THE LAST STRAW 
 
THE LAST STRAW 
 
 By HAROLD TITUS 
 
 Author of 
 
 ^ Bruce of the Circle A,* 
 
 ''J - Conquered,** etc 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 
 
 New York 
 
 Publi^ed by arrmngement with Small Maynard and Company 
 
 11 
 
CJopyright, 1920, 
 
 By small, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
 (incorporated) 
 
2(^1 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I The New Boss i 
 
 II My Advice, Ma'am ii 
 
 III The Nester — and Another 22 
 
 IV The Champion 44 
 
 V The Courting 57 
 
 VI Outcasts 66 
 
 VII The Catamount 71 
 
 VIII And Now, the Clergy 79 
 
 IX The Destroyer 86 
 
 X A Matter of Direction . 96 
 
 XI Hepburn's Play 107 
 
 XII A Neighborly Call 115 
 
 XIII The Frame-Up 134 
 
 XIV The Big Chance 144 
 
 XV War! 150 
 
 XVI The Warning ic6 
 
 XVII His Faithful Little Pony 167 
 
 XVIII An Interrupted Proposal 183 
 
 XIX Concerning Sam McKee 189 
 
 XX " Work Among the Heathen ''■' 194 
 
 XXI Renunciation 207 
 
 XXII The Reverend's Strategy 216 
 
 XXIII Beck's Departure 224 
 
 XXIV In the Shadow 230 
 
 XXV A Mountain Portia 243 
 
 XXVI Battle! 271 
 
 XXVII The Last Straw 2S1 
 
 M55S953 
 
THE LAST STRAW 
 
T 
 
 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE NEW BOSS 
 
 HE last patches of snow, even in the most secluded 
 gulches, had been licked up by the mounting sun; 
 the waters of Coyote Creek had returned to the confines of 
 the stream bed ; in places a suggestion of green was making 
 its appearance about the bases of grass clumps, and cotton- 
 wood buds were swelling. Four men sat on the bench be- 
 fore the bunkhouse of the H. C. ranch ; one was braiding a 
 belt, another whittling and two more, hats over their eyes 
 to shield them from the brilliant light, joined in the de- 
 sultory conversation from time to time. 
 
 In the pauses, such as the one now prevailing, was some- 
 thing besides the spirit of idling. Dad Hepburn, gray of 
 hair, eye and mustache, but with the body of a young man, 
 who sat nearest the doorway, glanced frequently towards 
 the road as though expecting to see another come that way 
 to bring fresh interest ; Two-Bits Beal was uneasy and diH 
 not remain long in one pose, as men do who sit in the first 
 real warmth of spring for its own sake ; Jimmy Oliver, the 
 whittler, stopped now and then and held his head at an 
 angle, as if listening; and although he worked industriously 
 at the belt it was evident that Tom Beck had thought for 
 other aflfairs. 
 
 " So she was his nephew an' only heir," commented Two- 
 Bits, gravely. Hepburn stirred and snorted softly. Jimmy 
 Oliver looked at the homely, freckle-blotched face of the 
 
 I 
 
2 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 gaunt speaker and grinned. After a moment Tom Beck 
 said : 
 
 '* Two-Bits, for a smart man you know less than any- 
 body I ever encountered ! When I first set eyes on you, 
 I said to myself, ' That man ain't real. He's no work of 
 God A'mighty. Some of these hombres that draw cartoons 
 for newspapers got him up.' But I thought you must have 
 brains, seein' you're so powerful low on looks. You're a 
 good cowhand and a first rate horse handler, but won't you 
 ever get anything in your head but those things? Or did 
 this cartoonist make a mistake an' put your kidneys in 
 your skull? 
 
 " Niece ; niece ! Not nephew ! " 
 
 " Have it your way," Two-Bits said in his high voice, 
 swallowing so his immense Adam/s apple shot up half the 
 extraordinary length of his lean throat toward his pointed 
 chin, and slipped back again with a jerk. *' I was half 
 right, wasn't I ? She's his only heir, ain't she ? You can't 
 ask a man to be more 'n half right, can you? " 
 
 "If his heir 'd been a nephew instead of a niece, we 
 wouldn't all be settin' here so anxious about this arrival," 
 opined Jimmy. " An' we wouldn't all be wonderin' if we 
 was goin' to work for a squaw outfit. It'll be a relief when 
 this lady lands in our midst. Mebby there'll be less specu- 
 latin' and more work done." 
 
 " You're right," assented Dad, and pulled at his mus- 
 tache. " There's a lot to do." 
 
 Tom Beck began to whistle softly and the older man 
 glanced sideways at him uneasily; then fixed his eyes on 
 the road. 
 
 " I'll bet two bit," volunteered Two-Bits, ** that she's 
 as homely as Tom claims I am an' about as pleasant as a 
 hod full of bumble bees." 
 
 No one demonstrated interest in his ofTer and, as though 
 he had not even heard it, Beck said : 
 
 *' Seems to me there's been a lot goin' on lately, Dad. 
 Or did you mean there was a lot. more to do?" 
 
THE NEW BOSS 3 
 
 *' I don't remember such awful activity," the other re- 
 plied. *' 'Course, there's been — " 
 
 " Nobody ever located those four mares an' their colts, 
 did they? And the last we heard about that bunch of 
 white faces they was headed towards Utah with a shod 
 horse trailing 'em." 
 
 Hepburn changed what started as an impatient expos- 
 tulation into a sharp sigh and relieved himself by stabbing 
 a spur into the hard ground. 
 
 *' Yes, there has been stealin'," he admitted. " There's 
 been a lot of it. But who could do anything? The old 
 man had been slack for years and in the last months before 
 the end he just let go entire. He wouldn't even give any- 
 body else authority enough to have any say ; didn't even 
 have a foreman. That's why horses an' cattle have been 
 stole from him. 
 
 " 'Course, there's been more devil to pay since he died 
 than v/ent on before, but when a man leaves things in a 
 lawyer's hands and the lawyer won't even look in on the 
 job, what you goin' to do?" 
 
 His manner was as benevolent as it was deliberate and 
 he turned a paternal smile on Beck. 
 
 " Let the thievin' go merrily on, I expect," the other said, 
 giving the leather strips a series of sturdy jerks to tighten 
 the mesh. 
 
 " I expect you'd like to be foreman, wouldn't you, Dad? " 
 Two-Bits asked innocently, whereupon Hepburn certified 
 the accuracy of that surmisal by moving uneasily. " You'd 
 make a fair foreman . . . fair. Now Tommy here," he 
 continued, oblivious of the older man's discomfiture and the 
 delighted smiles of the others, " would make a fine foreman 
 if he'd only give a damn. But he don't ... he don't. It's 
 too bad. Tommy, you don't settle down and amount to some- 
 thin'. You're the best hand in this country ! " 
 
 Beck lifted his face and sniflfed loudly. 
 
 " The smell of your bouquet is about as delicate as your 
 diplomacy, Two-Bits ! " he said. 
 
4 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Another pause. Beck resumed his whistHng and Hep- 
 burn devoted his attention to the road. Once he looked at 
 the other from the tail of his eye and a flicker of ill temper 
 showed in his broad, grizzled face. 
 
 "Her name's Jane, ain't it?" Two-Bits was an ardent 
 conversationalist. '* Jane Hunter ! I knowed a school 
 marm named Hunter onct. She was worse 'n thunder for 
 sourin' milk. 
 
 " I'll bet — " 
 
 " Listen ! '' 
 
 Oliver held up his knife in gesture and Two-Bits stopped 
 talking. The sounds of an approaching wagon were clearly- 
 audible. 
 
 " I'll bet it's the mail instead of — " 
 
 " You lose," muttered Hepburn, getting to his feet as a 
 buckboard swung around the bend. 
 
 *' An' she sure's come to stay ! " from Jimmy as he closed 
 his knife with an air of finality. 
 
 The body of the wagon was piled high with trunks and 
 bags and beside the driver sat a very small woman. That 
 she w^as not of the west, not the sort of woman these men 
 had been accustomed to deal with, was evident from the 
 clothes she wore, but at least one of them remarked that 
 she was not wholly without the qualities essential to the 
 frontier for, when the driver dropped down to open the 
 gate, he gave her the reins to the lathered, excited 
 horses which had brought her from the railroad. As 
 soon as the gate swung open they sprang forward, but 
 she put her vv^eight on the reins and spoke with confident 
 authority and wrenched them back. 
 
 " Not exactly helpless, anyhow," Tom Beck said to him- 
 self. 
 
 He was the only one of the group who did not walk 
 across toward the cottonwoods which sheltered the long, 
 red ranch house beside the creek. He sat there, braiding his 
 belt, an indefinable half smile on his face. 
 
 The girl — for girlishness was her outstanding quality 
 
THE NEW BOSS 5 
 
 — jumped out unassisted. Sl.e looked about slowly, at the 
 house first of all, then at the low stable and the corrals and, 
 lastly, down the creek, on ehher side of which the hills rose 
 sharply, giving a false appearance of narrowness to the 
 bottoms, and her eyes rested for a long moment on the 
 ridges far below, blue and sharp in the cr}'stal distance. 
 
 She was unaware that the driver was waiting for her 
 to give further directions and that the three others had 
 come close and stopped, waiting for her to notice them, 
 for she said aloud, as though to herself : 
 
 " For a beginning, this is quite remarkable I " Then 
 she laughed sharply, with a hard mirthless quality, and 
 turned about. She was genuinely surprised to confront 
 the men ; evidence of this was in her eyes, which were large 
 and remarkably blue. She smiled brightly and said : 
 
 " Oh, I didn't know I was overlooking any one ! I sup- 
 pose you men belong here, on the ranch, and it's likely you've 
 been v/aiting for the new owner to come. Well, here I 
 am ! I'm Jane Hunter and I want to know who you are. 
 Now what is your name ? " 
 
 Her frankness, that unhesitating, assured manner of a 
 distinct tv'pe of city-bred woman, was new but it over-rode 
 somewhat the embarrassment thev all felt. 
 
 " ]\ly name is Hepburn, ma'am," Dad said and shook 
 hands heavily. *'' I hope you like this place." 
 
 *' I know^ I shall, Mr. Hepburn. And your name ? " 
 
 " That's Jimmy Oliver, Miss Hunter," Hepburn said. 
 
 Two-Bits had watched this with growing confusion and 
 when she turned on him her searching, straightforward 
 glance his freckles became lost in a pink suffusion. He 
 swayed his body from the hips and looked high over her 
 head as he offered a lim.p hand. 
 
 I'm blister Beal," he said weakly. 
 
 Don't you believe that ! " laughed Hepburn. '*' That's 
 Two-Bits. He ain't entitled to any frills." 
 
 *' Two-Bits it is ! " the girl cried, scanning his face in 
 amazement at its color and contour. " I couldn't call vou 
 
 
i 
 
 6 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 mister, Two-Bits. We're going to be too good friends for 
 that ! " 
 
 " Oh my gosh ! " giggled the flustered cowboy and turned 
 away, seeking refuge in the bunkhouse. 
 
 " You talk about me bein' got up by a feller that draws 
 pictures, Tom," he said to Beck. " Holy Tin Can, you 
 ought to see her ! Why, this feller that paints them girls for i 
 these here, now, magazines painted her ! She looks like f 
 she walked right out of a picture, with blue eyes an' yeller , 
 hair an' all pink an' white. An' friendly. ... Oh my, i 
 I'll bet she makes this outfit take notice ! " 
 
 Old Carlobta, the half-breed Mexican woman who had 
 been housekeeper at the H C for years had come from the |' 
 house to greet her new mistress. The trunks were car-!j| 
 ried in, the buckboard departed for its twenty-five mile trip ; li 
 back to town and the riders who had been at work further 
 down the creek straggled in to hear the first tales of their f 
 new boss. 
 
 Conjecture was high as to her plan of procedure. 
 
 *' It won't take long for things to happen. You can 
 bank on that," Jimmy Oliver declared. " She ain't our kind 
 ■of a woman an' the good Lord alone knows what notions 
 she'll have, but she'll get busy! She's that kind." 
 
