn a full, 
 deep breath; then her lips quavered, were caught 
 firmly between her teeth. 
 
 Then Brannon was alone on the veranda.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A WEEK S prowling around the open range had 
 added no shred of evidence that would help 
 to confirm Brannon s suspicions of Lattimer s 
 connection with the horse-thieves. Brannon had 
 spent one night with the Triangle L outfit on the 
 southern range; with a plausible excuse he had vis 
 ited other cow-camps ; and he had subtly questioned 
 stray riders he had met in the basin. But at the 
 end of the week he chanced upon a Star man over 
 near the eastern rim of the basin, who told him with 
 sinister truculence that Meeder was looking for him. 
 
 This word came to Brannon just at dusk, and be 
 fore midnight he had reached the Triangle L camp, 
 had routed Lin Murray out, and the two were riding 
 toward the Triangle L ranch-house. 
 
 They made a leisurely trip and got in at dawn, 
 to be t61d by Chong that Betty had driven to Willets 
 the day before and was not expected to return until 
 afternoon. 
 
 During Brannon s pilgrimages of the last week 
 he had observed that men who formerly had been 
 his friends had treated him with cold reserve. Not 
 one of them had been offensive, none had intimated 
 
 236
 
 WEST ! 237 
 
 by word or sign the reason for their coldness to 
 ward him; but he knew that word of the killing of 
 Callahan had gone abroad, and that his enemies 
 were pointing significantly that the Star owner had 
 been shot in the back. Even his friends must feel 
 the shame of the incident, since they could offer no 
 defense for him. 
 
 It had been the same wherever Brannon went; 
 and when the Star man had told him Cole Meeder 
 was looking for him he decided he had carried the 
 burden of blame for the killing of Callahan long 
 enough. 
 
 There was no reason why he should continue to 
 shield Josephine. He was certain she had not 
 killed Callahan; he was equally confident that Art- 
 well had killed him, and he meant to act. 
 
 He felt he could not delay an aggressive move 
 ment against Lattimer until he secured additional 
 evidence of the latter s complicity, for delay would 
 give Lattimer time to get acquainted with Josephine, 
 time to strengthen the insidious bond that was 
 already between them by reason of Josephine s 
 secret visit to the Lazy L. 
 
 Brannon had decided he could not hope to convict 
 Lattimer with the evidence he already had; but the 
 fact that Lattimer had taken Les Artwell in would 
 create in the minds of the cattle-men of the section 
 a suspicion of Lattimer s honesty which was certain 
 to result in increased watchfulness.
 
 238 WEST ! 
 
 However, the real reason behind Brannon s impa 
 tience to act was concern for Josephine. A stran 
 ger to the customs of a cruel, grim country, she 
 had been recklessly eager in her endeavor to force 
 upon the country certain principles she had brought 
 with her, and had been drawn into the company of 
 men whose influence would certainly destroy her. 
 He meant to save her from the folly of her own 
 unwise impulses. 
 
 He had brought Lin Murray in with him that the 
 latter might prepare the mess and bunk-houses for 
 the return of the outfit on the morrow; and when 
 he and Murray reached the ranch Murray dropped 
 wearily down upon a bench outside of one of the 
 bunk-houses. 
 
 "I m thinkin a heap of gettin some sleep before 
 I start hoein out," he said. 
 
 "All right, Murray," said Brannon. "I m tak 
 ing a look around." 
 
 Five minutes later Murray was in a bunk, snoring 
 peacefully. Brannon cared for Murray s horse, 
 riding his own and leading Murray s to the stable, 
 where he fed and watered them. Then he went to 
 his shack, cleaned and oiled his six-shooter, and 
 emerged from the doorway just in time to see Cole 
 Meeder and half a dozen Star men turn a corner 
 of the ranch-house and ride toward him at a slow 
 lope. 
 
 The Star men saw him instantly, and Meeder,
 
 WEST ! 239 
 
 riding slightly in advance of the others, quickened 
 the stride of his horse. 
 
 Brannon advanced to meet the men. They rode 
 up silently and surrounded him, sitting on their 
 horses, somberly watchful, their eyes alert and 
 coldly truculent. 
 
 Meeder dismounted and walked toward Brannon, 
 halting at a little distance, his eyes gleaming with 
 passion. His body was bent forward slightly from 
 the hips; his right arm was held out from his side, 
 the elbow significantly crooked; his left /hand was 
 clenched, his legs were a-sprawl. In his manner 
 was a threat of violence, imminent and deadly. 
 
 Brannon smiled steadily into the blazing eyes of 
 the other, paying no attention to the mounted men. 
 
 "Something bothering you, Meeder?" he said. 
 
 "You re damned right !" said Meeder, his voice 
 hoarse with passion. "We ve come to swing you, 
 Brannon!" He paused, tensed, straining, evidently 
 awaiting expecting a hostile movement. 
 
 None came. Brannon s gaze was unwavering. 
 
 "You re telling me what for, Meeder?" he ques 
 tioned, quietly. 
 
 "For killin Tim Callahan!" said Meeder explo 
 sively. "You ve been pretty slick, Brannon, gettin 
 that Hamilton girl to take the blame, an squirmin 
 out from under yourself. But we ve got you 
 now!" 
 
 Meeder laughed, harshly, derisively.
 
 240 WEST ! 
 
 "You was a fool to place any dependence on a 
 woman anyway, Brannon. I 11 tell you that before 
 we swing you. They ain t to be trusted. One day 
 they 11 think enough of a man -to lie to keep him 
 from swingin , an the next day they ll get stuck 
 on another man !" 
 
 "Meaning what, Meeder?" 
 
 "Shucks ! " scoffed Meeder. He leaned forward 
 and peered closely at Brannon. "Do yon mean to 
 tell me you don t know ?" he demanded. "I 11 
 swear you don t" he added, in huge astonishment. 
 
 "Well then, listen hard, Brannon! This will be 
 news to you. That Hamilton girl is livin with 
 Lattimer at the Lazy L. Been there a whole week 
 ever since the day after you downed Callahan! 
 That gets you eh, Steel ?" he jeered as he saw 
 Brannon s eyelashes flicker with the only emotion 
 he betrayed. 
 
 "It takes a heap to make Steel Brannon show hu 
 man; but that news done it!" 
 
 Brannon s emotion was not what Meeder thought 
 it was. To him, Meeder s news merely indicated 
 that Josephine had gone to Lattimer s house to 
 nurse Les Artwell. Artwell must have been badly 
 wounded. 
 
 "Who told you that, Meeder?" 
 
 "Lattimer," declared the other. "He come over 
 to the Star the day before yesterday. He s got 
 pretty confidential with Miss Hamilton, I reckon.
 
 WEST ! 241 
 
 Says he s goin to marry her, an that she s willin 
 to tell the truth about the killin of Callahan. 
 Accordin to Lattimer, she claims you- done the 
 shootin . Goes back on her other story complete. 
 Says she was in the house when the shot was fired, 
 and that when she come out Callahan was down an 
 you was standin there with a gun in your hand !" 
 
 He cast a significant glance at the sullen- faced 
 men surrounding himself and Brannon; he straight 
 ened, spoke shortly : 
 
 "I reckon that s enough for us, Brannon !" He 
 jerked a hand sharply toward one of the mounted 
 men, and the man dexterously began to uncoil a 
 rope that was looped at the saddle-horn. 
 
 Brannon was conscious of the danger that 
 confronted him. The Star men were convinced of 
 his guilt, and would certainly hang him if he could 
 not produce evidence of his innocence. 
 
 "I d deserve hanging if I had killed Tim, boys," 
 he said quietly. "And I don t mind telling you that 
 I lied about the shooting to protect Miss Hamilton. 
 I thought she did it; but I discovered later that Les 
 Artwell is the murderer." 
 
 Meeder laughed mockingly; the other men 
 sneered audibly. 
 
 "Sure," said Meeder; "Artwell done it. You 
 tried to swing him off; the girl wouldn t let you; 
 an now Artwell s come back, aimin to give you a 
 chance to do it over. You can t hand us any of
 
 242 WEST ! 
 
 that kind of ranikaboo, Brannon we won t swal 
 low it. Where s Artwell now?" he grinned. 
 
 "Miss Hamilton took him over to Lattimer s," 
 said Brannon. 
 
 Meeder started; peered intently at Brannon. 
 
 "How do you know that, Brannon?" he ques 
 tioned. 
 
 Brannon caught the interested note in the Star 
 foreman s voice. The peculiar eagerness of it in 
 dicated that Meeder had secretly been hoping- that 
 Brannon would be able to clear himself, although 
 through a sense of duty he would not have hes 
 itated to hang him. There had always been much 
 mutual respect between Meeder and Brannon. 
 
 "Evidence," said Brannon. With the men lis 
 tening attentively he related to Meeder how he had 
 found the Lazy L horse, saddled and bridled, stand 
 ing near the lean-to on the morning after Meeder s 
 previous visit to the Triangle L; how he had 
 searched the slicker, to find evidence that it belonged 
 to Artwell. He spoke of the crimson stains on the 
 straw in the stable, of the bloody finger-prints on 
 the stable door; of the missing Billy which he had 
 later discovered, saddleless, and of his seeing Den 
 ver s horse in the Lattimer corral, and of Lattimer s 
 action in covering the woman s handkerchief with 
 his boot. 
 
 "If you re in a hurry to swing me, you can start 
 right now, Meeder," he concluded. "But if you ve
 
 WEST! 243 
 
 got a couple of hours time that you might want to 
 squander finding the man who did shoot Callahan 
 in the back, you might take a look at the stable, and 
 then ride with me over to Lattimer s. We 11 find 
 Artwell there ; and maybe Billy s saddle." 
 
 Meeder s manner was that of grave uncertainty. 
 He cast a searching glance into the faces of the 
 mounted men surrounding him, seeming silently to 
 inquire of them their opinions regarding the strange 
 and unexpected development. Observing the bright 
 interest with which the men met his gaze, Meeder 
 said shortly : 
 
 "We re waitin , Brannon." 
 
 Watchful, alert, as though only partly convinced, 
 the riders followed Brannon to the stable, Meeder 
 leading his own animal and walking beside Brannon. 
 
 The men grouped themselves at the stable door 
 and examined the stains on the jamb; they followed 
 Brannon inside and stood silently inspecting the 
 straw where Artwell had lain. When they emerged 
 from the stable their swift glances into one another s 
 eyes betrayed their eagerness to accept, with some 
 reservations, the evidence of Artwell s presence in 
 the stable. 
 
 "Them spots show some one was layin in the 
 straw," said Meeder. "They show that some one 
 was hit bad. That s all right as far as it goes. I 
 reckon we 11 ride over to Lattimer s. We 11 trail 
 you, Brannon," he added significantly.
 
 244 WEST! 
 
 Without waking the sleeping Murray, without 
 even mentioning that the Triangle L puncher was in 
 the bunk-house, Brannon saddled and bridled the 
 black horse, mounted him, and rode southward, the 
 Star men trailing after him. 
 
 Meeder rode close behind Brannon, saying noth 
 ing. The riders behind Meeder muttered occasion 
 ally, though for the better part of the time there was 
 no sound except the steady, rapid drumming of 
 hoofs and the incessant creaking of saddle-leather. 
 
 The morning was still young when the cavalcade 
 halted near the Lazy L corral gates. In almost the 
 same formation that had marked their ride, the 
 men approached the Lattimer ranch-house. 
 
 There was no response to Brannon s call, or to 
 Meeder s peremptory summons. Then, impatiently 
 indicating that the Star men were to watch Brannon, 
 Meeder mounted the veranda and entered the house. 
 
 After an interval he emerged, grinning ironically, 
 He jerked out his six-shooter, covered Brannon, and 
 laughed harshly: 
 
 "Looks like Steel was just playin a little joke on 
 us, boys," he said. "Les Artwell ain t here; Miss 
 Hamilton ain t here ; Lattimer ain t here nobody s 
 here. I reckon they ve all gone away to Lattimer s 
 weddin !"
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 FROM the time the three left the Lazy L ranch- 
 house Les Artwell lagged behind. It was 
 evident he was not as strong as Josephine and 
 Lattimer thought him, for he rode holding hard to 
 the saddle-horn and swaying perilously. But he 
 was eager to get away, and had no complaints to 
 make when occasionally Josephine rode close to 
 speak to him. Lattimer seemed uninterested and 
 rode ahead, saying little. 
 
 Josephine rode forward afflicted with strange mis 
 givings. At the ranch-house it had seemed to be 
 a perfectly natural thing for her to agree to 
 accompany Lattimer and Artwell to Laskar; but 
 once she had actually started and was well into the 
 engulfing silence of the big basin, she began to 
 have grave doubts concerning the wisdom of making 
 the trip. The farther she drew away from the 
 ranch-house the more she doubted, until, after 
 several miles had been traveled, she became ner 
 vously apprehensive. 
 
 Still, as nothing happened, she rode on, at last 
 resolutely keeping her thoughts upon Artwell. She 
 
 245
 
 246 WEST ! 
 
 rode close to him, talking to him occasionally, ob 
 serving that he seemed to be growing weaker. 
 
 At first the horses had traveled over a big level, 
 which they took at a slow lope, swinging along with 
 the easy motion peculiar to the plains animal accus 
 tomed to long journeys and instinctively aware that 
 strength must be conserved ; then they swept around 
 the bases of some low hills and toiled tortuously to 
 the crest of a rocky acclivity which turned out to be 
 a narrow ridge whose farther slope took them into 
 a saccaton flat. 
 
 It was a broken section of country, and there 
 seemed to be no trail such as one might expect 
 to find leading to a town. But Lattimer seemed 
 to have no difficulty in going ahead, for he rode 
 steadily, looking back once in a while, apparently 
 to note the distance between himself and the others. 
 
 Josephine did not regret having helped Artwell, 
 but she began to wish that circumstances had not 
 conspired to have her on the train on the particular 
 day upon which she had met the man. In fact 
 she now looked wistfully backward over the elapsed 
 days, wondering why she had come to such a 
 rough, grim, cruel country at all! 
 
 Yet instantly she was remorseful, for it seemed 
 to her that her fortuitous presence on the train and 
 her subsequent activities on behalf of Les Artwell 
 had saved him from a fate which would have crushed 
 Mrs. Whitman.
 
 WEST ! 247 
 
 That thought stimulated her flagging courage. 
 Mrs. Whitman s pale, delicate face and quietly cou 
 rageous birdlike eyes were vivid in her mental 
 vision as she rode. 
 
 They got out of the saccaton flat and began 
 to ascend a slope. They went on for a long time, 
 Lattimer in the lead, riding slowly. Artwell trail 
 ing behind. Up, up, they rode, the floor of the 
 basin growing dim behind them. After a time they 
 reached a rock level which was little more than a 
 ledge. Here Lattimer brought his horse to a halt 
 and wheeled so that he faced the back trail. 
 
 Horse and man seemed to be of heroic size in 
 Josephine s vision as she urged her own animal 
 toward the ledge; and with the moonlight shining 
 fairly upon them and bringing into sharp relief 
 every detail of the wild background, there was 
 drawn, as with a stroke of a giant brush, a picture 
 which appealed to all that was primitive in the girl. 
 
 And yet, strangely, she was frightened. As her 
 horse clambered to the ledge and came to a halt, 
 grunting with relief, she saw that Lattimer was not 
 paying any attention to her. Nor did he even 
 glance at Artwell as the latter brought his horse to 
 a halt on the ledge and sat swaying wearily in the 
 saddle. 
 
 Lattimer s gaze was directed downward into the 
 basin. His face was expressionless, and it appeared 
 to Josephine that he had stopped here merely to
 
 248 WEST ! 
 
 breathe the horses. She urged her own animal close 
 to Artwell s and asked him how he was standing the 
 ride. 
 
 "All right," he answered thinly. Then he closed 
 his eyes and appeared to be resting, leaning against 
 the high pommel of the saddle. 
 
 Josephine wheeled her horse and looked out and 
 down. Instantly she was impressed with the sharp 
 ascent of the trail they had traveled; to her inex 
 perienced eye it seemed almost precipitous. 
 
 As a matter of fact they were half-way up a slope 
 that led to a mesa one of those levels that from 
 the veranda of the Triangle L ranch-house had 
 seemed to her like a narrow terrace. The slope 
 that formed the rim of the basin was still many 
 miles distant behind them. 
 
 And yet, gazing out and down, the floor of 
 the basin seemed dim and far to Josephine. In 
 the ghostly haze that swathed the big hollow, the 
 hills they had circled appeared to be merely insigni 
 ficant excrescences, slight corrugations upon a 
 level. The flats themselves were no more than 
 patches; dark where grass grew, a dull gray on the 
 barrens. 
 
 Remote, formless, were other salient features 
 of the valley; they were blots that seemed somberly 
 to lurk in the shadows of distances, their rugged 
 outlines softened by the moon radiance. The liquid 
 silver of a river caught her gaze; she followed its
 
 WEST ! 249 
 
 sinuous course eastward until it was lost to her 
 vision in the dim, wispy tracery of the trees. 
 
 She was so engrossed with the beauty of the 
 picture that a sound from Lattimer startled her. 
 She glanced quickly at him, to see that he was smil 
 ing contemptuously. The sound he had made had 
 been a sneer. 
 
 He was still gazing downward. And now, as 
 though aware that she had observed his interest, 
 he spoke shortly. 
 
 "Some one is trailing us. I aim to find out who 
 it is." 
 
 "Brannon?" she ejaculated apprehensively. 
 
 "I don t think it s Brannon," he said. "He s 
 too big for Brannon. He s been trailing us for 
 quite a while. I saw him when we crossed that 
 ridge down there." He pointed. 
 
 "What shall we do?" she inquired. 
 
 "We 11 wait here, I reckon," he said. "He s 
 coming." 
 
 Intently scrutinizing the back trail, Josephine was 
 at last able to distinguish a blot that seemed to be 
 moving steadily toward them. The blot was still 
 a little distance out into the basin and was moving 
 rapidly; and while she watched it she saw it reach 
 the bottom of the slope and begin to mount, now 
 coming forward with irregular movement. The 
 blot became a horse and rider. 
 
 They were half-way up the slope when Josephine
 
 250 WEST ! 
 
 detected something familiar in the outlines of the 
 man. 
 
 "It s Ben Whitman !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "You ve got mighty good eyes," said Lattimer. 
 "It s Whitman." 
 
 At the word, Artwell seemed to revive. 
 
 "Whitman!" he sneered. "What in hell s he 
 trailin us for ? He s always hornin" in, damn 
 him!" 
 
 Lattimer laughed. 
 
 "Your brotherly affection don t seem to run very 
 deep, Les," he said, sneeringly. 
 
 Artwell muttered unintelligibly, and again slumped 
 against the saddlehorn. This time his body was 
 inert, as though the effort of talking had overtaxed 
 him. 
 
 Staring affrightedly at him, Josephine saw him 
 topple and begin to pitch forward jerkily, as though 
 he realized he was going to fall and was exerting 
 his failing muscles to stay in the saddle. 
 
 She cried sharply to Lattimer, but he paid no at 
 tention, seeming to be intent upon watching Whit 
 man, who was now close and coming rapidly. 
 
 Seeing that Lattimer did not intend to help Art- 
 well Josephine slipped off her horse and ran to 
 him. She was too late, though, for just as "she 
 reached him he tumbled forward, clutched weakly at 
 the horse s neck, missed it, and fell heavily on his 
 right shoulder.
 
 WEST! 251 
 
 Josephine screamed. There was something ter 
 ribly final in the way Artwell had fallen, and the 
 ashen gray of his face when she frenziedly turned 
 him over upon his back told her plainly that, inno 
 cent or guilty, he had escaped the laws of men. 
 
 She was kneeling beside Artwell s body, dazedly 
 comprehending that further effort to help him would 
 be useless, overcome with an oppressing conviction 
 of her complete impotence, when Whitman s horse 
 clambered to the ledge and heaved a great sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 The animal came to a halt facing her, and she 
 saw its flaring nostrils, its wide, wild eyes; noted 
 the rippling of its huge muscles, as it stood with 
 legs braced, its strength spent in the furious climb 
 upward. 
 
 She got one quick glimpse of Ben Whitman s face 
 as for an instant his gaze rested on her as he 
 brought the horse to a halt. She felt that she 
 would never forget the expression of Whitman s 
 eyes. There was reproach in them and pity. But 
 greater than these two, and more intense, was rage, 
 cold, repressed. 
 
 Then Whitman slipped off the horse and walked 
 to Lattimer. 
 
 Josephine saw that Lattimer had dismounted. 
 He must have got off his horse while she had been 
 occupied with Artwell; and when Whitman ap 
 proached him he stood, legs slightly apart, his hands.
 
 252 WEST! 
 
 resting on his hips. On his lips and in his eyes 
 was the merest shadow of a smile. 
 
 Whitman halted within a yard of Lattimer. Jose 
 phine saw the faces of both men ; she noted how the 
 smile died on Lattimer s lips; how the lips curved 
 with malevolence; she heard how Whitman s voice 
 leaped with passion when he spoke. 
 
 "Lattimer," he said, "I want the girl!" 
 
 "Whitman," said Lattimer, "she goes with me." 
 His voice was smooth, in startling contrast to the 
 violent, repressed passion in the other s. 
 
 "Where you takin her, Lattimer?" 
 
 "It s none of your business, Whitman," said 
 Lattimer smoothly; "but if you must know, I m 
 taking her to Laskar." 
 
 "You re a liar!" 
 
 Whitman fell into a crouch. His right arm went 
 up, crooked at the elbow, the fingers were spread, 
 clawlike, above the holster at his hip. 
 
 "You re a liar, Lattimer!" he repeated. "You re 
 off the Laskar trail two miles off. You re headin 
 south to Panya Cache, your hangout; yours an the 
 damned gang of thieves under you ! 
 
 "Hell! You didn t know I knowed that eh?" 
 he sneered at Lattimer s start. "I Ve knowed it 
 for a year. Les let it out one day, not thinkin . 
 
 "You re takin the girl there, Lattimer. You 
 intend makin a fool of her ; you ve intended to all 
 along. You ain t goin to do it, I tell you! If
 
 WEST! 253 
 
 mother had known what a polecat you are she 
 would n t have let the girl go over to your place, 
 even to save Les. You ve got mother fooled, same 
 as you Ve had every one else around hyeh fooled 
 except me! 
 
 "I ve been on to you right along, Lattimer. I ve 
 been ridin sign on you an Miss Hamilton all the 
 time she s been over to your place. I seen you 
 send Denver south the day before Miss Hamilton 
 came to your place, leadin a pack outfit, loaded with 
 traps you re goin to use in the cache. I pretty 
 near missed you when you left last night, but I 
 picked up your trail, an I m hyeh to say you ain t 
 takin this girl with you!" 
 