 He was not wrong for just as the sun was drawing down 
 into the hills Carlotta appeared at the bunkhouse. 
 
 '' Miss Hunter, she want to spik to Senor Dad an' Beck 
 an' Jimmy an' Curtis," she said. " Right away, quick- 
 pronto" 
 
 " This must be a mass meetin' with th' rest of us left 
 out," Two-Bits said. " I'd give a dollar to look at her 
 again . . . clost up. I'll bet I wouldn't be afraid to look 
 next time." 
 
 The four men summoned went immediately to the big 
 house. Beck lagged a trifle and it was certain from his 
 manner that his curiosity was not greatly excited. He ap- 
 peared to be amused, for his black eyes twinkled gaily, but 
 as they passed through the gate they set their gaze on the 
 
 t 
 
THE NEW BOSS 7 
 
 back of Hepburn's broad neck and a curious speculation 
 showed in them. ^ 
 
 Jane Hunter was waiting on the veranda which ran the 
 length of the ranch house and without formalities began her 
 explanation. 
 
 *' You all know the situation, I believe. My uncle left 
 me this ranch and I have come from New York to take 
 possession. How long I remain depends on a number of 
 things, but I find that for the present at least, I must con- 
 duct my own business. For the last four weeks, since 
 the property came to me, it has been in the hands of Mr. 
 Alward, the attorney in town, I arrived yesterday expect- 
 ing to have his help, but his doctor has sent him into a lower 
 altitude because of some heart difficulty and I'm alone on 
 the job with nothing to guide me but a lengthy letter he 
 wrote. 
 
 " I know little about business of any sort, I know nothing 
 at all about ranching, so I have a great deal to learn. I 
 do know that the first thing I need is an actual head for 
 this place and that is why I called you here : to select a . . . 
 a foreman, you call him? 
 
 " Mr. Ahvard left word that any one of you four men 
 would be competent and I'm going to choose one of you by 
 chance : Understand, this is no guarantee to keep whoever 
 is chosen on the job for any length of time, but I don't care 
 to take the responsibility of handling the men myself, as my 
 uncle and as Mr. Alward have done. Some one must do 
 this and until I learn enough to know what I want I will be 
 dependent upon whomever is selected." 
 
 She had spoken rapidly, at no loss for words, without a 
 trace of hesitation or embarrassment, looking intently from 
 face to face, studying the men as she explained her plan, 
 but as she paused her eyes were on Beck's eyes and their 
 gaze was arrested there a moment as though it had en- 
 countered something not usu-al. 
 
 " I am going to need all your help and all the suggestions 
 that you can give me," — with a slight gesture to include 
 
8 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 the four, though she still looked straight at the tall West- 
 erner, — " but I feel that at first there must be system of 
 some sort, a man at the head of the organization. I'm 
 going to let you draw straws for the place." 
 
 The men stirred and looked at one another. 
 
 " That's fair enough," said Dad, with just a trace of 
 indecision in his voice. 
 
 '* For us," commented Curtis, a lean, leathery man. 
 
 Jane stooped and picked up an oat straw. She broke off 
 four pieces and placed them tightly between her thumb and 
 palm. 
 
 " Now, draw ! " she directed, with a smile, holding them 
 toward Curtis. " The lucky straw will be the shortest." 
 
 Curtis silently selected one of the bits. Then Jimmy 
 Oliver drew and the two stood eyeing the lots they had 
 picked. Hepburn had cleared his throat twice rather 
 sharply when the drawing commenced and as he stepped 
 forward at her gesture he manifested an eagerness which 
 did not quite harmonize with his usual deliberation. He 
 drew, eyed his straw and glanced sharply at those held by 
 the other two. 
 
 Beck had not moved forward with the others, but stood 
 back, thumbs hooked in his belt, his eyes, which were mildly 
 smiling, still on the girl's face. She looked at him again 
 and saw there something other than the interest that ap- 
 proached eagerness which had been evident in the others; 
 she read another thing which caught her attention ; the man 
 was laughing at her, she felt, laughing at her and at the 
 entire performance. It seemed to him to be an absurdity 
 and as she searched his expression again and perceived that 
 this was no bucolic whim but the attitude of a man whose 
 assurance was as stable as her own the smile which had been 
 on her face faded a degree. 
 
 *' Now it is your turn ... the last straw," she said to 
 him. 
 
 Thank you, ma'am," he replied in an even, matter-of- 
 
 it 
 
THE NEW BOSS 
 
 fact voice, though that annoyiiig smile was still in his eyes, 
 " but I guess you can count me out." 
 
 She lowered the hand which held the straw. 
 
 " You don't care to draw ? " 
 
 " That's what I meant, ma'am." 
 
 *'And why not?" 
 
 She was piqued, without good reason, at this refusal. 
 
 " In the first place, ma'am, I've never taken a chance in 
 my life, if I knew it. I've tried to arrange so I wouldn't 
 have to. I'm a poor gambler." 
 
 A suggestion of a flush crept into the girl's cheeks, for, 
 though his manner was all frankness, he gave the impression 
 that this was not his reason, or, at least, not his best reason ; 
 he seemed, in a subtle manner, to be poking fun at her. 
 ** Besides," he went on, " pickin' at pieces of straw don't 
 seem like a good way to pick men." 
 
 " You understand why it is being done that way ? '^ 
 Though her manner did not betray it, she felt as though she 
 were on the defensive. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I wasn't reflecting on you especially. I 
 was thinkin' about your lawyer. But you won't be so very 
 mad, if I ain't crazy to take a chance, will you? If any- 
 body wants to know whether I can hold a job or not, I'd 
 sooner have 'em ask about me or try me; when it comes to 
 drawing lots I'll have to be counted out." 
 
 His eyes had been squarely on hers throughout and when 
 he ceased speaking they still clung. Beyond a doubt, she 
 reasoned, that flicker in them was amusement and yet she 
 felt no resentment towards him; was not even annoyed as 
 she had been at his first refusal. It was interesting; it 
 impressed her with a diflference between him and the three 
 who had drawn. For a moment she was impelled to argue ; 
 she wanted that man to help her more than she wanted to 
 retain her poise . . . just an instant. 
 
 Abruptly she turned to the others. 
 
 " Very well, we will see who did win." 
 
lo THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The four drew close together and measured. 
 
 " Mr. Hepburn's is the shortest!" she cried; then looked 
 at the fourth straw she still held. It was shorter by half 
 an inch. 
 
 " You would have drawn well," she said to Beck, hold- 
 ing it up. 
 
 *• So it seems, ma'am," he answered, but she noticed that 
 he did not look at her. His eyes were on the new fore- 
 man's face, which was flushed with the depressions beneath 
 the eyes puffed a bit. He was nervously breaking to shreds 
 the straw which had won the place but about him was a 
 bearing of unmistakable elation and something in his eyes, 
 which were small, and about his chin suggested greed. . . . 
 
 The four started away and Jane stood watching them. 
 Four! And one of them was to be her deputy in life's 
 first — and perhaps life's saving — adventure. But she 
 did not watch him, in fact, had no thought for him. Her 
 eyes followed Tom Beck until he was out of sight and as 
 she turned to enter the house she said: 
 
 " But he looks as though he might take a . . . long 
 chance. ..." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MY ADVICE, ma'am 
 
 HE stood on a bearskin rug before the blazing fire, hat 
 in hand, boots poHshed, tall and trim with his hand- 
 some head bowed just a trifle. The blazing logs gave the 
 only light to the place and his bronzed face was burnished 
 by their reflection. 
 
 " You sent for me ? " he asked as she came into the room. 
 
 She advanced from the shadows and for a moment did not 
 reply. She felt that he was taking her in from her crown 
 of light hair, down through the smart, high-collared waist 
 to the short, scant skirt which showed her silken clad ankles 
 and the modish shoes. His eyes rested on those shoes. He 
 was thinking that they were wonderfully plain for a city 
 girl to wear, at kast the sort of city girl he had ever known. 
 But they had a simplicity which he thought went well with 
 her manner. 
 
 " I had planned on talking to Mr. Hepburn this evening," 
 she said. '* I want to get all the information and all the ad- 
 vice I can from the start. Carlotta said he had gone away, 
 so, in spite of the fact that you wouldn't gamble with me 
 this afternoon, I sent for you. I think that you can tell 
 me many things I need to know. You don't mind my ask- 
 ing you, do you? You don't feel that you'd be ... be 
 taking a chance, talking to me ? " 
 
 She took his hat. 
 
 " Sit down," motioning to the davenport before the fire. 
 " Would you like to start with a drink ? " 
 
 " Why, yes," eyeing her calculatingly. 
 
 *' There's not much here. I slipped one bottle of V"er- 
 
 II 
 
12 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 mouth in a trunk. I'll have to try to mix a cocktail in a 
 tumbler and there isn't any ice. It's likely to be a bad cock- 
 tail, but maybe it will help us talk." 
 
 She walked down the long room toward the dining table 
 and sideboard at the far end and he heard glass clinking 
 and liquids gurgling as he sat looking about with that small 
 part of a smile on his features. All along the walls were 
 books and above the cases hung trophies of the country: 
 heads of deer and elk, a pelt of a mountain lion and of a 
 bobcat, a pair of magnificent sheep's horns and a stuffed 
 eagle. In the low windows were boxes of geraniums, Car- 
 lotta's pride. 
 
 " Here you are," she said as she returned, holding one of 
 the two glasses toward Beck, who rose to accept it. *' My 
 imcle left a very small stock of drinks, but as soon as I know 
 what I'm about I'll try to remedy that defect in an other- 
 wise splendid establishment." Her manner was terse, 
 brisk, open and her eyes met another's directly when she 
 talked. 
 
 She lifted her glass to her chin's level and smiled at him. 
 
 " To the future ! " she said. 
 
 His question was adroitly timed for she had just given 
 the glass a slight toss and was already carrying its rim to- 
 ward her lips when his words checked the movement. 
 
 " I take it, ma'am, that you'll want this liquor to go where 
 it'll do your future the most good?" 
 
 He looked from her down to the cocktail he held and 
 moved the glass in a quick little circle to set the yellow liquid 
 swirling. His voice had been quite casual, but when he 
 raised his eyes to meet her inquiring look the last of a 
 twinkle was giving way to gravity. 
 
 "You mean? . . ." 
 
 " Just about what I said : that you'd like to have this brace 
 of drinks do your future some good?" 
 
 " Why, yes, that was my intention. Why ? " 
 
 " You called me down here to get a little advice. Let's 
 commence here." 
 
MY ADVICE, MA'AM 13 
 
 He reached out for her gkss in a manner which was at 
 once gentle and dominating, presumptuous but unoffending, 
 with a measure of certainty; still, by his face, she might have 
 told that he was experimenting with her, not just sure of 
 how she would react, not, perhaps, caring a great deal. His 
 fingers closed on her glass and she yielded with half laugh- 
 ing, half protesting astonishment. He took both glasses 
 in one hand, moved deliberately toward the hearth and 
 tossed their contents into the flames. He then set the empty 
 tumblers on the mantel and turned about with a questioning 
 smile on his lips. 
 
 The sharp, slowly dwihdling hiss of quenched flame which 
 followed completely died out before she spoke. Color had 
 leaped into her cheeks and ebbed as quickly; her lips had 
 shut in a tight line and for a fraction of time it was as 
 though she would angrily demand explanation. 
 
 But she said evenly enough : '' I don't understand that." 
 
 " I'm glad you didn't show how mad it made you," he 
 replied. 
 
 '' But why. . . . What made you do it ? " 
 
 " You said, you know, that you wanted that liquor to go 
 where it'd help your future. I thought the fire was about 
 the best place for it under the circumstances." 
 
 " But why di — " 
 
 "And I believed you when you said you had- a lot to 
 learn and that you called me down to start the job. You 
 have a way of makin' people think you mean what you say. 
 I'm mighty glad to give you advice ; I thought this was a 
 good way to begin." 
 
 Jane gave a queer laugh and sat down, looking blankly 
 into the fire. She turned her face after a moment and 
 found him studying her as he sat at the other end of the 
 davenport. 
 
 " I understand your meaning," she said, " but you're as 
 startling in your actions as you must be in your reasoning. 
 You didn't object to the idea of a drink; I didn't think many 
 of you people did out here." 
 
14 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " We don't, ma'am. Most of us drink our share. I do." 
 
 " But just now you threw yours away." 
 
 " You see, I was bound to throw yours away. It wouldn't 
 have been poHte, would it, for me to drink and not let you ? " 
 His smile mocked her. *' Besides," dryly — " I ain't much 
 on these fancy drinks. You warned me that it wouldn't be 
 so very good anyhow." 
 
 She stared at him in perplexity. 
 
 "You have no scruples against drinking?" 
 
 "Moderate drinking; no." 
 
 "Then why did you take this liberty with me?" — sug- 
 gesting indignation. 
 
 " You see, you're a woman. You guessed a minute ago 
 that there wasn't much objection to hard liquor here. I 
 told you you were right ; most of us boys drink, but we can 
 afford to and you can't." His manner was light, almost to 
 the degree of banter, as if that which had aroused her was 
 the simplest of matters. 
 
 " A (man in this country don't build a reputation on many 
 things. So long as he's honest, he gets along pretty well. 
 But a woman: that's different. She has to make people 
 know she's right in everything she does." 
 
 An occasional drink will make her less right? " 
 Not a bit less, ma'am, but it won't help other folks to 
 know she's right. And that's all that counts. Everybody, 
 man or woman, who comes into the west has to make or 
 break by what he does here; nothin' that has been, good or 
 bad, matters. They commence from the bottom again and 
 by what they do people judge them. 
 
 " Reputation is the first thing you've got to make for your- 
 self. Everybody is watchin' you : the boys here on the 
 ranch, the neighbors down creek, the people in town. 
 You've got to show that you're honest, that you've got 
 courage ; if you were a man it could stop there, but you're 
 a woman an' that makes it . . . 
 
 " Well, men out here expect things from a woman that I 
 guess men in cities don't think so much about and you might 
 
 
MY ADVICE, MA'AM 15 
 
 as well know now as any time that men in this country don't 
 like to see a woman do some of the things they do. We 
 ain't as polite as some ; we ain't as gentle, when it's neces- 
 sary to act quick and for sure, but maybe we make up for 
 some of our roughness in the idea we have of women. We 
 think a good woman is about as fine a thing as God has 
 made, ma'am, and we have our ideas of goodness. 
 
 " You see, you've got to handle men ; you've got to have 
 their respect and you won't have their respect if you don't 
 understand how they think, and then act accordingly. 
 
 " Besides, you're on a job that's going to take all the 
 brains and grit and strength you've got. Booze never helped 
 anybody on a job like that. If you Vv^as a man and your 
 job was just ridin' after cattle it'd be different. But neither 
 one is the case. , . . 
 
 ** My advice, ma'am ! " 
 
 She watched his face a moment before saying: 
 
 " As long as I can remember, women about me have been 
 drinking. Ever since I grew up I've been drinking. I've 
 never taken too much ; I've never needed it ; I've done it be- 
 cause . . . because it was being done." 
 
 *' Yeah. W>11, it ain't done here. It's a new country 
 and a new life for you and one of the first things you've got 
 to learn is how to get on with people. Maybe back east 
 some of the folks wouldn't respect you if you didn't drink. 
 There are folks like that, who think it's smart to do certain 
 things, and maybe there are a lot of 'em like you, who don't 
 need it, don't even want it, but they do it because of their 
 reputations. 
 
 " You see, it's the same rule workin' backwards out here." 
 
 The girl moved to face the fire again. She scowled a 
 trifle and the glow on her cheeks was not wholly due to the 
 reflection of the blazing logs. 
 
 " Did it ever occur to you that there might be people who 
 gave little attention to what otliers think of them ? " she 
 asked rather coldly. 
 
 *' Sure thing! There are lots like that." 
 
i6 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " I can see where, if a stranger were to plan to stay in a 
 place like this for long it might be expedient to ... to 
 cater to the community morals. I don't intend to be a per- 
 manent resident. That is, I won't if I can help it. I don't 
 expect that I'd ever come up to your notion of a worthy 
 woman," — a bitterness creeping into the voice — " so per- 
 haps it is fortunate that I look on this ranch only as means 
 to an end." 
 
 " You mean, money, ma'am ? " he asked, and when she did 
 not reply at once he went on : *' Folks generally come west 
 for one of three reasons : money or health or because they 
 like the country. I take it your health's all right . . . and 
 that you ain't just struck with the country." 
 
 She made a slight grimace and sat forward, elbows on 
 knees. 
 
 " Yes, money ! " she said under her breath. " I came here 
 to get it. I'm going to." She looked up at him quickly, 
 eyebrows arched in a somewhat defiant query, and, after a 
 pause, went on : " You don't seem to approve ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am," candidly, that smile only half hidden in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " And why not ? What else is there out here for a woman 
 like me ? " 
 
 " That's a hard question. One thing she might find is 
 herself, for instance." 
 
 She gave a startled laugh and asked : 
 
 "Herself?" 
 
 " The same, ma'am. I s'pose there are folks who live for 
 money and what it'll bring 'em. Cities must be full of 'em, 
 or there wouldn't be so many cities. Folks do work pretty 
 hard to make money an' pile it up, but I've never seen any 
 of 'em that got to be very successful in other ways. The 
 more money they made the more they seemed to depend on 
 makin' money to attract attention. They don't seem to think 
 that it ain't what a man does that really counts so much as 
 what he is. The same goes for a woman." 
 
 She sat back, brows drawn together. 
 
MY ADVICE, MA'AM 17 
 
 " Are you trying to preach to me ? " she asked sharply. 
 
 Beck laughed Hghtly, as though that obvious hurting of 
 her pride delighted him, 
 
 " N'Ot just, ma'am. Preachers hammer away at folks 
 about sin and such. I hadn't thought about you as a sinner ; 
 I was just considerin' you and your job; and what you say 
 brought you here. 
 
 " It's none of my business what you want to get out of 
 life. You told me what you wanted and asked me if I 
 didn't like it, and I don't. That's all. 
 
 " It seems to me that everybody who's alive ought to 
 want to get the best out of himself and I don't think you 
 can do it by just try in' to herd dollars." He divined in her 
 retort what she was withholding. " Sure, I'm only an 
 ordinary cowpuncher, ma'am. I don't seem to care much 
 about any kind of success but I'm afflicted like everybody 
 else: I'm a human being, and every one of us likes to pick 
 on the faults he finds in others that correspond to his own 
 faults. . . . 
 
 " You see, you've got a big chance here. You've got a 
 chance to be somebody. This is one of the biggest outfits in 
 this state. All this country out here has been this outfit's 
 range for years. You ain't got a neighbor in miles because 
 you amount to so much. Away down Coyote Creek, 'most 
 thirty miles, is Riley's ranch, an' close by him is Hewitt's. 
 Off west an' south is Pat Webb's who, far as you're con- 
 cerned, might better be a good deal further west," dryly. 
 
 " Your uncle an' Riley was the first in here. Why, 
 ma'am, they had to fight Indians to protect their cattle ! 
 They made names for 'emselves. They made money, too, 
 or at least your uncle did, but he wasn't respected just be- 
 cause he made money. Men liked him because he did 
 things. 
 
 *' Men will like you if you do things, ma'am. . . . Per- 
 haps you'll like yourself better, too." 
 
 He looked into her eyes and their gazes were for the mo- 
 ment very serious. Jane Hunter was meeting with a new 
 
i8 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 sense of values ; Tom Beck had sensed a faint recklessness, 
 a despair, about her and, behind all his mockery and light- 
 ness, was a warm heart. Then she terminated the interval 
 of silence by saying rather impatiently : 
 
 " That's all very interesting, but what you said about my 
 needing my brains and my grit is of greater interest. Do 
 you mean that it's just a big job naturally or that there are 
 complications ? " 
 
 "Both." 
 
 "How much of both?" 
 
 Beck shoved a hand into his pocket and gave his head a 
 skeptical twist. 
 
 " That remains to be seen. It's a man's job to run this 
 place under favorable conditions. Your uncle. Colonel 
 Hunter, sort of got shiftless in the last years. He let things 
 slide. I don't know about debts and such, but I suspect 
 there are some. There are other things, though. You've 
 got some envious neighbors . . . and some that ain't particu- 
 lar how they make their money," — with just a shade of 
 emphasis on the last. 
 
 "You mean that they steal?" 
 
 " Plentv, ma'am." 
 
 " But how ? Who ? " 
 
 " I don't know, but it seems to be gettin' quite the custom 
 here to get rich ofif the H C . . . especially since the place 
 changed owners." 
 
 ''Why at that particular time?" 
 
 " Since it got noised about that a woman was goin' to own 
 it there's been a lively interest in crime. I told you that 
 your uncle was a man who was respected a lot. Some 
 feared him, too." 
 
 " And they won't respect me because I'm a woman ? " 
 
 "That's about it. It's believed, ma'am, that a woman, 
 'specially an Eastern woman, can't make a go of it out here, 
 so what's the use of givin' her a fair show ? " 
 
 He waited for her to speak again but she did not and 
 he added with that experimental manner: 
 
MY ADVICE, MA'AM 19 
 
 " So, maybe, if you want to make money, it'd be well to 
 find a buyer. Maybe if you was to take an interest in this 
 ranch and did want to be . . . to stay in this country, you 
 couldn't make it go." 
 
 " Do you think that's impossible ? " 
 
 He waited a moment before saying: 
 I don't know. You don't make a very good start, 
 
 
 ma am. 
 
 At least you are deliciously frank ! " 
 
 " It pays ; it does away with misunderstandings. I 
 wouldn't want you to think — since you've asked ^me — that 
 I believed you could make a go of this ranch, even if you 
 wanted to." 
 
 That stung her sharply ; she drew her breath in with a 
 slight sound and leaned quickly forward as if ready to de- 
 nounce his skepticism, but she did not speak. 
 
 She only arose impatiently and walked to the mantel. 
 
 " Do you smoke ? " she asked, holding out a box of ciga- 
 rettes. 
 
 " Yes ; do you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 In the word was a clear defiance. She struck a match 
 and held it towards him; then lighted her own cigarette. 
 
 Seated again, she stared into the fire, smoking slowly, but 
 as his eyes remained fast on her the color crept upward into 
 her cheeks, higher and brighter until she turned to meet 
 the gaze that was on her and with a bite to the words asked : 
 
 "You don't approve of this, either?" 
 
 *' Why, ma'am, I like to smoke." 
 
 " But you stare at me as though I were committing a 
 crime." 
 
 " You see, you're the first good white woman I've ever 
 seen smoke." 
 
 " You — " She checked the question, looked at him and 
 then eyed her cigarette critically. 
 
 I don't suppose women out here do smoke, do they? " 
 No, ma'am ; not much." 
 
 (I 
 
20 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " And you men ? You men who drink and smoke don't 
 want the women to enjoy the same privilege?" 
 
 '* That appears about it." 
 
 She did not answer. He rose and looked down upon her. 
 One tendril of her golden hair, like silk in texture, caressed 
 her fine-grained cheek, delicately contrasted against its allur- 
 ing color. He would have liked to press it closer to the 
 skin with his fingers . . . quite gently. But he said : 
 
 " I guess you and I don't understand each other very well, 
 and, if we don't, it ain't any use in our talking further. As 
 for advisin' you about your business . . ." 
 
 Jane blew on her ash. 
 
 " I just tried to show you how to start right, accordin' to 
 my notion, and if it made you mad I'm sorry. 
 
 *' After all, it don't make so much difference what other 
 folks think of us. It's what we think of ourselves that 
 counts most, but none of us can get clear away from the 
 other hombre's ideas." 
 
 That twinkle crept back in to his eyes. Her little frame 
 fairly bristled independence and self-sufficiency; it was in 
 the pert set of her head, the poise of her square shoulders, 
 the languid swinging of one small foot. 
 
 " I think that you think a lot of yourself, ma'am. That's 
 more 'n most folks can say." 
 
 She rose as he reached for his hat. 
 
 " I'm glad to have your opinion on the proportions of my 
 job," she said briefly, " and for that I am glad that you 
 came in." 
 