 Stunned by the significance of Ben Whitman s 
 words, Josephine got to her feet uncertainly as Whit 
 man ceased speaking. As she stood erect she saw 
 the two men standing there motionless. Then, 
 like a flash, Whitman s clawlike fingers descended 
 to the holster at his hip. The huge weapon was 
 half-way out of the holster when a lance flame 
 darted from Lattimer s side and seemed to strike 
 Whitman in the chest. She saw Whitman straight 
 en, stagger, straighten again, and turn partly side- 
 wise to Lattimer, who stood watching him, a sneer 
 ing smile on his lips. Then Whitman s knees sagged 
 oddly and he pitched forward into the dust, face 
 down. 
 
 Lattimer stood over him, pistol in hand, watching.
 
 254 WEST ! 
 
 "I reckon you knew too much, Ben," he said. 
 
 With a slow movement Lattimer holstered the 
 weapon and turned to Josephine, who, terrified by 
 the tragedy she had witnessed, was watching him 
 in dread fascination. 
 
 "Get on your horse, Miss Hamilton," he said, 
 walking toward her; "we ve got quite a ride before 
 us."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 BEFORE the sound of Meeder s voice was swal 
 lowed in the deep silence that surrounded the 
 ranch-house, Brannon had recovered from his as 
 tonishment over the announcement that Lattimer, 
 Art well, and Miss Hamilton had gone. In that 
 fleeting instant he also realized that Cole Meeder 
 and his men would permit no further delay. That 
 they had not found Artwell at the Lattimer ranch- 
 house would be sufficient proof in their minds that 
 Brannon had lied in a hope that through delay he 
 might escape them. 
 
 Cole Meeder s sarcastic explanation of the ab 
 sence of Lattimer and Miss Hamilton moved 
 Meeder to grim mirth. He opened his mouth to 
 laugh, and glanced at the other men with embar 
 rassed eyes, knowing there would be times in the 
 future when he would have to endure gibes over 
 the easy manner in which Brannon had delayed his 
 own execution. 
 
 When Meeder s brain again resumed its normal 
 function he became aware that he was lying flat 
 on his back on the porch floor, without his being 
 conscious of how he had got there. His six-shooter 
 
 255
 
 256 WEST! 
 
 was lying a dozen feet from him, and Brannon, 
 crouching almost at the edge of the porch, his huge 
 gun rigid in his right hand, his eyes swimming 
 in seeming unfixed vacuity, was holding the 
 Star men motionless with their hands reaching 
 skyward. 
 
 Of course Meeder had been a fool to take chances 
 with Brannon ; he knew that, now. He had known 
 that Brannon was lightning fast on the "draw" ; 
 he well knew the man s reputation for coolness and 
 resourcefulness in any sort of a crisis that con 
 fronted him. But what he had not known was that 
 Brannon s voice could be so cold, smooth, and 
 metallic. 
 
 "You boys are too quick to jump at conclusions," 
 Brannon was saying. "I m wanting you to be 
 lieve me when I tell you I did n t shoot Tim Calla- 
 han. I m making you believe me if I have to shoot 
 the conviction into your heads ! 
 
 "From now on I m running this outfit. I m not 
 going to let you hang me and live to regret it. Les 
 Artwell was here. Miss Hamilton was here. Latti- 
 mer has taken them away. We re going to find them. 
 But before we pull our freight from here we re 
 going to find the Triangle L saddle that was on 
 Billy when Artwell rode him over here. Finding it 
 will show you boys that part of my story was cor 
 rect, anyway !" 
 
 He singled out one of the Star men with a glance.
 
 WEST! 257 
 
 It was a man he knew, and the latter jumped at the 
 sound of his voice : 
 
 "Latson, let your hands down easy taking care 
 to lift your gun by taking it between your thumb and 
 forefinger. That s it exactly. Now, still hold 
 ing it that way, drop it into the sand by the edge 
 of the porch. Now rustle up that Triangle saddle !" 
 
 The man Latson obeyed quickly, and vanished 
 through a doorway behind Brannon. 
 
 Brannon then disarmed the other men, using 
 the method he had employed with Latson. He 
 issued his orders drawlingly, with a hint of grim 
 humor in his voice, but the Star men knew earnest 
 ness when they saw it, and all recognized the need 
 for repression and carefulness. 
 
 Brannon s present aggressiveness was more con 
 vincing than his previous apparent peacefulness. 
 That he was prepared to fight in order to estab 
 lish his innocence could not be doubted. Holding 
 his present advantage he might have contrived to 
 make prisoners of the men while he rode to safety, 
 taking their horses with him. 
 
 Cole Meeder, having received no invitation to 
 rise, was still flat on his back on the veranda 
 floor, rolling his head from side to side in 
 order to watch the movements of Brannon and 
 the others. He grinned with huge embarrassment 
 when he realized that Brannon did not mean to es 
 cape.
 
 258 WEST! 
 
 "Brannon," he said, "you ain t intendin to drag 
 it?" 
 
 "Meeder," said Brannon, "you never had an idea 
 that I shot Tim Callahan in the back." 
 
 "That idea has been plumb knocked out of me, 
 Brannon if I ever had it. If you d let me set up, 
 so s I could work my jaws better, I d like to say 
 a word to the boys." 
 
 He was sitting up when Latson reappeared. Lat- 
 son was carrying a saddle. He dropped it to the ve 
 randa floor, and without waiting to consult Bran- 
 non s wishes the men, Meeder included, crowded 
 around it. 
 
 Brannon stepped back a little, watching; for 
 he knew their childlike curiosity would quickly 
 change to suspicion. 
 
 It was Billy s saddle. The Triangle L brand on 
 one of the saddle-skirts was mute evidence of owner 
 ship. In this one particular, Brannon s story was 
 true; and embarrassed grins began to show on the 
 faces of the men. 
 
 "Looks all regular an correct," said one of the 
 men. 
 
 * Mebbe we ve been millin some," remarked an 
 other doubtfully. "That there blood in the stable. 
 an now the saddle " 
 
 "When a man don t run when he s got a chance 
 it s a heap more convincin to me than any
 
 WEST ! 259 
 
 saddle," interrupted Cole Meeder. "I reckon mebbe 
 we ve been " 
 
 He paused, his mouth open, and stared past the 
 other men toward an open space that stretched 
 between the veranda and the corral. Seeing his 
 evident astonishment, the others turned also. All 
 but Brannon, who watched the man fearing a trick. 
 
 But Meeder s movement was no part of a trick. 
 
 A horse had come into view on the level between 
 the corral and the house. On the horse sitting erect 
 in the saddle was Ben Whitman. Lying face down 
 across Whitman s knees, his arms hanging limply 
 on one side of the horse, his legs dangling on the 
 other, was another man. 
 
 "Whitman!" exclaimed Meeder. 
 
 The group on the porch awaited Whitman s ap 
 proach. He rode up to within a dozen yards of 
 the veranda edge and brought the animal under him 
 to a halt. And now the men on the veranda saw 
 that the giant was ghastly pale and that he swayed 
 slightly in the saddle. 
 
 But on his face was a smile of grim irony. 
 
 "Lookin for Les Artwell, eh?" he said, laughing 
 shortly. "You got hyeh a little too late, boys. 
 
 "This hyeh is Les Artwell. He s mine, boys. 
 I m takin him home home to his mother ! Don t 
 you boys touch him!" 
 
 His voice rose defiantly. He dropped one hand
 
 26o WEST ! 
 
 to his pistol holster, got the weapon half-way out 
 of its sheath. Then he swayed, drooped forward 
 to the saddle-horn, and toppled sidewise unconscious, 
 as the men on the veranda, Brannon first of all, ran 
 toward him.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 WHILE Josephine Hamilton stayed at Latti- 
 mer s ranch-house caring for Les Artwell, 
 Betty Lawson might have found plenty of opportun 
 ity to nurse her resentment for her guest. But she 
 did nothing of the kind. 
 
 She resolutely kept her thoughts from dwelling 
 upon the quarrel, deciding that Jo s temper had got 
 the better of her and expecting, knowing something 
 of her guest s character, that one day she would ride 
 over to the Triangle L and make peace. 
 
 But Betty could not so easily dismiss thoughts of 
 Brannon. Of course if Brannon preferred Jo to 
 her, he was welcome to her ; though she was positive 
 she would never get over the hurt. Still she told 
 herself, with a defiance that was almost satisfying, 
 she did n t want a man that she would have to "run" 
 after, and though Brannon was most desirable to 
 her, she would have none of him if she had to 
 show him that she liked him. 
 
 But the days following Brannon s departure for 
 the south range to join the outfit proved to be slow- 
 dragging and depressing despite her determination 
 to forget what had happened. 
 
 261
 
 262 WEST ! 
 
 Chong irritated her; the ranch-house seemed 
 gloomy and oppressive; the outside world mocked 
 her with its calm serenity and its smiling indifference 
 to the turmoil that raged within her ; and there were 
 times when she stood on the big veranda staring 
 into space through a filmy mist of tears, her lips 
 tight pressed to keep them from quivering. 
 
 Her decision to go to Willets resulted from an 
 irresistible impulse to seek companionship, or at 
 least to look upon the faces of people of her own 
 race. Chong s bland countenance and his servile, 
 ingratiating manner disgusted her. Her own mood 
 was too militantly belligerent to permit her to bear 
 in patience the vast lonesomeness that had settled 
 over the Triangle L. 
 
 She roped the horses, hitched them to the buck- 
 board, and drove to Willets, arriving late in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 Instantly she discovered that she had not wanted 
 to come to Willets at all. 
 
 The town s lethargic atmosphere seemed to settle 
 into the marrow of her bones; its squalor appalled 
 her; its maudlin shanties offended her; its people 
 provoked her to sardonic reflection to the con 
 viction that it was Brannon that she wanted to see, 
 and not the town at all ! 
 
 But she endured Willets until dawn. At that 
 time she was up and dressed and descending the 
 stairs of the hotel where she had passed the night.
 
 WEST ! 263 
 
 She had made some purchases the night before; 
 and these she lugged downstairs with her, carrying 
 them outside to the stable, where she put them into 
 the buckboard. She had resolved to leave Willets 
 right after breakfast; but as she passed the hotel 
 desk, behind which stood a tousled-haired, blear-eyed 
 clerk whispering confidentially with two other men, 
 disreputable-looking characters, she decided she 
 would forego even the pleasure of breakfasting 
 there. 
 
 She was in no hurry, though; and took her time 
 stowing the packages into the buckboard. Then 
 she returned to pay her bill. 
 
 As she stood at the desk she saw that the two 
 men exchanged glances with the clerk -sly, oddly 
 amused glances, significant of a secret understanding, 
 of mutual knowledge with which she was in some 
 way concerned. 
 
 Her blood pounded in her veins with righteous 
 wrath, but she pretended not to notice the glances, 
 paid her bill, and started out. But before she 
 reached the door she heard one of the men say, in 
 a loud whisper : 
 
 "Yes Betty Lawson. That Eastern female she 
 brought out here has been with Lattimer at the 
 Lazy L for a week!" The vulgar laugh which fol 
 lowed his words almost provoked Betty to turn on 
 him. 
 
 But she controlled herself. She went out and 
 hitched up the horses, glad that she had fed and
 
 264 WEST ! 
 
 watered them when she had brought the packages 
 down. She worked swiftly, though with an out 
 ward show of deliberation, for she suspected that 
 the men were watching her. She could not keep 
 the crimson out of her cheeks, and her dismay over 
 the thing she had heard was so deep that it seemed 
 she could cry aloud for relief. Only once, though, as 
 she worked with the horses, did she yield to speech, 
 an almost tearful "Darn Lattimer!" which burst 
 chokingly from her lips. 
 