 The oblique rebuke could not be misunderstood. 
 
 " I'm complimented," he replied, and, although she looked 
 frankly and impersonally up at him, she had a quick fear 
 that despite her assurance this man was leaving her with a 
 strange feeling of inferiority, and when he went through the 
 doorway into the night she was quite certain he was smiling 
 merrily. 
 
 She stood until the sound of his footsteps dwindled, then 
 turned to the table and stood idly caressing the wood. Her 
 
MY ADVICE, MA'AM 21 
 
 fingers encountered something v/hich she picked up and ex- 
 amined, at first abstractedly. It was a bit of straw, the one 
 Beck had refused and, which drawn, would have made him 
 her right hand man. She moved towards the fire to toss it 
 into the flames ; checked herself and, instead, put it between 
 the covers of a book which lay handy. 
 
 She stood on the stone hearth thinking of what he had 
 said, cigarette smoke curling up her small hand and delicate 
 wrist. The offended feeling subsided and, wonderingly, she 
 tried to restimulate it; the sensation would not return! Of 
 a sudden she felt small and weak and of little consequence. 
 
 So he doubted, even, that she could be herself ! 
 
 She dropped the stub of her cigarette into the fire and, 
 frowning, reached for another, and tapped its end on the 
 mantel. She struck a match and put the white cylinder to 
 her lips. Then, quite slowly, she waved the glare out and 
 tossed the tiny stick into the coals. With a movement which 
 was so deliberate that it was almost weary she dropped the 
 unlighted cigarette after it. Slight as was the gesture there 
 was in it something of finality. 
 
 The coals were dimmed with ash before she moved to 
 walk slowly to the window and look out. It was cold and 
 still. 
 
 A movement among the cottonwoods attracted her. A 
 man was walking there, slowly, as one on patrol. She 
 watched him go the length of the row of trees ; then fol- 
 lowed his slow progress back, saw him stand watching the 
 house a moment before he 'moved on towards the bunk- 
 house. 
 
 She lay awake for hours that night, partly from a helpless 
 rage and, later, a rare thrill, a hope, perhaps, kept sleep 
 from her mind. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 
 
 it 
 
 * * ^wJOW about the men, Miss Hunter," said Hepburn. 
 -*-^ When he reached this subject he looked through 
 the deep window far down the creek and had Jane known 
 him better she might have seen hesitancy with his deHbera- 
 tion, as though he approached the subject reluctantly. 
 How many will you need ? " she asked. 
 Not many yet. Four besides myself. There's seven 
 here now. That is, there'll be six, because one is pullin' 
 out this mornin' of his own accord. We'll need more when 
 the round-up starts, but until then — about June — we can 
 get along. The fewer the better." 
 
 " That will be largely up to you. Of course, I will be 
 consulted." 
 
 " I guess we'll keep Curtis and Oliver. Then there's 
 Two-Bits — " 
 
 '' Oh, keep Two-Bits by all means ! " she laughed. " I'm 
 in love with him already ! " 
 
 " All right, we'll keep Two-Bits. As for the other, there's 
 a chance to choose because — " 
 
 " Beck ; how about him ? " 
 
 Her manner was a bit too casual and she folded a sheet 
 of memoranda with minute care before her foreman, who 
 eyed her sharply, replied: 
 
 '' He's settled that for himself, I guess. He was packin* 
 his war bag when I come down here. I told him to come to 
 the house for his time." 
 
 " You mean he's leaving? " 
 
 Hepburn nodded. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 '* Well, I guess his nose is out of joint at not bein' picked 
 for foreman." 
 
 22 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 23 
 
 " But he wouldn't even draw. Said he wouldn't take a 
 chance ! " 
 
 " I know. He appeared not to give a hang for the job, 
 but he's a funny man. He an' I never got along any too 
 well. We don't hitch," 
 
 " Is he a good worker ? " 
 
 '* If he wants to be. He don't say much, but he al- 
 ways . . . Why, he always seems to be laughin' at every- 
 body and everything." 
 
 '' I think / could persuade him to want to work for me." 
 
 " Perhaps. But then, too, he's hot tempered. In kind of 
 bad with some of the boys over trouble he's had." 
 
 " What trouble ? " 
 
 " Why, principally because he beat up a man — Sam Mc- 
 Kee — on the beef ride last fall." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 '' Well ... He thought this man was a little rough with 
 his horse." 
 
 " And he whipped him because he had abused a horse ? 
 That, it seems to me, isn't much against him." 
 
 " No ; maybe not. He beat him a sight worse than he 
 beat his horse," he explained, moving uneasily. " Anyhow, 
 he's settled that. Here he comes now, after his time." 
 
 Jane stepped nearer the window. Beck approached, 
 whistling softly. He wore leather chaps with a leather 
 fringe and great, silver conchos. A revolver swung at his 
 hip. His movements were easy and graceful. She opened 
 the door and, seeing her, he removed his hat. 
 
 '' I've come for my time, ma'am," he explained. 
 
 " Won't you come in ? Maybe you're not going to go 
 just yet." 
 
 He entered and she thought that as he glanced at Hep- 
 burn, who did not look up, his eyes danced with a flicker 
 of delight. 
 
 " I don't know as I can stay, ma'am. I told your fore- 
 man a little while ago that I'd be going. Somebody's got 
 o go, and it may as well be one as another." 
 
24 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Don't you think my wishes should be consulted ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 He twirled his hat, looking at her with a half smile. 
 
 " This is your outfit, ma'am. I should think your wishes 
 ought to go, but it won't do for you to start in with more 
 trouble than's necessary." 
 
 " But if I want you and Mr. Hepburn wants you, where 
 is the chance for trouble ? You do want him, don't you, Mr. 
 Hepburn ? " 
 
 The older man looked up with a forced grin. 
 
 " Bless you, Miss Hunter, yes ! Why, Tom, the only 
 reason I thought we might as well part was because I figured 
 you'd be discontented here." 
 
 " Now ! You see, your employer wants you and your 
 foreman wants you. What more can you ask ? " the girl 
 exclaimed, facing Beck. 
 
 " Nothin' much, of course, unless what I think about it 
 might matter." 
 
 Her enthusiasm ebbed and she looked at him, clearly 
 troubled. 
 
 '' I am not urging you to stay because I need one more 
 man. It is essential to have men I can trust. I can trust 
 you. I need you. I . . . I'm quite alone, you know, and 
 I have decided to stay ... if I can stay." 
 
 She flushed ever so slightly at the indefinable change in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " You told me last night some of the things I must do, 
 which I can't do wholly alone. I should like very much to 
 have you stay," — ending with a girlish simplicity quite un- 
 like her usual manner. 
 
 " Maybe my advice and help ain't what you'd call good," 
 he said. 
 
 " I thought it over when you had gone," she said, " and 
 I came to the conclusion that it was good advice." Her eyes 
 remained on his, splendidly frank. 
 
 ** Some of us are apt to be disconcerted when we listen to 
 new things; and, again, when we know that they come sin 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 25 
 
 cerely and our pride quits hurting we're inclined, perhaps, 
 to take a new point of view. I have, on some things." 
 
 His face sobered in the rare way it had and he said : 
 
 ''Tm mighty glad." 
 
 Hepburn had watched them closely, not understanding, 
 and in his usually amiable face was a cunning speculation. 
 
 " I wouldn't ask you to take a chance against your better 
 judgment. If you must move on, I'm sorry. But ... I 
 need you." 
 
 With those three words she had ended : I need you. But 
 in them was a plea, frank, unabashed, and her eyes were 
 filled with it and as he stood looking down at his hat, evi- 
 dently undecided, she lifted one hand in appeal and spoke 
 again in a tone that was low and sweet: 
 
 "Won't you, please?" 
 
 He nodded and said : 
 
 " I'll stay." 
 
 " I'm so glad ! " she cried. " And you're glad, aren't you, 
 Mr. Hepburn? " 
 
 The foreman had watched closely, trying to determine 
 just what this all meant, but not knowing what had gone 
 before, he was mystified. At her question he forced a show 
 of heavy enthusiasm and said: 
 
 *' Bet your life ! " Then looking up to see the tall cow- 
 boy eyeing him with that half humorous smile, he rose and 
 said: 
 
 " Now we can start doing business. Tom, Miss Hunter 
 wants a horse, says she can ride and wants the best we've 
 got, right off, to-day. There's that bunch that's been rang- 
 ing in Little Pinion all winter. Guess we'd better bring 'em 
 down this forenoon and let her pick one." 
 
 They departed. They had little to say to one another in 
 the hours it required to gather the horses and bring them 
 down, but when they were within sight of the corrals Hep- 
 burn began to speak as though what he had to say was the 
 result of careful deliberation. 
 
 " I don't want us to have any misunderstandin', Tom. 
 
26 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 This mornin' I figured you wanted to move and I don't 
 want any man in the outfit who'd rather be somewhere else, 
 so long as I'm runnin' it." He shifted his weight in the 
 saddle and glanced at Beck, who rode looking straight 
 ahead. " 'Course, you and I ain't been pals. I've thought 
 sometimes you didn't just like me — " 
 
 ** I s'pose she'll want a gentle horse," the other broke in. 
 
 "Prob'ly. . . . 
 
 " You and I can be friends, I know. We can get 
 along — " 
 
 " Look at this outfit ! " Beck interrupted again, this time 
 with better reason. 
 
 Around the bend in the road appeared a queer cavalcade. 
 It was headed by a pair of ancient mules drawing a covered 
 wagon, on the seat of which sat a scrawny, discouraged man 
 with drooping lids, mustache and shoulders. To the wagon 
 were tied three old mares and behind them trailed a half 
 dozen colts, ranging from one only a few weeks old to a 
 runty three-year-old. 
 
 These were followed by a score of cattle, mostly cows 
 and yearling calves, and the rear was brought up by a girl, 
 riding a big brown horse. 
 
 She was young, and yet her face was strangely mature. 
 She wore a hat, the worse for wear, a red shirt, open at the 
 throat, a riding skirt and dusty boots. She was slouched 
 easily in the saddle, as one who has ridden much. 
 
 Tom spurred ahead to prevent their horses from entering 
 a draw which opened on the road just where they must 
 pass and as he slowed to a walk and looked back he saw 
 Hepburn making a movement of one hand. That hand was 
 just dropping to the fork of his saddle but — and he ki.ew 
 that this may have been purely a product of his imagination 
 — he thought that it had been lifted in a gesture of warning. 
 
 The foreman halted and the wagon stopped with a creak, 
 as of relief. 
 
 " Just f oiler on down and swing to the left. Keep right 
 

 THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 27 
 
 on. You'll pass the state boundry," Beck heard Hepburn 
 say. 
 
 The wagon started again and Dad joined him. 
 
 " Goin' some place? " Tom asked. 
 
 " Utah. He was askin' the way." 
 
 Just then the girl came within easy talking distance. 
 
 " Goin' far ? " Tom asked. 
 
 " Not so very fur," the other replied sullenly and swung 
 a worn quirt against her boot. 
 
 They rode on after their horses. 
 
 " Nesters," Beck commented grimly. '' They're a bad lot 
 to see comin' in." 
 
 Thank God, they're headed for Utah," Dad replied. 
 Yeah. Utah's a long ways, though. The girl didn't 
 seem to think they was going so very far." 
 
 The other made no answer and after a moment Beck said : 
 
 " Notice the brand on them cattle ? T H O ? That ain't 
 a good neighbor for the H C to have. . . . Unless it's an 
 honest neighbor." 
 
 " Well, they're goin' into Utah," Dad said doggedly. 
 
 " You know, Hepburn, one of the first things I'd do if I 
 was foreman of this outfit? " Beck asked. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " Take up the water in Devil's Hole. That's the best 
 early feed this outfit has got, but without water it's worth- 
 less. Nesters are comin' in, which would worry me, if I 
 was foreman. The Colonel had somebody file on it once, 
 planning to buy when he'd patented the claim. Tliis party 
 didn't make good, and the matter dropped." 
 
 The other did not reply for a moment, but looked hard 
 at his horse's ears, as if struggling to control himself. 
 