 She backed the horses out of the shed after she 
 got them hitched, and wheeled them in the stable 
 yard with commendable deliberation, for she saw 
 the men watching her from a window. And though 
 the horses were eager for a run, she held them to a 
 slow trot until she was fully a mile from town. 
 Then she spoke to them, viciously: 
 
 "Now run, darn you!"
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 LIN MURRAY had slept peacefully while Cole 
 Meeder and the other Star men had enter 
 tained Brannon; with his grizzled face turned up 
 ward in his bunk he had dreamed while Brannon had 
 been pointing out to the Star men the evidence of 
 Les Artwell s previous presence in the Triangle L 
 stable. And Murray had not stirred when Brannon 
 had ridden away with Meeder and his men. 
 
 But later Murray became aware of a hand in his 
 hair, an ungentle hand that rocked his head back and 
 forth; and of a sharp voice which seemed to have 
 curiously penetrating power and seemed to be 
 long to some one he knew. 
 
 He awoke to stare with resentful perplexity into 
 the glowing, determined eyes of Betty Lawson, who 
 was standing beside him, and whose hand it was 
 that seemed intent upon pulling his hair out roots 
 and all. 
 
 "Hey leggo!" he bawled protestingly. "What 
 you a-pullin my hair for?" 
 
 "Wake up, then, and listen to me, you infernal 
 sleepy-head!" said Betty viciously. "What are you 
 doing here? Where s Brannon? What were Cole 
 
 265
 
 266 WEST ! 
 
 Meeder and his men doing here? What did they 
 want? Where did they go with Brannon?" 
 
 "Huh?" 
 
 Murray had gone to sleep with his clothes on; 
 he now swung around and sat on the edge of the 
 bunk, staring at Betty in huge astonishment. 
 
 "Wait a minute," he said, frowning. "Let s 
 get them questions straightened out. Hell !" he ex 
 claimed, for the first time noting the intense excite 
 ment in Betty s eyes; "I reckon something s hap 
 pened !" 
 
 "Everything has happened, it seems !" said Betty. 
 "I can t make head or tail out of anything Chong 
 says, except that Cole Meeder and six or seven of 
 his men were here ; that they drew guns on Brannon, 
 inspected the stable, and then rode south, Brannon 
 with them." 
 
 "Hell s fire!" 
 
 Murray s eyes were a-gleam with apprehension; 
 the profane exclamation was eloquent of impotence. 
 
 "Why did n t Chong wake me up ? Why did n t 
 Brannon rush them scum in here, so s I d be wise 
 to what they re up to? They headed south, eh?" 
 
 Murray was buckling on his cartridge-belt. He 
 was raging with impatience, muttering, grumbling, 
 cursing. 
 
 "I ve knowed right along that somethin was 
 wrong!" he declared as he tightened the belt. "Ever
 
 WEST ! 267 
 
 since I seen Brannon leadin that Lazy L hoss south 
 I ve been wonderin " 
 
 "A Lazy L horse!" Betty seized Murray by the 
 shoulders and shook him. Her eyes were wide with 
 excitement. 
 
 "Talk, Murray!" she commanded, stamping a foot 
 furiously when Murray opened his mouth in aston 
 ishment at her vehemence: "What do you mean?" 
 
 "A Lazy L hoss," repeated Murray. "The day 
 Miss Hamilton went away I saw Brannon an a 
 Lazy L hoss near the lean-to alongside the stable. 
 Me an Brannon was figurin to ride south that 
 mornin an I d overslept. Brannon come past 
 here while I was rustlin up some grub. He went 
 to the stable. I seen him lookin at a strange hoss, 
 which was saddled an bridled. I got them field- 
 glasses your dad bought for us boys an took a look 
 at that hoss. It was branded Lazy L. 
 
 "I did n t say nothin to Brannon. Brannon 
 acted sort of sneakin that mornin . After he d 
 sized the hoss up he went prowling around the 
 stable an inside of it. Then he came out again and 
 took the strange hoss down the river a piece. Then 
 after you d gone away lookin for Miss Hamilton, 
 Brannon told me he d changed his mind about 
 joinin the outfit. 
 
 "I went alone, an Brannon rode south, toward 
 Lattimer s place, leadin the Lazy L hoss!" Murray
 
 268 WEST ! 
 
 had tightened his belt to his apparent satisfaction, 
 and now he asked, his perplexed eyes boring into 
 Betty s : 
 
 "What do you suppose he was doin with the 
 Lattimer hoss?" 
 
 "That s what I mean to find out, Murray !" said 
 Betty. Her excitement had gone, suddenly. Her 
 face was pale, her lips were set grimly, and her 
 voice was cold, determined. 
 
 "Saddle two horses, Murray," she ordered. 
 "Somebody s going to talk straight ! I rather 
 think it will be Satan Lattimer!"
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 WHEN Brannon reached Ben Whitman s side 
 Whitman toppled gently into his arms. 
 The Star men were close behind him and together 
 they lifted Whitman down and carried him to the 
 veranda, where they got him stretched out and cared 
 for his wound. 
 
 Lattimer s bullet had struck him in the chest 
 rather high, and Meeder, who was first to examine 
 the wound, declared the missile had not touched the 
 lung and that \Vhitman had a fighting chance for 
 life. 
 
 "He s bled a lot, though," said Meeder; "an 
 he s pretty well done up. I reckon one of you boys 
 had better hit the breeze for town an a doctor. 
 Artwell won t need no doctor," he added, grimly. 
 
 "Artwell ain t dead yet, but he ain t far from it," 
 volunteered a Star man who had helped to take 
 Artwell off Whitman s horse. 
 
 Already another Star man was riding northward. 
 Meeder did not answer the man who had volun 
 teered the information regarding Artwell; his gaze 
 was following the progress of the Star man who had 
 ridden north. A little eastward from the Star rider 
 
 269
 
 270 WEST ! 
 
 came a dust-cloud, and racing ahead of the cloud 
 were two horsemen. 
 
 "We re goin t to have company," announced 
 Meeder. 
 
 Brannon, \vorking with Whitman, turned to fol 
 low Meeder s gaze. 
 
 "Betty Lawson and Lin Murray," he said im- 
 perturbably. 
 
 Whitman, responding to cold applications over his 
 wound and to sundry potions of water that Brannon 
 succeeded in forcing down his throat, was reviving. 
 His eyes opened; he struggled and sat up, deter 
 minedly pushing away Brannon s restraining hands. 
 
 He looked around ; saw a Star man working over 
 Artwell who had also been laid on the porch 
 and the other Star men standing near, silently watch 
 ing. He smiled wanly. 
 
 "Les ain t comin around, I reckon," he said. 
 
 "Les is about due," said a Star man solemnly. 
 
 Whitman s smile grew regretful. "Looked that 
 way to me," he said. "Him goin that way will be 
 a heap better for his mother. You boys will let 
 him " He paused, to note the silence that greeted 
 his uncompleted question, and at the surprised 
 glances that met his. 
 
 "I reckon you boys did n t know Les had a 
 mother," he said. And now his gaze rested upon
 
 WEST! 271 
 
 Betty Lawson, who had dismounted and had ap 
 proached near enough to hear him. 
 
 "Les had a mother, all right," he added, his gaze 
 on Betty s face; "only Les was some stubborn an 
 jealous, an would n t talk much about her. His 
 mother is my mother Les bein my half-brother. 
 Les is pretty badly hurt, Betty," he said. "He 11 
 die, anyway. Mother would n t want him hung. 
 I reckon if you d bring him around a little he d 
 talk. He was tryin to, all the way back." 
 
 "Who shot you, Ben?" 
 
 This was Betty. She had pushed Brannon away 
 and was tenderly smoothing Whitman s forehead. 
 
 "Satan Lattimer," answered Whitman. "Betty/* 
 he whispered, "I reckon you d better have these 
 boys go after Miss Hamilton. Lattimer s got her. 
 I trailed him as far as that big ledge just south of 
 Boskin s Ford. That s where he downed me. I 
 reckon I was a little slow." His cheeks flushed 
 faintly and he went on, still in a whisper : 
 
 "He must have told Miss Hamilton he was takin 
 her to Laskar; he tried to make me swallow that, 
 too. But he was two miles off the Laskar trail, 
 Betty ; an he s takin her to Panya Cache, where 
 his gang of outlaws holes up." 
 
 He noted Betty s violent start, correctly divined 
 the reason for it, smiled, and resumed haltingly:
 
 272 WEST ! 
 
 "A lot of folks will be surprised. I ain t guess- 
 in none. Satan Lattimer s the boss of the gang 
 that has been stealin hosses around here. Les be 
 longed to the gang. Lattimer got some sort of 
 hold on him, I reckon. I ve knowed for a long 
 time what Lattimer is, but I did n t say anything 
 for fear mother would get wind of it. It would 
 have hurt her bad to know that Les had gone wrong 
 so far. 
 
 "An Lattimer fooled her; she set great store by 
 him thinkin he was straight." He drew a deep 
 breath; his voice grew weaker. 
 
 "Tell Brannon," he said faintly. "He ll know 
 where Panya Cache is. He s the only man in the 
 country Lattimer s afraid of; he s the only man in 
 these parts that can sling a gun faster than Satan. 
 He 11 have to to hurry, or Lattimer will " 
 
 Whitman s eyes closed. 
 
 Betty stood erect beside him. Whitman s revela 
 tions had shocked her, despite her preconceived con 
 viction of Lattimer s criminal character, of his ruth- 
 lessness, and of his reckless unconcern for the rules 
 of fairness. She remembered that she had warned 
 Josephine about Lattimer, and it seemed Josephine 
 had deliberately disregarded the warning. 
 
 For an instant Betty entertained a vindictive 
 thought, which was that Jo was being repaid for her 
 obstinacy. And instantly came the seductive inner
 
 WEST ! 273 
 
 voice of the tempter, telling her that no one need 
 know where Lattimer was taking Jo. For no one 
 beside herself had heard Whitman s whispering 
 
 In the next instant Betty was facing Brannon. 
 A crimson stain in her cheeks the visible sign of 
 the shame she felt because she had permitted a 
 jealous impulse to take form in her mind was 
 accentuated by the paleness of her lips. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "Satan Lattimer is taking 
 Jo to Panya Cache against her will. Whitman just 
 told me. Lattimer shot Whitman when Whitman 
 tried to get Jo away from him. If you go right 
 away you can catch him before he reaches the cache. 
 Save her, Brannon!" 
 
 She felt Brannon s hands upon her arms, the 
 fingers like steel bands constricting with terrific 
 pressure. She could feel the man s muscles con 
 tract into rigid knots as he held her, turning her 
 so that he might look into her eyes. His own were 
 a-light with a cold fire that chilled and awed her; 
 for the first time since she had known him she 
 saw passion in them. 
 
 "What trail did Lattimer take?" 
 
 Brannon s voice was cold, calm, a curiou: con 
 trast to the passion in his eyes. 
 
 Betty told him. 
 
 For an instant longer he held her, his ~~/:: 
 searching hers. Strange little pin-points of
 
 274 WEST ! 
 
 miration flickered at her. Then he released her 
 and ran to his horse. He mounted with the black 
 already running, paying no attention to the shouts 
 of Meeder and the others. 
 
 Nor did Betty heed the shouts of the men. She 
 was watching the black horse and its rider as they 
 raced over the level; the horse running like a 
 feather sailing upon a wind. 
 
 Betty watched horse and rider sweep over the 
 broken, hill-dotted country between the house 
 and the long slope opposite Boskin s Ford a dis 
 tance of several miles; she saw them later, dwarfed 
 to toy-like proportions, moving jerkily upward to 
 ward the ledge upon which Whitman had encoun 
 tered Lattimer during the night. And when horse 
 and rider vanished over the crest of the long slope 
 she turned to see Cole Meeder standing at her elbow. 
 
 "What s got into the cuss ?" demanded Meeder, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 Betty told him and he laughed grimly. 
 
 "I reckon we 11 be goin that way, too," he 
 said. "Some of us, that is. I m leavin a couple 
 of the boys here with you. Whitman will come 
 around all right, I reckon. Artw r ell has cashed in. 
 But he talked first. Said he killed Callahan. He 
 hid in the stable afterward; an Miss Hamilton 
 brought him over here an stayed here, nursin 
 him!"
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 JOSEPHINE S disillusionment had come with 
 appalling suddenness, and the shock was so great 
 that she scarcely realized that Ben Whitman had been 
 shot killed; and that his body, pitifully inert, was 
 lying near her. She stared at the tall, lax figure, 
 lying face down on the ledge; she saw Lattimer 
 standing over it, the smoking pistol in hand; she 
 was aware that Les Artwell was stretched on his 
 back beside his horse; and she heard Lattimer s 
 words when he finally walked toward her. 
 
 But she could not convince herself that the tragedy 
 really had occurred. Lattimer, the figures of the 
 two men on the ledge, the horses, the basin, the 
 peaceful moon swimming in the velvet-blue sky, 
 seemed unreal, grotesque, like the settings of a 
 drama of dreams. 
 
 Because this thing had never happened to her 
 before, she felt that it could not happen; that one 
 man would not dare to shoot down another man in 
 so brutal a fashion. It was impossible, incredible! 
 And yet there was Whitman, face down on the 
 ledge, almost at her feet, murdered while she had 
 looked on ! On the ledge also were Lattimer, Les 
 
 275
 
 276 WEST ! 
 
 Artwell, and the horses; below her, still beautiful, 
 calmly silent, was the basin; above her swam the 
 moon, serenely radiant. 
 
 The change she sensed had come to her alone ; and 
 suddenly she understood. She had visioned ideals 
 and had tried to form them out of material already 
 fashioned by the Creator. She had tried, but she 
 had not made them over. She was a wilful, self- 
 deluded girl who would not listen to the words 
 of experience. 
 
 Betty had told her; had warned her about Latti- 
 mer. Brannon had tried to show her in a practical 
 manner that her foolish principles were not deep 
 enough, nor sound enough, to be applicable to a 
 country in which the law was not firmly established. 
 Brannon, despite his steel-like inflexibility and his 
 thinly concealed contempt of her, had really tried 
 to be kind to her ! 
 
 Brannon had saved her from Denver; Betty 
 had warned her that Lattimer was ruthless; that 
 he would not hesitate to carry a woman into the 
 mountains ! She remembered how she had mentally 
 scoffed at Betty s remark, thinking Betty was merely 
 attempting to impress her with the picturesque char 
 acter of the country s inhabitants. 
 
 Betty had merely stated the exact truth! Latti 
 mer was at this moment giving her a practical
 
 WEST! 277 
 
 demonstration of his ruthlessness, and was intent 
 upon carrying her away to the mountains ! 
 
 Upon the day she had quarreled with Betty be 
 cause she suspected Betty of doubting her word 
 concerning the length of her stay at the Whitman 
 cabin, she had felt the first pulse-beat of her new 
 independence; she had become Western and had 
 responded to the primitive impulses that had long 
 been latent in her nature. She had shaken off the 
 shackles of an effete and decadent environment; she 
 had rushed headlong back to nature, to be unham 
 pered by narrow conventions. 
 
 Disillusionment was complete, if painful. As 
 she stood on the ledge watching Lattimer, who had 
 halted and was gazing at her speculatively, she was 
 aware that nature had never intended her for this 
 sort of an existence. Her courage was too frail; 
 she lacked the mental ruggedness and the moral 
 sturdiness to fight her obstinate impulses, to confess 
 herself in the wrong. She had been wrong all 
 the time, but had not had the courage to admit it, 
 even to herself. 
 
 In giving free rein to the primitive inclinations 
 she had felt she merely had been attempting to 
 dramatize her imagination ; she had sought person 
 ally to enact a role that had been created in her mind 
 by the conviction that her own yearning for the
 
 278 WEST ! 
 
 romance of elemental life must inevitably fit her 
 for it. It was the hunger that assails one who 
 delves deeply into the printed page of adventure. 
 
 But she had failed. She had been obstinately wil 
 ful; she had antagonized Betty; she had opposed 
 Brannon; she had fooled herself when she thought 
 she had been fooling others. And now she had 
 been tricked by a beast! 
 
 She knew now that Lattimer was a beast. As 
 he stood watching her she saw his lips curve into a 
 smile; a smile which seemed to be articulate with 
 the knowledge that she had thought the thing out 
 and was beginning to realize that she was lost. 
 
 Her knees knocked together as she watched Latti 
 mer; she thought she must surely faint when he 
 stepped toward her, a smiling triumph in his eyes. 
 
 "We ve got quite a ride before us, Miss Hamil 
 ton," he repeated. 
 
 "I won t ride a step farther with you!" she de 
 clared. She was astonished at the sound of her 
 voice, at the shrill break in it, at the piercing note 
 of terror that had got into it despite her conviction 
 that she was not afraid of Lattimer and that at 
 this minute she merely loathed him because of what 
 he had done to Whitman and because he was what 
 she knew him to be. 
 
 He laughed deep in his throat and stepped quickly 
 toward her. She turned, and in an effort to evade
 
 WEST ! 279 
 
 him swung against one of the horses, which reared 
 and snapped at her. Before she could turn in an 
 other direction Lattimer s hands were upon her 
 shoulder, and his face was close to hers. He held 
 her in a grip that, she felt, must crush her. 
 
 She cried out sharply and he released her, step 
 ping back a pace and regarding her with a steady, 
 amused smile. 
 
 "I reckon you 11 ride with me, Jo," he said with 
 easy familiarity, with a smooth, matter-of-fact note 
 in his voice. "You re not such a fool as to imagine 
 that when I ve got you this far I 11 let you off. 
 Ben Whitman ought to have known that the fool !" 
 
 "You killed him for for that?" she questioned. 
 "Ben knew he knew you you were not going to 
 Laskar?" 
 
 "That was mighty plain to Ben," he smiled. 
 
 Lattimer s answer, the light in his eyes, con 
 firmed Whitman s charge that Lattimer intended to 
 take her to some mysterious place called Panya 
 Cache. A trembling weakness came upon her; a 
 sudden, ungovernable grief over the contemplation 
 of her folly. She pressed her hands tightly over her 
 eyes and sobbed wildly, while Lattimer stood at a 
 little distance watching her. 
 
 She was astonished when the tears ceased to come, 
 when a cold rage succeeded the emotional breakdown. 
 She could not explain the phenomenon; she did not
 
 2 8o WEST ! 
 
 attempt to. She was merely conscious that she sud 
 denly felt capable of enduring stoically the conse 
 quences of her obstinacy. She uncovered her eyes 
 and looked defiantly at him. 
 
 "Suppose I refuse to ride, Lattimer?" 
 
 "I 11 carry you," he said. "You re over it, eh?" 
 he added laughing. "That s sensible. You see, 
 when I want a thing I use the most direct means 
 of getting it. I ve wanted you from the day I 
 heard Brannon had cottoned up to you ! 
 
 "There s always been a sort of jealousy in my 
 heart for Brannon. I believe he s the only man 
 in the world I ever envied. He s a real man from 
 any direction you look at him. He s the only 
 man I ever met who made me feel that in a fight 
 I d come out second-best. That conviction has 
 always bothered me. But there s no use in denying 
 it. Whenever Brannon goes for his gun it s time 
 to requisition the mourners. I d have killed him 
 long ago if I had n t been afraid to take the chance. 
 
 "Now you see, recognizing that I have n t a chance 
 with Brannon with a gun in my hand, and hating 
 him as I do, I ve got to use other methods to best 
 him, to make him squirm. That s the reason why 
 I m taking you to Panya Cache because Brannon 
 likes you. The other reason is that I like you, my 
 self. 
 
 "You ve been pretty high-handed with Brannon,
 
 WEST! 281 
 
 according to what I hear. You tried to make a fool 
 of him in front of Denver; you made him look like 
 a locoed yearling when you got Artwell away from 
 him. Did you know that after you left my place 
 the morning you brought Artwell over Brannon 
 brought back the horse Artwell rode the night he 
 killed Callahan ? Did you know that on his way to 
 bring my horse back he ran into Billy, the horse 
 Artwell rode when you brought him to my place? 
 And do you know that while you were at my house 
 that morning you dropped a handkerchief and that 
 Brannon saw it ? Brannon has been wise to me for 
 some time. He warned me. He knows " 
 
 "Artwell killed Callahan?" 
 
 It had taken her many seconds to comprehend 
 the significance of Lattimer s, to her, startling revela 
 tion. She stood silent afterward, searching Latti 
 mer s face, noting his keen enjoyment of her aston 
 ishment; convinced by it that he was telling the 
 truth. 
 
 "Artwell killed Callahan and I helped him," 
 she said finally, shuddering. "He killed Callahan, 
 and I thought Brannon did it. Why," she went on, 
 a startled, wondering light in her eyes, her voice 
 falling to a whisper; "why, the morning I brought 
 Artwell to your place you told me Brannon claimed 
 to have shot Callahan. If he really said that he 
 must have thought I shot Callahan !"
 
 282 WEST ! 
 
 "That s what he did," said Lattimer. "He 
 thought so then. Later he must have suspected the 
 truth." 
 
 Remorse, intensified by a realization of her com 
 plete helplessness, overwhelmed her. Her self-con 
 trol deserted her; she cringed back from Lattimer 
 and sobbed again passionately. 
 
 This last revelation, coming so quickly after her 
 discovery of Lattimer s real character, completely 
 unnerved her. She was aware of Lattimer s arms, 
 clasped tightly around her, and she fought him, even 
 while she knew she was hopelessly lost. She heard 
 him speaking to her gruffly; felt herself being lifted 
 into a saddle. And then, clinging desperately to 
 the high horn, she was borne upward.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE black s first impetuous rush carried him 
 over the level swiftly. His speed diminished 
 as he swept around the bases of some low hills where 
 rocks from the surrounding slopes, loosened by the 
 elements, had rolled down and now littered the trail ; 
 he climbed a precipitous slope with the agility of a 
 cat ; straightened up for a long run along the crest of 
 a ridge; dropped into a saccaton flat with sickening 
 suddenness, went up another slope with a rushing 
 clatter, and sped across another level to the base of 
 the big hill upon which the night before Josephine 
 had gazed down into the big basin. 
 
 Brannon dismounted at the base of the hill, slipped 
 the bridle-rein over the black s head, and began the 
 upward climb. It was now well toward noon, and 
 though he had no means of knowing the exact hour 
 in which Whitman had been shot, he reasoned that 
 Ben must have consumed much time in reaching 
 the Lazy L and that Lattimer would have several 
 hours start. 
 
 And yet Brannon expected to overtake him long 
 before he could reach Panya Cache, for the cache 
 was a hundred miles south, the trail was difficult in 
 
 283
 
 284 WEST ! 
 
 spots, and Lattimer would be hampered by Josephine, 
 also Lattimer would undoubtedly take his time, not 
 anticipating that he would be followed, for he would 
 not be aware that Cole Meeder, the other Star men, 
 and Brannon had visited the Lazy L; and he must 
 have thought his bullet had killed Whitman or, 
 knowing Whitman had divined his destination as 
 Whitman had proved by telling Betty he would 
 have made certain of the man s death. Artwell, 
 Brannon concluded, must have been close to death 
 when Lattimer left him, so close that Lattimer had 
 considered him a negligible factor. 
 