 " I've already took that up with her," he said sulkil}', and 
 stirred in his saddle. 
 
 " If I wasn't foreman of an outfit, do you know what I'd 
 do? I'd let the foreman do the worryin'." 
 
 Beck scratched his chin with a concern which surely 
 could not have been genuine, for he said : 
 
28 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Yeah. That's the best way. Only . . /' 
 
 " Well, you had your chance to be foreman ; why didn^t 
 you take it ? " 
 
 Beck pondered a moment. 
 
 " In the first place I wasn't crazy wild to stay with this 
 outfit, 'cause when I lift my nose in the air and sniff real 
 careful, I can smell a lot of hell coming this way, and I'm 
 a mighty meek and peaceful citizen. 
 
 '' In the second place, I don't care much about drawing the 
 best job in the country like I'd draw a prize cal<:e at a church 
 social." 
 
 Hepburn sniffed. 
 
 " You passed it up, though. Now, why don't you pass up 
 worryin' about my job? " 
 
 Beck did not reply at once, but turned on the other a 
 taunting, maddening smile. 
 
 " You're right. I passed it up, but there's something that 
 won't let me pass up the worry. 
 
 " You know what that is," — nodding toward the distant 
 ranch house. " You know she's in a jack pot. You heard 
 her tell me she needed good men, men she could trust, and 
 the good Lord knows that's so. You know I stayed on be- 
 cause she asked me like she meant it and not because I 
 fancied the job. 
 
 '' I've got a notion that makin' good out here means more 
 to her than making money ; I like her style, and I like to 
 help her sort if I can. That's why I may do more 'n an 
 ordinary hand's share of worryin'. 
 
 *' You know, somebody's got to," — significantly. 
 
 ''What's meant by that, Beck?" Dad asked after a mo- 
 ment and the grit in his tone told that the insinuation had 
 not missed its mark. 
 
 "If it was so awful hard for you to guess, Hepburn, I 
 don't think you'd get on the peck so easy. I mean that since 
 she's asked me to stay and work for her, I'm on the job. 
 Not only with both hands and feet and what head I've got, 
 but with my eyes and my ears and my heart. 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 29 
 
 " I don't want trouble, but if I've got to take trouble on, 
 I'll do it on the run ; you can tie to that ! I don't like you, 
 Hepburn; I don't trust you. Your way ain't my way — 
 No, no, you listen to me!" as the other attempted to inter- 
 rupt. " A while back you was trying to talk friendship to 
 me when I'm about as popular with you as fever. I don't 
 do things in that style. I ain't got a thing on you, but if this 
 was my ranch I wouldn't want you for my foreman." 
 
 " You mean you think I'd double cross her an — " 
 
 " I don't recall bein' that specific. I just mentioned that 
 I don't trust you. There's no use in your getting so 
 wrought up over it. I may be wrong. If I am you'll win. 
 I may be takin' a chance, which is against my religion, but 
 I'm here to work for this Hunter girl and her only and it 
 won't be healthy for anybody who is working against her to 
 bring himself to my notice. 
 
 *' I guess we understand each other. Maybe you can get 
 me fired. If so, that's satisfactory to me. So long as I'm 
 here and working for you, I'll be the best hand you've got. 
 If you're lookin' for good hands I'll satisfy you. If you 
 ain't ... we may not get along so well." 
 
 There was a seriousness in his eyes, but behind it was 
 again the flicker of mockery as though this might not be 
 such a serious matter after all. 
 
 " We'll see. Beck," Hepburn said with a slow nodding. 
 " We understand each other. You've covered a lot of terri- 
 tory. Your cards are on the table. Bet ! " 
 
 Tom stroked his horse's withers thoughtfully. He con- 
 tinued to smile, but the smile was not pleasant. 
 
 When they entered the big gate an automobile was stand- 
 ing before the bunkhouse and after turning the horses into 
 a corral they dismounted and walked towards it. 
 
 " Hello, Larry ! " exclaimed Hepburn. " What brings 
 you out ? " 
 
 " Nothin' much, judgin' by his conversation," replied the 
 man who had driven the car. 
 
 "Visitor?" 
 
30 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 "Dude. Regular dude from N'Yawk, b' Gosh!" He 
 spat and grinned. " Come In yesterday and was busier 'n 
 hell all day buzzin' around town. First thing this a. m. he 
 wants to come here. Great attraction you've got, it seems." 
 
 " The new boss? " 
 
 '' Th' same, indeed ! I seen her. Quite a peach, I'll go 
 on record. But . . . Th' boys tell me she's going to run 
 this outfit with her own lily white hands." 
 
 " So she says," replied Dad benevolently. " I think she'll 
 do a good job, too." 
 
 " Like so much hell, you do ! An' I hear you're foreman, 
 Dad. You figurin' on marryin' the outfit or gettin' rich by 
 honest endeavor ? " 
 
 " Sho, Larry ! You and your jokes ! " the man grumbled 
 good naturedly and entered the building. 
 
 " Well, if any of you waddles are calculatin' marryin' this 
 filly you've got to build to her. This dude sure means busi- 
 ness. He's found out more about the LI C in one day than 
 I ever knew. Besides, what I knew an' he didn't he got 
 comin' out. Sure 's a devil for obtainin' news. 
 
 " There he is now; see? " 
 
 He gestured toward the ranch house where Jane and the 
 stranger stood on the veranda, the girl pointing to the great 
 sweep of country which showed down creek. Then they 
 turned and reentered the house. 
 
 " And so this is yours ! " the man laughed. " Yours and 
 your business ! " 
 
 " My business, Dick ! For the first time I feel as though I 
 had a real object in living." 
 
 He smiled cynically. 
 
 " Jane, Queen of the Range ! " he mocked. 
 
 She did not smile with him, but said soberly : 
 
 " I expect it is funny to you. It must be funny to all the 
 old crowd. I can hear them, as soon as they know that I 
 have decided to stay here, the girls at tea, the men in their 
 clubs, talking it over. Jane Hunter, burying herself in the 
 mountains and doing something, becoming earnest and seri- 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 31 
 
 ous minded, getting up with the sun and going to bed at 
 dark ! It is strange ! " 
 
 " It's too strange for Hfe, Jane," he said, pulHng up his 
 trousers gingerly and sitting on the davenport. He leaned 
 back and smoothed his sleek hair. " It isn't real. You're 
 going to wake up before long and find that out. 
 
 " It was absurd enough for you to come here, but this 
 preposterous notion that you are going to stay. . . . Why, 
 that's beyond words ! What got into you, anyhow? " 
 
 He eyed her closely. 
 
 " I don't knew, yet. It's a strange impulse but it's real, 
 the first real thing that's ever gotten into me, I guess. I 
 know only that . . . except that it is a pleasant sensation. 
 
 " When I left New York I was desperate. I came here 
 to take something tangible that was mine and go back with 
 it and now I've found out that the thing I want is nothing 
 that I can see or touch, that I can't take it away with me. 
 Not for a long time, anyhow. It isn't waiting ready-made 
 for me ; I must create it from the materials that are in my 
 hands." 
 
 He continued to look at her a thoughtful moment. 
 
 " You've told me a lot about yourself and about this ranch 
 and about these men who are working for you. You've told 
 me about this country and, rather vaguely, about your plans. 
 I suspect you don't know much about them yet," he added 
 parenthetically. " You've not asked a question about New 
 York, nor why I came." 
 
 She picked a yellowed leaf from a geranium plant and 
 turned to face him. 
 
 " As for New York," she said with a lift of the eyebrows 
 and a quick tilt of her head, ** I don't give a . . . damn," — 
 softly. " As for your coming, I didn't need ask. When a 
 man has followed a girl wherever she has gone, to sea, to 
 other countries, for four years, there is nothing surprising in 
 the fact that he should trail her only two-thirds of the way 
 across this continent. ... 
 
 " But it's no use, Dick. I made up my mind that I would 
 
32 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 not marry you before I came here. I tried to convince you 
 of the honesty of my purpose in my last letter, but perhaps 
 I failed because I wasn't truly honest with myself then. I 
 thought I was through, but, in reality, I was only planning 
 a variation of the old way of doing things. 
 
 " Now I'm finished, absolutely, with the rot I've called 
 life!" 
 
 She lifted her chin and shook her head in emphasis. The 
 man laughed. 
 
 " You amuse as much as you thrill me," he said, looking 
 at her hungrily. 
 
 " That's a splendid way to help a fellow : to laugh at the 
 first effort I make to justify my existence." 
 
 " I want to help you, Jane. I've always wanted to help 
 you. I've put myself and what I have at your disposal. 
 I've not only done that, but I've begged and pleaded and 
 schemed to make you take them. You'd never listen when I 
 talked love to you. 
 
 " You've always seemed to be a peculiarly material-minded 
 girl and I had to play on that. But when I've talked ease 
 and comfort and luxury to you, you know that I've meant 
 more than just those things. It's been love, Jane . . . love 
 in every syllable." 
 
 He rose and walked to stand before her. 
 
 *' That hurt," she said, with a sharp little laugh. " That 
 . . . .materialism. But I believe it was only too true. It 
 had to be, you see. It was the only thing I could see to live 
 for. There was the one thing I missed, the thing I had ex- 
 pected to find. It was the thing you talked about: Love. 
 I wanted love, tried to find love and at twenty-five gave it up. 
 That's a horrible thing, Dick. Giving that up at twenty- 
 five ! " 
 
 ** But I have offered you love, continually, for four years." 
 
 " Dick . . . oh, Dick ! You don't know what that means. 
 You showed that when you selected your tactics : trying to 
 give me things that I could taste and touch and see. 
 
 " If it had been love, the real thing, that you felt, you'd 
 

 THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 33 
 
 have overwhelmed me with it, you would not have allowed 
 another consideration to enter, you'd have swept me off my 
 feet with making me understand that it was love. You 
 wouldn't have talked places and motors, luxury and aim- 
 lessness." 
 
 Her voice shook. She was hurt, bordering on anger. 
 
 " You pass the buck," he retorted evenly. " You've told 
 me, time after time, that love didn't matter to you." 
 
 " Not the sort you offered. It never could." 
 There's another kind, then ? " 
 Somewhere," — with an emphatic nod. 
 You think you can find the sort you're looking for 
 here?" 
 
 " I don't know. I haven't thought of that yet, but I know 
 there is something else I can find." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "Myself!"— stoutly. 
 
 He threw back his head with a hearty laugh, 
 
 " You talk like a convert, Jane ! " 
 
 " I am, Dick. Just that.- I've seen the evil of my ways, 
 I have seen the hght; I'm going to try to justify my exist- 
 ence, going to try to stand for something, to be something, 
 not just a girl with looks or with . . . money. 
 
 " I may miss love entirely, but I have realized, all of a 
 sudden, that as yet I'm not fit for the love I wanted. Why, 
 I have nothing to give to a man ; I would take all and give 
 nothing. A woman doesn't win a true love by such a trans- 
 action. If I can stand alone, if I can fight my own battles, 
 if I can overcome obstacles that are as real as the love I 
 have wanted, then I will be justified in seeking that love. . . . 
 
 " And there's another consideration: If this thing I have 
 wanted never does come I have the opportunity of gaining all 
 that you say you could give me by my own efforts : the com- 
 forts, the material things. I wouldn't be trading myself for 
 them, you see ; I'll be winning them with my hands and what 
 intelligence I may possess." 
 
 " Are you sure of that, Jane? Are you sure that a girl 
 
34 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 who has never done a tap of work in her life, who has not 
 even talked business with business men can come out here 
 and beat this game ? Oh, I know what I'm talking about and 
 you don't. I spent all yesterday in town looking up this 
 place because your letter was convincing in at least one 
 thing. I know your enthusiasm, when it's aroused. I know 
 that you'd rush in where a business prince wouldn't even 
 chance a peek ! 
 
 " When men talk about you in town they grin. The bar- 
 tender grinned when he told me about you. The banker 
 grinned. The man who drove me out thought it was a fine 
 joke! These men know; they're not skeptical because they 
 know you or your past, but they know the job and that 
 you're a stranger. That's enough. You can't beat an- 
 other man's game." 
 
 " I can try, can't I ? " 
 
 " But what's the use ? " — with a gesture of impatience 
 and a set of the mouth that was far from pleasant. 
 " You're doomed to fail and even if you should hit on the 
 one chance in a thousand of pulling through, what would 
 you get? Less than I can give you in the time it takes to 
 sign my name. You won't let me talk love and you don't 
 seem to have much hope that you ever will find the love 
 you think you want, so let's put love aside once more. Come 
 with me, Jane. I'll give you all you could ever hope to get 
 here and without the cost of the awful effort anything like 
 success would require. 
 
 " You've been bored, perhaps, and discouraged. You've 
 taken this thing as a ... a last straw. Won't you listen 
 to reason? " 
 
 " The last straw," she repeated. " Yes, I guess that is it. 
 Dick, do you know how close I came to letting you do the 
 thing you wa.nt to do ? " She put the question sharply. 
 " I'll tell you : Within three hundred dollars ! That's how 
 close. 
 
 " Oh, you don't know the game I've played. No ©ae 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 35 
 
 knows it. You all have jus-t E'^en the exterior, the show. 
 You've never been behind the scenes with me. 
 
 " I never knew my mother. I never knew my father well. 
 I don't know that he cared much for me after she went; 
 perhaps, though, he was only afraid to bring up a girl alone. 
 First, it was boarding school, then finishing school, then a 
 woman companion of the smart sort. Then he died, and 
 we discovered that his fortune was not what it had been, 
 that it was a miserable thing for a girl to depend on who 
 had been trained as I had been trained. 
 
 " You met me soon after I was alone. I fell in with 
 your crowd and they picked me up. I didn't like them par- 
 ticularly and certainly I didn't like their life, but it was the 
 only one open for me. We lived hard, heartless lives, made 
 up of week-ends and dances and cocktails and greed ! 
 
 " Materialism is the right charge ! I was steeped in it ; 
 all those girls were. It was the only thing any of us lived 
 for. Girls sold themselves for material advantage; they 
 loathed it, most of them, but they lied to themselves and 
 tried to make the rest of us believe it was happiness. They 
 knew, and we knew what it was and we knew, too, that they 
 were helpless to do otherwise. 
 
 " Then you came and made love to me on the same crass 
 basis. I liked you, Dick. I didn't love you. I cared no 
 more for you than I did for three or four men so I kept 
 putting you off, never actually discouraging you to a point 
 where you would give up. I was simply closing my eyes 
 to the inevitable. 
 
 " Now and then we met women, to us strange creatures, 
 who did things. I never can make anyone understand how 
 inferior I felt beside them. Why, I remember one little 
 decorator who, because she was young and cheap, came to 
 do my apartment over. I had her stay for dinner and she 
 was quite overwhelmed with many things. 
 
 " When she went away I cried from sheer envy . . . and 
 she was going down somev/here into Greenwich Village to 
 
36 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 sleep in a stuffy little studio. But she was doing some- 
 thing. I used to feel guilty before my dressmaker and even 
 my maid. I didn't understand why that was, then ; it was 
 not a sensation produced by reason; by intuition, rather. 
 
 ** And then I had to look at things as they were. I paid 
 up everything and totaled my bank balance. Every source 
 of income I had ever had was gone and I had left . . . three 
 hundred and two dollars. That was on a Friday, the Friday 
 of our last week-end party at the Hollisters' in Westchester. 
 
 '' You talked to me again that night after we had been 
 playing billiards. Dick, I had made up my mind to take 
 you up. The words were on my lips ; I was within a breath 
 of telling you that it was a bargain, that Fd sell myself to 
 you for the things you could buy me. . . . 
 
 " I don't know why I didn't. Maybe it was this part of 
 me I had never known until I came here, this part which 
 enthuses so over what lies before me now, the part that 
 used to envy the girls who did things. We went back to 
 town and there was a letter for me from this little frontier 
 law office, telling me I had inherited this ranch. I didn't 
 sleep a minute. I was sole owner of a big business. . . . 
 
 " I never can make you understand the relief I experi- 
 enced ! It meant money and money meant that I could go 
 on in the old way, putting off the inevitable, blinding myself 
 to what I actually was. 
 
 " That was my motive in coming here : to turn this prop- 
 erty into money. And no sooner had I made the acquaint- 
 ance of these people than I began to learn that my point of 
 view had been radically different from theirs. I had thought 
 that money would give me the thing I wanted, independence 
 and prestige; but I found that with them, with the best of 
 them, anyhow, that sort of standing was not considered. 
 
 " The thing that counts out here is being yourself, Dick, 
 in making a place by your determination, your wits, by im- 
 pressing people with the best that is in you. Material things 
 don't count in the mountains ; that is, they don't count pri- 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 37 
 
 marily. They are nice things to possess but the possession 
 of them alone does not bring respect . . . the respect of 
 others or self respect. That, I think, is what I want: re- 
 spect. That is what I am going to win. The only way I 
 can win it is to establish a place for myself by my own 
 efforts. These men doubt that I can do it. You are right, 
 I believe, when you picture the whole country expecting me 
 to fail. Well, that's an incentive, isn't it, to do my best? 
 That is what I am here to do ! 
 
 " There, there's Book One." Then looking out into the 
 country. ..." There's the rest of the story." 
 
 The man did not reply for an instant but stood frowning 
 at the floor. 
 
 " And when you fail ? What then ? " 
 
 She laughed almost merrily. 
 
 " Don't say zvhen so positively ! But if I should fail, 
 Dick, I might have to take you up ! It might break my faith 
 in myself because it's a young, immature faith, but it will 
 give me a chance, a few months of seeing whether I'm of 
 any account. It gives me a hope." 
 
 As she spoke of her alternative a glimmer as of hope 
 passed across the man's thin, finely moulded face but he 
 did not let her see. He shook his head and said : 
 ''' After this the first thing I need is a drink." 
 
 " On the sideboard," she answered, '' is rny stock." 
 
 He walked down the room and examined the bottles, then 
 poured out two drinks and returned with them. 
 
 " Anyhow, we'll drink to your future, whatever and wher- 
 ever it may be," he said, cynical again. 
 
 " That's kind of you, but Fm afraid you'll have to drink 
 alone." 
 
 She put the glass he had handed her on the table. 
 
 " It's the first time I've ever seen you refuse a drink.'* 
 
 " A record broken ! That, like the rest of the old life, 
 all belongs in Book One." 
 
 " You . . . you never thought you used enough to hurt? " 
 
38 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " No. I'm sure I never used enough to hurt my body. I 
 never thought I used enough to hurt anything about me . . . 
 until last night." 
 
 '' What made you change your mind ? " 
 
 She was half impelled to pass the question off, then said 
 resolutely : 
 
 " A man came here to talk to me, one of my cowpunchers. 
 I made a cocktail. He threw it away." 
 
 " Well, that was a devil of a thing to do. Did you fire 
 him, as he deserved? " 
 
 " No," — deliberately, tracing a line on a rug with her 
 toe and watching it critically — "I took his advice. You 
 see, the men out here expect things from women that no one 
 has ever expected from me before." 
 
 He sneered: " Turned Puritan, Jane? A sw^eet thing to 
 face, trying to be other than yourself, confining yourself to 
 the morals of the crowd." 
 
 *' Not just that, Dick. There's a sweetness about it, yes. 
 As for morals : we didn't discuss them at all. . . . 
 
 " This man said that he supposed some people thought it 
 was smart to drink. That hit me rather on the head. . We 
 were the smartest people in New York, weren't we ? " 
 
 '' Rot ! " 
 
 '' Perhaps. It interested me, though, when I'd gotten 
 over the first shock. He said another thing that interested 
 •me ; he said that I was the first good white woman he'd ever 
 seen smoke." 
 
 He laughed harshly. 
 
 " At least he did you the honor to think you good." 
 
 " Yes," — still deliberately, — " and it was a novel sensa- 
 tion. It was the first time any man had ever appealed to 
 the commonplace thing in me that we call womanhood. He 
 wasn't preaching. It was a practical matter with him. . . . 
 
 " I don't think you'd understand this man, Dick. He 
 takes little things quite seriously and yet he appears to be 
 laughing at the whole scheme all the time." 
 
 He put his glass down slowly. . 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 39 
 
 " Do you mean that one of these roughnecks has been 
 making love to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, by no means. I don't think he even Hkes me and 
 I want him to ! Why, this morning he was going away, was 
 not even going to work for me, and I had to beg him to 
 stay. 
 
 '' Dick, you don't understand ! This man is so different 
 from you, from me, from all of us. Rough, yes, but I don't 
 think he'd try to buy a woman. And if he should I'm sure 
 he'd be most frank about it ; he wouldn't hide behind words." 
 
 She looked hard at him and though she smiled her words 
 stung him, but before he could break in she went on: 
 
 " When I sat here having him talk to me last night I had 
 that dreadful inferior feeling again, felt as though I weren't 
 up to the standard of good women that these roughnecks 
 hold. I can't explain it to you because you wouldn't let 
 yourself understand. I was furious for a time, but he was 
 right, according to his way of thinking. 
 
 " That way is going to be my way," — with growing firm- 
 ness. " I'm playing a new game and I must play it accord- 
 ing to the rules. I did more than make up my mind to leave 
 the drinks and cigarettes alone. I resolved that I'd try to 
 be worthy in every way of the respect I vs^ant these men tO' 
 have for me ! " 
 
 " Because this Westerner doesn't approve of the way you 
 have lived ? " 
 
 " Yes. He knows the rules of the new game." 
 
 '' Jane, I'm going to stop this foolishness ! " He ad- 
 vanced to her and caught her hands in his. " I love you, 
 I love you ! I'm not going to see you losing your head this 
 way ! " 
 
 She struggled to withdraw her hands. 
 
 " No, I'm going to hold you, going to keep you. Fm — " 
 He drew her to him roughly, but she slipped from the clasp 
 of his arm and backed across the room, her hands still im- 
 prisoned in his. 
 
 " Dick ! " 
 
40 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 It was not her cry which caused him to halt. It was a 
 step outside the door and, standing there, her hands in bis, 
 he met the level, amused gaze of Tom Beck. 
 
 Jane turned from him and he let her go without attempt 
 to restrain her further. 
 
 " Ma'am, the horses are here. Your foreman said to tell 
 you." 
 
 His face lost a measure of its lightness as he stood hat 
 in hand, looking from the man whose face was lined with 
 passion to the girl, flushed and a bit breathless. 
 
 '* Very well. . . . And thank you. I'll be out soon." 
 
 He stood a moment irresolute, as though he thought his 
 presence might be needed there. Then turned and walked 
 away. 
 
 " Your help seems rather unceremonious," Hilton re- 
 marked, 
 
 "Thanks for that! What if he had seen more? Dick, 
 are you beside yourself? You call this love?" 
 
 " It proves that it's love," he replied tensely. " You set 
 me wild with your vagaries, Jane! You — " He checked 
 himself and, with an obvious effort, smiled. Then went on 
 with voice and manner under control : " You see, I am 
 much in love with you and losing you for only a little while 
 puts me a bit off my head. 
 
 " I have wanted you for four years and I'm jealous of the 
 months, even the weeks. I'm sure, but that doesn't help 
 •much." 
 
 "Sure? Of what?" 
 
 "Of you." 
 
 " And why ? " 
 
 " Because I know you. You confessed your weaknesses 
 just a moment ago. You know as well as I that you're with- 
 out foundation, without background in this experience. 
 Why, Jane, if you'd been capable of fighting your own bat- 
 tles, you'd have forced the issue long before it was neces- 
 sary, but you are not. You need help, you need the faith 
 of other people. 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 41 
 
 " Why, women like you weren't made to stand alone ! " 
 
 *' Flattering ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is. You were made to be loved, to be protected, 
 to have the men take the knocks for you, you and all your 
 kind. You were born to lean and to make the lives of men 
 worth while by leaning on them, never to attempt to go your 
 own way. You have always done just this and you have ad- 
 mitted it, here, this afternoon. 
 