 The climb to the top of the hill was long and ardu 
 ous ; and Brannon halted there for a time to breathe 
 the black horse and to recover his own wind. Then 
 he mounted, descended sharply to a ravine, crossed 
 it, reached a mesa, and headed toward a distant rise 
 that marked the southern rim of the big basin. 
 
 Twice before Brannon had ridden this trail to 
 Panya Cache. It had been in the days before the 
 coming of Satan Lattimer to the big basin, when at 
 the command of Betty s father he had broken up a 
 band of rustlers who had operated in the section. 
 The rustlers had worked northward from Panya, 
 and Brannon s activities had taken him twice to the 
 rendezvous before the band had been routed. In 
 that campaign he had been assisted by nearly all of 
 the cattle-men in the basin, and by various others
 
 WEST ! 285 
 
 who had been victims of the depredations of the 
 outlaws. 
 
 Brannon, therefore, knew the trail. As for that 
 he would have had little difficulty in following Latti- 
 mer and Josephine, for the record of their passing 
 could be read plainly in the soft stretches of the 
 trail. 
 
 There were two horses, which fact indicated that 
 Lattimer was not carrying the girl. 
 
 Brannon rode fast but carefully. By conserving 
 the black s strength he might almost close the gap 
 between himself and Lattimer during the day, and 
 be able to make a final dash after nightfall if the 
 race lasted that long. For even if Lattimer sus 
 pected he would be followed, he would have to per 
 mit Josephine to rest when darkness came ; or he 
 would have to carry her, which action would be 
 fatal to speed. 
 
 Brannon made good time after he got out of the 
 basin. For several miles he rode across a mesa, 
 level, grass-covered, and beautiful, though desolate 
 as the calm surface of a sunlit ocean. 
 
 Reaching the edge of the mesa he paused momen 
 tarily to search for the trail. Finding it, he urged 
 the black down the crumbling channel of a washout 
 to the razor-back crest of a rock ridge. Just before 
 putting his horse to the downward slope of the 
 ridge he halted, shaded his eyes with his hands,
 
 286 WEST ! 
 
 and scrutinized the country ahead of him and at 
 his right and left. 
 
 There was an abrupt downward trend to the trail. 
 Below him spread a wide section of country. 
 Ridges, giant hills, mammoth plateaus, rivers, two 
 mountain ranges with serrated peaks, a divide, a 
 mighty plain all were distinct in detail, though so 
 dwarfed in size by the distance from which he viewed 
 them that they seemed insignificant. 
 
 A haze of many colors lay like a mantle over 
 the vast section. Through the veil gleamed two 
 barren peaks of the mountains. A deep canyon 
 showed darkly purple. The waters of the rivers 
 shimmered like liquid silver through rose-tinted 
 gauze. Miles away the rugged walls of buttes and 
 the uncompromising bulks of bastioned hills stood, 
 enwrapped in the mystery that had swathed them 
 since the hour of creation. Over it all was a 
 slumberous silence in which there was no sugges 
 tion of life or movement. 
 
 It was noon before Brannon in his downward ride 
 reached the broad shoulder of a mountain. About 
 three o clock in the afternoon he was riding a narrow 
 ledge through a valley, fully thirty miles from the 
 spot on the edge of the mesa where he had halted 
 to view the country. 
 
 An hour later he was again climbing upward, over 
 the irregular slopes and ledges of an upland. An-
 
 WEST ! 287 
 
 other hour, and he had reached the crest of the long 
 slope and was standing beside the black horse, peer 
 ing southward, the sun almost at his back. 
 
 In the distance, where a ridge loomed high above 
 a level, he detected movement. He waited, grimly 
 patient, until he saw two tiny blots slowly taking 
 form on the ridge two horses with riders moving 
 upward until they became clearly outlined on the 
 horizon. 
 
 The figures were not more than two or three 
 miles away. 
 
 Brannon swung into the saddle, patted the black s 
 moist flanks, and spoke grimly to him : 
 
 "I reckon we ve got them, Nigger!" 
 
 Then he set out in pursuit of the distant riders; 
 the black horse whinnying and tossing its head in 
 apparent satisfaction, as though the occasion were 
 one of ordinary significance.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 UNACCUSTOMED to long rides, exhausted 
 by the strain of a continued contemplation of 
 the hazards of the trail she had been forced to ride, 
 and confronted by a hopeless future, Josephine 
 sobbed despairingly as her horse slid down the slope 
 of a ridge to a grass level. 
 
 The last bulwark of her courage had given way. 
 On the long, tiresome ride she had been sustained 
 by a secret hope that some one Brannon, Betty, 
 somebody would discover her disappearance and 
 come to her rescue. She felt she did not deserve any 
 consideration or pity or sympathy from either 
 Brannon or Betty; and she felt there was no pos 
 sibility of their knowing what had happened to her, 
 because she had been so secretive. Still she had 
 hoped until now. 
 
 It seemed to her that she had ridden into the very 
 heart of desolation, from which there could be no 
 possibility of rescue. 
 
 In the yawning gulf of distance that stretched 
 before here there was no sign of life; nothing but 
 hills and valleys and levels and silence and a sky that 
 mocked her with its calm serenity. The immutable 
 
 288
 
 WEST! 289 
 
 fixity of the somber mountains on the remote hori 
 zon terrified her they seemed so aware of her 
 precarious predicament and so coldly indifferent. 
 They seemed sentient, watchful, knowing; it was as 
 though they comprehended and would not interfere. 
 
 Everything she saw gave her that impression. 
 Their progress had not been impeded. An accident, 
 any sort of an accident that would have delayed them 
 would have been welcomed by her; she would have 
 seized upon it as an omen of good. She believed 
 she would have blessed a rock that would have 
 broken a leg of one of the horses. 
 
 But nothing had happened. They had not ridden 
 fast, but they had been always moving, and she 
 knew they were many miles from the ledge where 
 Ben Whitman had been shot. 
 
 Lattimer had said little to her. When she had 
 recovered from her weakness soon after Lattimer 
 had placed her in the saddle, she became aware that 
 Lattimer was leading her horse and that her feet had 
 been lashed to the stirrups. Later, though after 
 they had traveled several miles, Lattimer had re 
 leased her feet, his significant smile assuring her 
 that he knew she would not attempt to return over 
 the back trail alone. 
 
 Thereafter she herself had guided the horse. 
 
 And now as she directed it down the slope of the 
 ridge, her hopes died and she yielded to tears.
 
 290 WEST ! 
 
 Lattimer rode close and placed a hand on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Tired, eh?" he said. 
 
 He was deliberately mocking her, or did not 
 understand. She did not know which. Nor did 
 she care. She did not care what happened to her 
 now. 
 
 And so she made no objection when Lattimer 
 helped her down from the horse, telling her in a 
 low voice that they w T ould rest for a time. 
 
 When he left her to care for the horses, she 
 dropped wearily into the long gramma grass at her 
 feet and sat there, staring dully at her surroundings. 
 
 The grass level was small. At her right and 
 left were lava-beds, worn and polished by the sand 
 winds of ages. Back of her was the ridge over 
 which she had just ridden; not more than a few 
 hundred feet in front of her rose the ragged sides 
 of a draw, the deep sand of its center lying dead 
 and smooth. Beyond was desolation. 
 
 How long she sat in the grass communing with 
 her despair she did not know. Not long probably, 
 for when she again looked at Lattimer he had not 
 removed the saddle he had been working at when 
 she had turned to stare at the country. 
 
 She saw Lattimer start; heard him exclaim 
 sharply. Following the direction of his gaze she 
 saw a horseman come into view from the southern
 
 WEST! 291 
 
 side of the draw and ride rapidly toward them. 
 
 It was Denver! 
 
 He had appeared, it seemed, like an apparition. 
 But she well knew that he might have been riding 
 toward them for hours without their being aware 
 of him; for there were hills and depressions and 
 corrugations and gullies that one might take ad 
 vantage of if one were inclined to be secretive; 
 and she felt that Denver would not have shown 
 himself, conceding he had seen them, until he had 
 become reasonably certain of their identity. That 
 sort of thing would be characteristic of the man. 
 
 Lattimer hailed Denver heartily. But Denver 
 did not reply in kind. He jumped his horse through 
 the sand draw, raced it across the little level, and 
 brought it to a dizzying, sliding halt within a few 
 feet of Lattimer. His face was set grimly ; his eyes 
 were blazing with excitement. 
 
 "Who s trailin you, Lattimer?" he demanded 
 huskily. 
 
 Watching Lattimer, Josephine saw his face change 
 color. It was evident that his thoughts had been 
 upon the possibility of pursuit, for instead of re 
 plying to Denver he ran to the ridge over which 
 they had ridden a few minutes before, threw him 
 self flat, and peered over its crest. He remained 
 there only an instant; then he ran back to where 
 Denver sat on his horse.
 
 292 WEST! 
 
 "Brannon!" 
 
 There was fear in the exclamation ; fear was lying 
 naked in Lattimer s eyes. Denver s face whitened 
 beneath the deep tan and the alkali dust upon it. 
 
 "Hell s fire !" he blurted. "We re in for it !" 
 
 At the word "Brannon," Josephine had got to 
 her feet. She stood now, tingling with a wild ex 
 ultation; breathless with gratitude inexpressible. 
 
 "Brannon !" she heard herself saying, in a voice 
 that she did not recognize. 
 
 Heedless of Lattimer s shout and Denver s vio 
 lent profanity, she started to run toward the ridge, 
 forgetting everything but the fact that Brannon 
 was coming, that rescue was at hand. 
 
 She had gone only a few steps when she felt 
 Lattimer s big arms around her. She was swept 
 off her feet, lifted, and borne rapidly away from 
 the ridge toward the draw through which Denver 
 had appeared. 
 
 She tried to cry out, but the sound was stifled 
 when Lattimer pressed her face tightly against 
 his shoulder. It seemed only an instant from the 
 time she started toward the ridge until she was 
 being set down on her feet at the far side of the 
 draw. 
 
 Denver was already there. She saw him ride 
 his horse back of the draw, out of sight from the 
 direction of the ridge; saw him lead it into a
 
 WEST ! 293 
 
 depression, trail the reins over its head, and loop 
 them around a rock. 
 
 Then Denver pulled a rifle from a holster on 
 the saddle-skirt, ran to the sloping side of the draw, 
 and began to clamber upward. He gained the top, 
 threw himself flat behind a boulder that crowned 
 the edge of the draw, and stuck the muzzle of the 
 rifle through some screening weeds at the side of 
 the rock. 
 
 Josephine had seen a significant glance pass be 
 tween Lattimer and Denver as Denver began his 
 climb to the crest of the draw, and she divined 
 that somehow they had agreed upon a plan that 
 boded ill for Brannon. 
 
 She looked at Lattimer ; cringed from the smiling, 
 malicious devil in his eyes; and linked his present 
 demeanor with the sinister preparations that had 
 been carried on before her eyes. 
 
 "Why why," she cried, horrified, "you mean 
 to shoot Brannon!" 
 
 "Denver will down him the minute he comes 
 in sight over the ridge," said Lattimer. 
 
 He essayed to draw her closer, and feeling her 
 passive in his arms he sought to shift his grasp. 
 She suddenly twisted her body, squirming and writh- 
 ign until she got her hands against his chest. He 
 lost the grip of one hand because of her desperate 
 energy; sought to regain it and was off balance
 
 294 WEST! 
 
 for a single instant. Her muscles, acting in accord 
 with her frenzied thoughts, were quick to use the 
 opportunity at hand. She shoved him viciously, 
 so that he went down awkwardly on hands and knees. 
 
 Cursing, he threw himself at her, his clutching 
 fingers just missing the hem of her skirts as she 
 fled. 
 
 Twice she stumbled as she ran, the deep sand of 
 the draw dragging at her feet; and once as she 
 reached the edge of the grass level she fell. But 
 she scrambled to her feet and ran onward toward the 
 crest of the ridge expecting each instant to feel 
 the deadening impact of a bullet from Denver s 
 rifle, or the brutal grasp of Lattimer s hands at 
 her throat. 
 
 Nothing of the kind happened. She reached 
 the base of the ridge, clambered up, using the roots 
 of bunch-grass that grew on the slope where the 
 ascent was steepest; going to her knees once when 
 she stumbled over a rock whose sharp edge came in 
 contact with her ankle; but finally achieving the 
 crest, where she stood, her breath sobbing in her 
 throat, to see Brannon, now not more than a few 
 hundred feet distant coming toward her, his horse 
 in a dead run.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 FOR one wild instant as she stood on the crest 
 of the ridge Josephine considered running to 
 meet Brannon, to tell him that Lattimer and Denver 
 were lying in wait for him, and to urge him to take 
 her on his horse. But she did not yield to the 
 impulse, for the dangerous stretches of the back 
 trail were vividly pictured in her mind places 
 where a horse had to step carefully, where progress 
 was won by risking a fall into the dizzy depths of 
 a canyon and she knew that Lattimer and Denver 
 would follow, to await a long-range shot when 
 Brannon, encumbered by her, should inevitably 
 present the desired target. 
 
 She dismissed the plan from her mind as she 
 went slowly down the opposite side of the ridge 
 toward Brannon. Somehow she must save him. 
 
 There was only one way; and of course she must 
 take that. Brannon had been her friend all along, 
 trying in vain to make her see her folly working 
 subtly with her, lest he offend her; and she could 
 not sacrifice him even to save herself from the de 
 gradation that confronted her. So, stilling the ter 
 rible tumult within her, desperately striving for 
 
 295
 
 296 WEST ! 
 
 calmness, lest he suspect; that he might not doubt 
 her sincerity she contrived to smile at him as he 
 pulled the black horse to a halt, slid out of the 
 saddle, and confronted her. 
 
 She saw that his lips were set stiffly; that his 
 eyes, even while they searched hers as though seek 
 ing to discover what had befallen her, were hard, 
 cold, and alert; and that his gaze swept the length 
 of the ridge suspiciously. 
 
 "You re taking long rides lately," he said with 
 grim humor. 
 
 "Do you think so?" she returned calmly. 
 
 She felt a pang of remorse over the sharp look 
 he gave her. She knew his senses must be groping 
 vainly in an attempt to solve the riddle of her un 
 concern. 
 
 "Look here," he said shortly, "what do you mean? 
 Ben Whitman told us Lattimer had kidnaped you !" 
 
 Though her pulses leaped with joy over the dis 
 covery that Whitman was still alive, she sternly 
 kept the emotion hidden and laughed lightly. 
 
 "So Ben didn t die, after all!" she said. "He 
 followed us to the ledge, back there on a mountain. 
 He seemed to think I was doing wrong. He even 
 got quarrelsome and and Lattimer had to shoot 
 him." 
 
 Brannon s eyes were expressionless; though they
 
 WEST ! 297 
 
 seemed to bore into hers, to penetrate until she felt 
 he must be reading her thoughts. 
 
 "Seemed to think you were doing wrong!" he 
 repeated. "What do you mean?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" she retorted, smiling. 
 "There seems to be a mistaken impression on the 
 part of my friends that I am not capable of making 
 my own choice in the matter of a husband. Is that 
 what brought you here a fear that Lattimer was 
 running away with me?" 
 
 "That s what I thought," he returned, his gaze 
 unwavering. 
 
 She laughed, lightly, meeting his gaze fairly, 
 as she knew she must if she was to deceive 
 him. 
 
 "I came with Lattimer of my own accord, Bran- 
 non," she said. 
 
 His gaze still held. But after an instant there 
 came into his eyes a gleam that baffled her. 
 
 "Well," he said in seeming indifference, "that 
 is a matter which concerns only yourself. Where s 
 Lattimer?" 
 
 And now, despite the desperate courage that had 
 so far upheld her, she shivered. He was deter 
 mined to face Lattimer. She had hoped that after 
 she had told him she had voluntarily gone away 
 with Lattimer he would consider his responsibility
 
 298 WEST ! 
 
 ended, and return the way he had come, to leave 
 her to her own devices. 
 
 But she saw she had erred in thinking he would 
 so readily leave her. She felt that he must sus 
 pect her of lying to him, or that he had something 
 to say to the man about the shooting of Ben Whit 
 man though if Whitman were still alive 
 
 She had forgotten Les Artwell ! Perhaps Bran- 
 non s suspicions mentioned to her by Lattimer 
 had centered upon Lattimer himself. 
 
 If that was why he was determined to see Latti 
 mer, she might prevent him. 
 
 She placed a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "Les Artwell killed Calla- 
 han." 
 
 "I ve known that for some time," he said dryly, 
 looking sharply at her. 
 
 "How?" she asked. 
 
 "Hasn t Lattimer told you?" he laughed. "I 
 took Artwell s horse over to the Lazy L the morning 
 you dropped your handkerchief beside the porch. 
 I see Lattimer has told you about that!" he said, 
 with broad emphasis. 
 
 "I m having a talk with Lattimer," he added. 
 
 He began to walk toward the ridge. 
 
 Aware that certain death awaited him there she 
 ran swiftly to him, linking her arm with his 
 and laughing hysterically to keep from scream 
 ing.
 
 WEST ! 299 
 
 She knew he would seek Lattimer despite any 
 thing she might say or do. There was a gleam of 
 the old inflexibility in the depths of his eyes, a look 
 that made her think of something mighty and deep, 
 as of powerful forces moving irresistibly beneath 
 the calm surface of a sea. 
 
 It would make no difference to him the knowl 
 edge that Denver and Lattimer were awaiting him 
 with hostile intentions; she felt that if she should 
 tell him that Denver was lying in wait for him 
 he would go over the ridge anyway. 
 
 And if she were to tell him now that she had 
 lied to save him, he would not permit the sacrifice 
 and would fight for her to the end. That, she 
 knew, was what he had come for. 
 
 Arms linked together, they were already at the 
 base of the ridge. She saw him watching her with 
 covert glances, his eyes narrowed speculatively, as 
 though he was wondering at her present mood, 
 which contrasted so sharply to her former cold 
 aloofness ; but she pretended not to notice his 
 glances; and when they started up the slope of the 
 ridge she got in front of him, saying gaily : 
 
 "Ladies first, Brannon!" 
 
 Then, as he followed her, she was assailed with a 
 fear that he would be too far behind her when the 
 crest was reached. So she halted and smiled over 
 her shoulder at him. 
 
 "You might take my hand, Brannon," she said.
 
 300 WEST ! 
 
 In that manner they reached the crest of the 
 ridge. 
 
 The girl paused, caught her breath, and stood 
 rigid as she stared at the draw. 
 
 Lattimer was standing near the far side of the 
 draw, where she had left him. It seemed he had 
 not moved. She could not see Denver; but her 
 gaze went to the filmy screen of weeds near the 
 boulder behind which the man was concealed. 
 
 She had reached the crest of the ridge in advance 
 of Brannon; she now stood between him and Den 
 ver s rifle. And though she was in the grip of 
 an icy apprehension lest Denver chance a shot 
 at Brannon s head which rose, it seemed, to awful 
 heights over hers she again grasped Brannon by 
 an arm, and with her free hand contrived to wave 
 at Lattimer. That movement, she hoped, would 
 confuse Denver, who might possibly withhold his 
 murderous bullet, to await further orders from 
 Lattimer. 
 
 That order was given, she knew. For her gaze, 
 directed at Lattimer with an intensity that seemed 
 to foreshorten distance, was upon his lips. She 
 saw his lips move; saw him, as though in surprise, 
 raise a hand and move it as though in half-hearted 
 reply to her signal. 
 
 And now she was fearful that Brannon would be 
 come suspicious if she delayed. So she smilingly
 
 WEST ! 301 
 
 jerked at his, arm, still linked with hers, and said, 
 with just the hint of a taunt in her voice : 
 
 "Coming?" 
 
 Brannon did not reply; though arm in arm they 
 descended the ridge and reached the grass level. 
 
 Josephine s legs had become leaden weights that 
 were curiously unstable. All feeling had left them. 
 The distance from the ridge to the draw seemed 
 like the far-flung reaches of a continent. Her 
 nerves were singing, her heart was pounding; there 
 was no breath in her body. 
 
 But she did not relax her grip on Brannon s arm. 
 Over all the irregularities of the ground; down 
 through the deep sand of the draw, she manoeuvered 
 to keep herself always between Brannon and the 
 muzzle of Denver s rifle. 
 
 And when at lest she and Brannon halted within 
 two or three steps of Lattimer, she smiled brightly 
 at Lattimer and said distinctly: 
 
 "Lattimer, I have just told Mr. Brannon that I 
 am going with you to Panya Cache to become your 
 wife. Ben Whitman told Brannon that you were 
 taking me to the cache against my will ! Is n t 
 that ridiculous ?" 
 
 Lattimer had watched the approach of Brannon 
 and Josephine with puzzled, frowning eyes which 
 had held a gleam of suspicion. Josephine s manner 
 had given him a feeling that in some miraculous
 
 302 WEST ! 
 
 way she had arranged for a peaceful meeting be 
 tween himself and Brannon; and he had given 
 Denver a signal to withhold his fire. 
 
 It was plain to him now from the way Josephine 
 had managed it; and, quick to adapt himself to the 
 new situation, he grinned with an appearance of 
 cordiality, though there was mockery and triumph 
 in his smiling, watchful eyes. 
 
 "So Whitman didn t die, after all?" he said, his 
 gaze on Brannon. 
 
 "No," said Brannon, shortly. 
 
 "Whitman wouldn t even have been shot if if 
 he had n t interfered," said Josephine quickly, afraid 
 that Lattimer might contradict the story she had 
 told Brannon. "Is n t it odd that Whitman should 
 have had the notion that you were taking me against 
 my will, Lattimer?" She deliberately winked at 
 the man. 
 
 "Yes, odd," said Lattimer. His eyes were now 
 upon Josephine s; they were gleaming with admira 
 tion and relief. She had convinced him. 
 
 Josephine released Brannon s arm and patted him 
 lightly, lingeringly, on the shoulder. 
 
 She had succeeded. The sacrifice would be made. 
 Brannon was saved. She knew, now, that Denver 
 would not use the rifle; and she was eager to send 
 Brannon away, to have it over. 
 
 "You 11 go now, won t you, Brannon?" she said, 
 smiling into his eyes. "Tell Betty "
 
 WEST! 303 
 
 She screamed as Brannon moved. She felt one 
 of Brannon s hands against her shoulder. She 
 reeled from his violent shove, turned sidewise as 
 she fell, and landed on her back in the sand, fully 
 a dozen feet from Brannon. 
 
 But she did not take her gaze from Brannon even 
 while falling; her tense muscles had made her body 
 resistant, and she had gone down slowly, so that 
 every move Brannon made was photographed for 
 all time in her brain. 
 
 He leaped backward as he pushed her from him; 
 his right hand had leaped to the holster at his right 
 hip. The hand flashed back again, was flung up 
 ward, spouting smoke and fire. The roar of his 
 six-shooter was blended with the vicious, snapping 
 report of a rifle Denver s its smoke streaking 
 from the side of the boulder on the crest of the 
 draw. 
 