 " Your wild wants, your absurd desires. . . . Everyone 
 has them. That is a rule of life: wanting to do the thing 
 you are not fitted to do. You can no more be a business 
 woman than I can fly ; you can no more cut yourself away 
 from your old environment and slip into this than one of 
 your cowpunchers could fit into my life. 
 
 " Don't you see that you're risking disaster? In your old 
 life you had a belief in yourself ; in this you think you have, 
 but you have not, your eyes will be opened and when you 
 see that you have failed . . . then you will be a failure, and 
 nothing is so hopeless as that realization. 
 
 " You are weak, and I thank God for that weakness. You 
 know that it is either this, or me. You are trying this, 
 trying to refuse me, but you will come back to me just as 
 surely as we stand together in this room. You may come 
 back without a shred of faith in yourself, but I have faith 
 in you, in the old Jane, the one I know and love, and I can 
 bring that back. The future won't be bad ; it will be wholly 
 good." 
 
 His words were very gentle, his manner most kindly, but 
 beneath it was a scarcely detectable hardness, a deliberate, 
 coid determination, and perhaps it was this which struck a 
 fear into the girl's heart. 
 
 Weak ? Surely, she was weak ! Always had been weak, 
 never had proved strength by act or decision until now. 
 And she did not know . . . she did not know. . . . 
 
 "You are sure that I will come back?" she managed to 
 say naturally enough. "What if I should fail? Might I 
 not try somewhere else ? " 
 
42 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " You might, if you were another sort. But you won't. 
 And you will fail, in spite of all you can do, Jane." 
 
 She sensed clearly the harsh strength beneath his smooth 
 manner ; his pronouncement had not been as an opinion ; as 
 a verdict, rather, and ominous in its assurance. 
 
 He picked up his hat and gloves. 
 
 " I know ; I know. It is of no use to argue with you. 
 You must learn this lesson by experience. It is going to be 
 bitter, but I will do all I can to make what waits beyond 
 take away that taste, Jane. 
 
 " I am not going away. I'm going to stay in this little 
 town. After four years of waiting and following I can well 
 do that. Your world is there, Jane, yours for the asking. 
 There are the things you wanted ; there is the love you want 
 if you only will see it." 
 
 He left her then and when he had gone she felt a quick 
 panic come. It all seemed so absurd, her struggling in the 
 things which held her back ; and his manner left her with a 
 sense that he thought more than he had spoken, that his 
 assurance was founded well, that he would not be the tacit 
 waiter he had suggested. She knew his passion for her, she 
 knew his will and it came to her then that beneath his sleek- 
 ness he was ruthless. 
 
 She stared down Coyote creek, not following him with 
 her eyes. 
 
 The things I have wanted. . . . Yes," she thought. 
 
 But love: is that anywhere?" 
 
 The sound of the car departing roused her and she 
 watched it go. Then a commotion in the corral attracted 
 her. She saw horses milling, saw Tom Beck standing ready, 
 rope in his hand ; then, with a dexterous flip of the loop, a 
 slight, overhand motion, he snared a pinto and braced his 
 feet against the antics of the animal and held firmly until it 
 had quieted. 
 
 She watched him go down the rope slowly, hand over 
 hand, with caution and assurance until he rested his fingers 
 on the nose of the frightened animal. A forefoot shot out 
 
 
THE NESTER — AND ANOTHER 43 
 
 in a lightning stroke at him but he did not flinch. She saw 
 that he was talking to the horse, gently, quietly, with the 
 born confidence of the master. 
 
 "Anywhere?" she asked herself again, this time aloud, 
 still watching Beck. *' Why,"— eyes lighting in surprise 
 that was almost astonishment — ** it might be . . . might 
 bel" 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE CHAMPION 
 
 BECK was still busy with the horses when Jane ap- 
 peared, bareheaded and clad in a riding habit. He 
 had separated the unbroken stock from the horses that had 
 been turned loose for the winter and was playing with these 
 last, overcoming the shyness that months on the range had 
 engendered. 
 
 As she stopped at the corral he walked toward her, study- 
 ing her face. There was no trace of confusion or embar- 
 rassment and for all he could discern she might have had 
 her mind on horses only since early forenoon. That puz- 
 zled him because, though he was far from certain, he had 
 felt that the scene which he had interrupted had caused her 
 distress. Still, he reminded himself, this was not the type 
 of woman he knew. She was completely strange to him; 
 good margin, that, for coming to mistaken conclusions. 
 
 *' These, ma'am, are the gentle horses," he explained. " I 
 cut 'em out for you. They're some of the best you've got." 
 
 " They're rough, of course," she remarked after eyeing the 
 animals a moment and he looked at her sharply because her 
 manner was of one who is familiar with horses, '' but noth- 
 ing here looks particularly good. Are these all you brought 
 in?" 
 
 " I cut the rest into the little corral. There's some good 
 ones there, but they ain't gentle." 
 
 They walked toward the other enclosure and at their ap- 
 proach the colts gave evidence of alarm. 
 
 " Now that brown horse 's been ridden some — " 
 
 " But what about the sorrel ? " she broke in as a shapely 
 head with a white star between the eyes and a flowing fore- 
 
 44 
 
THE CHAMPION 45 
 
 lock tossed back over delicate ears rose above the mass of 
 backs. 
 
 "Him, ma'am? He's probably the best colt you own; 
 got the makin's of a fine horse, but he's a bad actor." 
 
 Just then the crowding of the horses broke into a milling 
 and the sorrel came into full view. A beautiful beast with 
 white stockings behind, deep chest, high withers, short, 
 straight back. 
 
 " He's a beauty! " she declared. " He has bone and leg. 
 He's gaunt now ; not enough belly, but I suppose that's be- 
 cause he's been on the range. I like that square hipped sort 
 when you can get its strength without sacrificing looks." 
 
 " You're acquainted with horses somewhat, I take it." 
 
 " I've ridden some ; hunted a little. Can you bring him 
 out ? " 
 
 Beck entered the corral and roped the horse. For an in- 
 stant he resisted, head flung back and feet securely planted ; 
 then he came out of the bunch on a trot. 
 
 " He knows what a rope is. It don't take an intelligent 
 creature, man or beast, long to learn." 
 
 The horse stood watching him suspiciously, ready to run 
 if given the opportunity. 
 
 " Where shall we try him ? " Jane asked. 
 
 " In the big corral," he replied and led the sorrel through 
 the gate. 
 
 The colt, closely snubbed, stood trembling while the blan- 
 ket was put on; then flinched and breathed loudly as the 
 weight of the saddle was gently placed on his back. He 
 stepped about and kicked as the cinch was drawn tight and 
 resisted a long time the efforts of the man to slip a bit be- 
 tween his teeth. 
 
 Jane stood by watching, her attention divided between 
 admiration of the man and the horse. The former was as- 
 sured, gentle, positive in every move ; the latter alarmed, 
 rebellious but recognized the fact that he was under control. 
 
 " Now, if you'll shorten the stirrups I'll try him," she 
 said. 
 
46 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Fow'll try him, ma'am ? Why, this horse ain't been rid- 
 den three times in his hfe. He'll buck an' buck hard." 
 
 " So much more reason why I should try him. We spoke 
 of reputations last night ; they can only be formed at the 
 cost of knocks. There are many things I must try to do 
 out here; there are bound to be some that I can't even try 
 but this is not one." 
 
 "But you—" 
 
 " Must I order you to let me ride him ? " 
 
 There was no lightness in the question ; she meant busi- 
 ness, Beck realized. And her bruskness delighted him for 
 when he turned to give the cinch one more hitch — his only 
 reply to her question — he was smiling merrily. 
 
 It was not much of a ride as western riding goes. Beck 
 blindfolded the sorrel with the black silk scarf he wore 
 about hio neck, helped Jane to mount, saw that she had both 
 stirrups, took the rope cautiously from the trembling bron- 
 co's neck and, at her nod, drew off the blind. 
 
 For a moment the great colt stood there as if bewildered. 
 Then, with a grunt and a bound, he bowed his back, hung 
 his head and pitched. 
 
 " Keep his head up ! His head ! " warned Beck, watching 
 with intense interest. " Watch him . . ." 
 
 The horse went straight forward for a half dozen jumps. 
 Erect in the saddle, sitting too far back, trusting too much 
 to her stirrups, Jane rode. 
 
 The violence of the lunging jerked her head unmercifully 
 but she had her balance. . . . Until he sunfished, with a 
 wrenching movement that heaved her forward against the 
 fork, dangerously near a fall. 
 
 '*' Grab it all ! " called Beck, not remembering that his in- 
 junction to hang on was as Greek to her. ''He — Look 
 out ! " 
 
 With a vicious fling of his whole body the sorrel swapped 
 ends and as he came down, head toward the man, the girl 
 shot into the air, turned completely over and struck full on 
 her back. 
 
THE CHAMPION 47 
 
 Beck ran to her, heedless of "he horse, which circled at a 
 gallop. She lay very still with her eyes closed ; a smudge 
 of dirt was on her white cheek. He knelt beside her. 
 
 *' Are you hurt, ma'am ? " he asked, and when she did not 
 reply raised her head to his knee. Her body was surpris- 
 ingly light, surprisingly firm, as he held it with an arm be- 
 neath her shoulders. He was fumbling with her collar to 
 open it, knuckles against her soft throat, when she opened 
 her eyes and gasped and coughed. She tried to speak but 
 for a moment continued to choke; then smiled and said 
 weakly : 
 
 " I didn't . . . ride him." 
 
 " But you made a fine try ! " he said with more enthusi- 
 asm than she had seen him display. " And I sure am glad 
 you ain't hurt bad ! " 
 
 She laughed feebly and he felt her breath on his cheek, 
 for their faces were very close; he felt his heart leap, too, 
 and helped her up, saying words of which he was not con- 
 scious. 
 
 " I can stand alone," she said after he had steadied her an 
 interval and reluctantly he took his arm from about her. 
 " I'd like to try him again." 
 
 '' But you're not going to, not to-day. I'm giving you 
 that order," — with resolution. " I wouldn't want you to 
 be hurt, ma'am. I — " 
 
 He checked himself, realizing that he had become very 
 earnest and that she was looking straight into his eyes, read- 
 ing the concern that was there. 
 
 There was talk of that ride in the bunkhouse when the 
 men came in. Jimmy Oliver had seen from a distance and 
 asked Beck for the story. He related the incident rather 
 lightly and ended: 
 
 " Tried to keep her ofif him, but only got orders to take 
 orders. If she breaks her neck tryin' some such tricks, I 
 wouldn't be surprised." 
 
48 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " She appears to have sand, though," OHver commented, 
 as though he were making a concession. 
 
 Others had opinions to pass, briefly, to the point. Those 
 men were not given to accepting readily a stranger and this 
 stranger, being a woman, came to them under an added 
 handicap. Where a man, inept and showing the same cour- 
 age, might have found himself quietly accepted, Jane's at- 
 tempt at riding was not received with noticeable warmth. 
 The performance was in her favor, and that was about all 
 that could be said. 
 
 A close observer might have noticed that Tom Beck gave 
 attention whenever another spoke of their new boss, as 
 though deeply interested in what the men had to say. Yet 
 when he spoke of her, his manner was rather disparaging. 
 
 Mail had come in that afternoon and, a happening with- 
 out precedent, there were two letters for Two-Bits. The 
 man, who could not write and whose reading was limited 
 to brands, never received mail and before he arrived there 
 was speculation as to the writer of the one letter. Of the 
 other there was no mystery because each man of the outfit 
 had received a similar envelope containing a circular letter 
 from a boot manufacturer. 
 
 Two-Bits arrived late, riding slowly toward the corral 
 with his eyes on the ranch house for a possible look at his 
 fair employer. 
 
 " Mail for you, Two-Bits," Curtis remarked casually as 
 he entered. 
 
 The others concealed their interest while Beck handed the 
 letters to Two-Bits, who stood eyeing them gravely, striving 
 to cover his surprise. This could not be done, though, for 
 his agitated Adam's apple gave him away as he stood with a 
 letter in each hand, looking from one to the other. 
 
 " I'll bet two-bits somebody's dead," he said with con- 
 cern, then walked to the window under a growing sense of 
 importance at his deluge of correspondence. 
 