 Brannon sent one shot upward; his pistol hand 
 moving as though he had merely tossed the leaden 
 missile at Denver. The weapon swung down again, 
 was snapped to a level; smoke and fire leaping 
 in continuous lance-like streaks toward Lattimer, 
 who had got his gun out and was trying to snap 
 a shot at Brannon. 
 
 Lattimer s weapon went off; but the already 
 deadened arm had no control over it, and slipped 
 from his loosening fingers and fell soundlessly into 
 the sand.
 
 304 WEST ! 
 
 So rapid had been Brannon s movement that 
 the girl was certain Lattimer and Denver fell simul 
 taneously. At least so it seemed to her strained 
 and horrified senses. 
 
 While Lattimer, his glazed eyes expressing a sort 
 of dazed astonishment, was sagging oddly forward, 
 going slowly to his knees, Denver, on the crest 
 of the draw, was toppling inertly forward. He slid 
 gently down the sand slope and lay in a huddled heap 
 at its base; while Lattimer, seeming to have de 
 liberately selected a spot in which to die, dropped 
 to it slowly and stretched out as though going to 
 sleep. 
 
 In the weird, deep silence following, Brannon 
 stood, looking somberly from one to the other of 
 his fallen enemies. Neither moved, and Josephine 
 knew it was over. 
 
 Brannon said nothing. He did not even look at 
 her. So she got up, eager to get away from the 
 spot, and made her way to the little grass level near 
 the ridge. There she sank into a heap and cried over 
 the horror she had witnessed ; though she knew there 
 had been justification for it all. 
 
 She must have fainted. For when she opened her 
 eyes after an interminable time she saw Brannon 
 on the crest of the ridge near her. 
 
 Dusk had fallen. The land looked gray and dead 
 and the sky was faintly blue and dotted with stars. 
 She got up.
 
 WEST ! 305 
 
 Brannon heard her and came down to where she 
 stood, watching her with level eyes. 
 
 "Somebody s coming," he said. "From the 
 north. Most likely it s Cole Meeder and some 
 of the Star men. What are you going to say to 
 them? Are you going to tell them the lie you 
 told me, that you went with Lattimer willingly?" 
 
 "You knew?" she said, astonished. "You knew 
 I I lied?" 
 
 He laughed softly. 
 
 "Denver and Lattimer forgot one thing," he said. 
 "It was that I had eyes. From where I was riding 
 some time before you came to meet me, I could see 
 the top of the draw. I saw Denver climb it; 
 watched where he was hidden. Besides, even if I 
 had n t seen him, I " He paused, placed both 
 hands on her shoulders, and looked at her with eyes 
 in which there was mingled reproach and admira 
 tion. 
 
 "You don t lie convincingly, Jo," he said; "you 
 have n t practised it enough. But it was a mighty 
 fine thing you did a mighty fine thing!" 
 
 She cried softly. 
 
 Later he led her to the crest of the ridge where, 
 with the shadows deepening around them, they 
 watched Cole Meeder and the other Star men ride 
 toward them.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 AS on another day Josephine sat in a comfort 
 able rocker on the veranda of the Triangle 
 L ranch-house, contemplatively gazing out into the 
 vast reaches of the big basin. 
 
 With the majesty of peace in her soul she could 
 permit her thoughts to dwell upon the past with 
 some degree of satisfaction; for if they had done 
 nothing more, her experiences in this grim country 
 had fixed upon her senses a conviction that one 
 could not, at a stroke, alter one s nature so that 
 it would fit snugly into a new environment. 
 
 Closing her eyes and reviewing her experiences 
 from the beginning, when she had first looked into 
 Brannon s eyes there beside the railroad track, until 
 that other time, three days ago, when she had again 
 looked into Brannon s eyes as they both stood on the 
 ridge and watched the Star men riding toward them, 
 she saw that the rules of life as she had known 
 them were not elastic enough to stretch across the 
 continent to this wilderness. 
 
 She felt that Brannon typified the West, as she 
 was representative of the East. She had heard 
 people say that human nature is the same all over 
 the world, and though she was not prepared to 
 
 306
 
 WEST ! 307 
 
 quarrel with that conclusion she was convinced that 
 it had not been carried far enough. It should have 
 been amended to include something regarding en 
 vironment. 
 
 Brannon, for example, had lived all his life in 
 the West. She remembered Betty s saying he was 
 a descendant of Boone, which indicated that where 
 the wilderness reigned he was at home. Would he 
 be the same Brannon if suddenly he were set down 
 in the very center of civilization? 
 
 Josephine thought he would not be the same. 
 Perhaps he would be as inflexible, and perhaps his 
 impulses would be as violent. But before the rigid 
 laws of her country his inflexibility would be shat 
 tered and his impulses would have to be sternly 
 guarded. The law would not be in his hands, but 
 in the collective hands of all the people, to be admin 
 istered by one of their own selection. 
 
 Therefore he would not be the same Brannon. 
 
 At any rate, East or West, she would be afraid 
 of him. In the beginning she had fought against 
 him, believing she hated him. Now she realized 
 that the thing she had fought was merely the spell 
 of the romance that had seemed to surround him. 
 Since she had seen him kill Lattimer and Denver 
 the bubble of romance had been shattered. She 
 did n t love him ; she did not even like him ; though 
 she admired him for his rugged mental strength, 
 and for the iron control that he had demonstrated
 
 3 o8 WEST ! 
 
 so convincingly on the day he had faced Denver s 
 rifle. "Steel" Brannon! She would always re 
 member him that was certain! 
 
 She saw him coming now, riding toward her 
 across a level sweep of plain northward. She 
 watched him, noting the graceful ease of him in 
 the saddle; felt again the romance of him. 
 
 But she smilingly shook her head and thought of 
 a certain Eastern man who would have looked ask 
 ance upon chaps and spurs. 
 
 Brannon came on, brought the black horse to a 
 halt at the edge of the veranda, and twisted sidewise 
 in the saddle. His smile was broad, friendly 
 nothing more. 
 
 "So you re leaving us?" he said. "I just heard 
 it from one of the men. I rode in to say good-by." 
 
 "Twenty miles?" she said, referring to the dis 
 tance he had ridden. She had heard Betty mention 
 it. 
 
 "Well," he said, eying her gravely; "you would n t 
 want me to miss saying good-by to you?" 
 
 She laughed lightly at the reproof in his voice. 
 
 "I am afraid you will be glad when I am gone," 
 she said, watching him keenly. 
 
 "Oh, no," he said, his eyes flashing, "you ve been 
 mighty interesting." 
 
 "Brannon," she said for now that she was about 
 to leave she wanted to be sure he had no regrets, 
 for she remembered the night he had placed a hand
 
 WEST ! 309 
 
 on her head with a touch that had been almost a 
 caress, "are you sure you have found me merely 
 interesting?" 
 
 "I think that is all, Miss Hamilton just interest 
 ing," he said, steadily regarding her. "You see, 
 hating me as you do " 
 
 "Did," she corrected. 
 
 "As you did," he amended with a smile, "I did n t 
 presume to " 
 
 "Brannon," she interrupted, "is it Betty?" 
 
 His eyes quickened; he flushed. But his voice 
 was steady. 
 
 "I reckon it s Betty," he said. And then for the 
 first time since she had known him, she got a glimpse 
 of the gentle, human side of his character. The 
 blush suffused his face; his steady eyes wavered, 
 held an abashed gleam. 
 
 "If she 11 have me," he added. 
 
 Josephine s eyes were eloquent with secret knowl 
 edge. She smiled complacently. 
 
 "Why don t you ask her, Brannon?" she said, 
 gently. 
 
 "I m thinking of it," he said, soberly. "I ve 
 been thinking of it for two years. You see, Betty 
 don t seem to give me any encouragement." 
 
 "She won t run after you, Brannon !" 
 
 "That s so!" he said, admiration over Betty s 
 sterling qualities glinting his eyes. "She certainly 
 is a hummer, is n t she, Miss Hamilton?"
 
 3io WEST! 
 
 "If I were a man I should think her very desirable, 
 Brannon," she smiled. "Also," she added dryly, 
 "I should be afraid that some other man would 
 come along and speak to her before I got a chance. 
 And I think you have a chance, Brannon !" 
 
 He was grateful, and boyishly elated; and he 
 gave her a glance that made her pulses leap, that 
 gave her a hint of how much she would have re 
 gretted leaving him if fate had willed that things 
 were to be otherwise. 
 
 But the emotion passed quickly. In the next in 
 stant she was shaking hands with him, for he had 
 got off his horse to say farewell. 
 
 "You re leaving on the five o clock, I reckon? * 
 he said. 
 
 "Lin Murray is hitching up the horses, now," she 
 answered. "I shall leave here inside of ten min 
 utes." 
 
 "Betty s going with you as far as Willets ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well," he said gravely, "I 11 say good-by in 
 town. There s times when Lin Murray is n t re 
 liable." 
 
 He left her and walked toward the corral, where 
 Lin Murray was hitching the horses to the buck- 
 board. 
 
 At the end of ten minutes the buckboard whirled 
 up to the edge of the veranda. Brannon was alone 
 in the driver s seat. His face was set stoically.
 
 WEST! 311 
 
 Josephine had gone into the house to get her 
 things ; and when Betty came out Josephine was di 
 rectly behind her. 
 
 Betty was half-way across the gallery before she 
 saw Brannon, lounging unconcernedly in the buck- 
 board. 
 
 She halted, her cheeks crimson. 
 
 "Brannon," she said, "where is Murray? I told 
 him he was to drive us to town !" 
 
 "Murray s sick," he returned quietly, not meeting 
 her gaze. "Lucky I came in, was n t it?" he added, 
 now turning to look at her ; whereat the flame deep 
 ened in her cheeks. "You d have had to drive 
 home alone." 
 
 Betty might have been alone for the first few miles 
 of the return trip for all the oral evidence she had 
 of Brannon s presence. His conversation was 
 limited to monosyllables directed at the horses that 
 loped steadily through the deepening dusk. 
 
 But Betty did not speak more than Brannon; for 
 there were certain regrets that made the hearts of 
 both heavy regret that a young woman who had 
 come West with ideals had remained to see them 
 destroyed by contact with the type of man who 
 is ever present in all communities the breaker of 
 laws. 
 
 "She should n t have interfered as she did, 
 though," said Brannon suddenly, voicing a thought. 
 
 "No," said Betty, quite as though she were taking
 
 312 WEST! 
 
 up the thread of a previous conversation. "That 
 was where she made a mistake." 
 
 "Her second was in hating me," said Brannon. 
 "I tried" 
 
 "She didn t, Brannon!" 
 
 "Didn t what?" 
 
 "She did n t hate you. She never will ! Why, 
 when you were talking to her on the veranda, just 
 before we left; she said " 
 
 "You were listening?" he charged. He leaned 
 toward her, peering at her through the deepening 
 dusk, to see that her cheeks were aflame. 
 
 "I I could n t help it, Brannon," she said. "You 
 see, I was just coming out, and when I got to to " 
 
 She paused, curious to know why Brannon had 
 sighed so deeply. 
 
 "Why did you do that, Brannon?" she asked. 
 
 "Tickled," he returned. "I ve been two years 
 trying to tell you what I told her. I reckon I never 
 would have had the courage to do it." 
 
 "But you must, Brannon," she whispered. "I 
 would never be satisfied to know that you told an 
 other woman even though I heard " 
 
 With no hand to guide them, the horses finally 
 came to a halt to crop the sweet grasses that grew 
 beside the trail; while the man whose courage had 
 earned him the sobriquet "Steel" told to his pre 
 destined mate the old, old story which is always 
 new; which is the same to-day and to-morrow and 
 which knows no North, no South, no East, no West.
 
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