 He opened the letter which they knew contained the solici- 
 tation of the maker of boots and all watched him as he stood 
 
THE CHAMPION 49 
 
 scowling at it for minutes. He folded the sheet with a sigh 
 and stuffed it, with the other letter, into his chap pocket and 
 walked thoughtfully to his bunk, sitting down heavily, el- 
 bows on his knees. He shook his head sorrowfully and 
 made a depreciatory clicking with his tongue. 
 
 " Boys, I always knowed that girl'd turn out a bad one ! 
 It's awful. . . . An' her mother a lady ! " 
 
 For a moment their restraint held and then their laughter 
 cut loose with a roar. Curtis fell face down on his bunk 
 and laughed until his entire length shook. Jimmy Oliver 
 gasped for breath, hands across his stomach, and the others 
 reeled about the floor or leaned against the walls, weak with 
 mirth. 
 
 " It ain't nothin' to laugh at ! " Two-Bits protested, but 
 when he failed to convince them of the gravity he shammed, 
 he rose and permitted an abashed grin to distort his freckled 
 face, muttered something about feeding his horse and walked 
 out. 
 
 It was Saturday evening in a season of light work and the 
 social diversions of Ute Crossing had called H C riders. 
 Hepburn departed early and after their horses had eaten 
 Beck and Two-Bits rode out of the ranch townward bound. 
 Out of sight of the building Two-Bits said: 
 
 " Tom, my eyes ain't very good. I'd like to get you to 
 read this here other letter for me." 
 
 Beck knew that such confidence was high compliment for 
 Two-Bits was sensitive over his educational shortcomings, 
 so he took the letter and, after glancing down the single page, 
 said: 
 
 " This is from the Reverend Azariah Beal." 
 
 " Oh, my gosh ! That's my brother ! What's the matter 
 with him, Tom ? " 
 
 The other read as follows: 
 
 My dear Brother : — God willing, I shall visit you. I have 
 often been impelled to renew our fraternal relationships but 
 my various charges have demanded my sole attention. 
 
so THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Now, however, I am on a brief sojourn in the marts of trade 
 and my interests call me in your direction. I expect to 
 arrive shortly after you receive this. May the Almighty 
 guard and bless thee and keep thee safe until our hands 
 meet in the clasp of brotherly love. 
 
 '* Oh, my gosh ! " cried Two-Bits again, Adam's apple 
 leaping and his gray eyes, usually so mild, alight with en- 
 thusiasm. " He's comin' to visit me. Gosh, Tom, but he's 
 a smart man ! Ain't that elegant language ? Say, he's the 
 smartest man in our family an' he's comin' clean from 
 Texas to see me." 
 
 ** How long since you've seen him? " 
 
 *' Oh, quite a while. Since I was three years old." 
 
 " And how long ago was that ? " 
 
 " You got me. I heard about him. He's a preacher. 
 Tvly, oh my, but sJic'll like him. He's smart, like she is." 
 
 His manner was high elation and he spoke breathlessly, 
 and while they trotted on he chattered in his high voice, 
 eulogizing the virtues of this brother he had not seen since 
 infancy, regaling the other with long and vague tales of his 
 accomplishments. Pressed for details he could not offer 
 them because his knovvdedge of the relative had come to him 
 verbally through the devious channels of the cattle country, 
 but this did not shake his conviction that the Reverend Beal 
 was peerless. 
 
 Tom's mind was not on the extravagant talk of Two-Bits. 
 Curiously, it persisted in thinking of Jane Hunter. 
 
 Two days before he had thought this girl from the east 
 was a rattle-brained piece of inconsequence with her selec- 
 tion of a foreman by the drawing of straws. Now he was 
 not so sure that she did not possess at least several admirable 
 qualities. He had offended her, gently bullied her, only last 
 evening ; he had sensed the waning of her own feeling of su- 
 periority, had understood that, behind her pique, she took 
 to heart the things he had said, things which he had said not 
 
THE CHAMPION 51 
 
 because he thought she shoula know them but because he 
 wanted to see how she would react to blunt truths. 
 
 She wanted something very badly. Not money ; that had 
 been a means. Perhaps it was that vague thing, Herself, of 
 which he had spoken. He did not understand, but he liked 
 her determination. . . . And what was this other stranger, 
 this man, to her ? 
 
 He put his horse into a lope with a queer misgiving. He 
 was taking this woman seriously ! He was saying slighting 
 things about her and yet hoping that other men would speak 
 about her highly ! He had never taken many things — par- 
 ticularly women — seriously before and his experience with 
 women had not been meager. It frightened him. . . . 
 
 They dismounted before the saloon which adjoined the 
 hotel, eased their cinches and approached the doorway. 
 
 In the shadow of the next building two men were talking 
 and Beck eyed the figures closely. One, he knew, was Hep- 
 burn, and the other, from the intonation of his cautiously 
 lowered voice, he took to be Pat Webb, the rancher of whom 
 he had spoken to Jane Hunter, telling her that his presence 
 in the country was not an asset for her. 
 
 He went inside, rather absorbed. Sam McKee was there, 
 one of Webb's riders, the one on whom Beck had inflicted 
 terrible punishment for cruelty to a horse. McKee looked 
 away, a nasty light playing across his gray eyes, but Beck 
 did not even give him a glance. What was Hepburn doing 
 in close talk with Webb ? he asked himself. For years Webb 
 had been under suspicion as a thief and a friend of the law- 
 less. Colonel Hunter had never trusted him, and now the 
 foreman of the H C was talking with him, secretly. . . . 
 
 A moment later Hepburn entered and lounged up to the 
 bar and shortly afterwards Webb came in. He was a small 
 man with sharp features and bright, button-like eyes which 
 roved restlessly. His skin was mottled, his lips hard and 
 cruel; his body seemed to be all nerves for he was in con- 
 stant motion. 
 
52 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Webb ordered a drink and glanced about, eyeing Beck and 
 Two-Bits with a suggestive smile. He drank with a swag- 
 ger and wiped his lips with a sharp smack, still smiling as 
 though some unpleasant thought amused him. 
 
 A man at the far end of the bar moved closer to Hep- 
 burn. 
 
 " How's the new boss ? " he said with a grin, and Hepburn 
 said, in his benevolent manner, that he believed she would 
 do very well. 
 
 Others, interested, came closer and more questions fol- 
 lowed. Then Webb broke in: 
 
 " I shouldn't think that you H C waddies 'uld be in town 
 nights any more," — his glittering eyes on them rather jubi- 
 lantly. 
 
 The talk stopped, for Webb, unsavory as to reputation, 
 was still a figure in the country and his manner as he spoke 
 was laden with significance. 
 
 " How's that, Webb? " Hepburn asked. 
 
 " How's that ! " the other mocked. " I've seen her, ain't 
 that enough? There's only two reasons why men want to 
 come to this hole nights ; one's booze, an' th' other's women. 
 You can carry your booze out home an' — " 
 
 He went on with his blackguard inference and w^hen he 
 had ended a laugh went up, a ribald, obscene, barroom laugh. 
 It had reached its height when Tom Beck, whose eyes had 
 been on Hepburn as Webb gave voice to his insult, elbowed 
 the foreman from his way and faced the one who had occa- 
 sioned that laugh. 
 
 There was in his manner a quality which caught attention 
 like nippers. 
 
 He stood, forcing Webb to look into his threatening face 
 a quiet instant. Then he spoke: 
 
 " That's a lie ! " 
 
 The bantering smile swept from the other's face and his 
 mouth drew down in a slanting snarl. 
 
 " What's a lie ? " 
 
 " What you said is a lie, Webb, an' you're a liar — " 
 
THE CHAMPION 53 
 
 The smaller man's hand whipped to his holster and Beck, 
 breaking short, closed on him, fingers like steel gripping the 
 ready wrist. 
 
 " Don't try that with me, you rat ! " 
 
 With a steady pull he Hfted the resisting hand which 
 gripped the gun away from the man's side while Webb 
 struggled, cursing as he found himself unable to resist that 
 strength. 
 
 " Give me that gun ! " 
 
 Beck wrenched the weapon free. The group had drawn 
 back and behind him Sam McKee made a quick movement. 
 Two-Bits, beside him, dropped his hand to his hip and mut- 
 tered: 
 
 '' Keep out of this ! " 
 
 McKee, hate flickering in his face, subsided, without pro- 
 test, as a craven will. 
 
 Tom broke the gun and the cartridges scattered on the 
 floor. He closed it with a snap and sent it spinning down 
 the bar, clear to the far end. His eyes had not left Webb's 
 face. 
 
 " You're a liar," he said again quietly. " You're a liar 
 and you're going to tell all the boys here that you're a liar." 
 
 " Don't tell me I lie ! " — retreating a step as Beck's body 
 swayed toward him. 
 
 *' You lied," Tom said quietly, though his voice was not 
 just steady. His hands were clenched and he held them 
 slightly before his body as though yearning for opportunity 
 to seize upon and injure the other. 
 
 *' What is it to you, anyhow, if — " 
 
 " It's this to me, Webb : It makes me want to strangle 
 the foul breath in your throat! That's what it is to me an' 
 before these boys I will if you don't swallow your own dirty 
 words just to get their taste. 
 
 " I don't want to be a killer, even over such as you are, 
 but you've got me mad. We don't know an' nobody else 
 knows how this girl's goin' to make it in this country, but, 
 by God, Webb, she's goin' to have a fair chance. There 
 
54 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 ain't going to be any rotten talk that ain't called for an' it 
 ain't called for . . . yet. 
 
 " I expect I'd get into trouble if I killed you for this. 
 There's just one chance for me to keep out of trouble, and 
 that's for you to say you lied ! " 
 
 He moved closer as Webb retreated slowly, his spurs 
 ringing ever so slightly, yet their sound was audible in the 
 stillness. 
 
 " Say it ! " he insisted. " Say it, you whelp ! " 
 
 Webb's face had gone from red to the color of suet and 
 the blotches stood sharply out against the pallor. His dirty 
 assurance was beaten down and before this man he was 
 frightened . . . and enraged at his own fright. 
 
 " Mebby I spoke too quick — " 
 
 " You lied ! Nothin' short of that ! Say you lied and 
 say it now. . . . Quick ! " 
 
 He half lurched forward, lifting his eager, vengeful hands, 
 when Webb relaxed and gave a short, half laugh and said : 
 
 " Have it your own way. I lied, I guess. I didn't 
 
 mean — " 
 
 " That'll do, Webb. You've said all that's necessary." 
 He stood back and dropped his hands limply to his side, 
 eyeing the other with dying wrath. His gaze then went to 
 Hepburn and clung there a moment, eloquent of contempt 
 and he might as well have said : " You're her foreman. 
 W^hy didn't you take this up ? " 
 
 Tlien he moved to the bar and asked for a drink. Con- 
 strained talk arose. Webb sulkily recovered his gun and 
 stood close to Sam McKee, drinking. From the doorway 
 which led into the hotel office Dick Hilton turned back, 
 whistling lowly to himself, a speculative whistle. 
 
 Tom Beck rode home alone, hours before he had intended 
 to leave town. Why had he done that? Always he had 
 disliked Webb but why had this thing roused in him such 
 tremendous rage ? he asked as he unsaddled. 
 
 He laughed softly to himself as though he had done some- 
 
THE CHAMPION 55 
 
 thing ridiculous ; then he strolled down toward the creek 
 and stood under the cottonwoods a long interval, watching a 
 lighted chamber window. 
 
 " You're a queer little yellow-head," he said aloud to that 
 window. " You're the kind that gets men into trouble, but 
 maybe you're . . . worth it, a lot of it." 
 
 He stood for some time, until his wrath had wholly gone 
 and the mood which sent merriment dancing in his eyes 
 had returned. It had been a day of understanding: he had 
 broken down the barrier of deceit which Hepburn had at- 
 tempted to build, he had come to understand that there was 
 something strange in the pursuit of Jane Hunter by Dick 
 Hilton, he had understood that in his employer was at 
 least a physical courage which was promising, he had humili- 
 ated Webb and given the whole country to understand that 
 there should be no doubting of the new girl's reputation. 
 
 Of those incidents the only one now giving him concern 
 was the attitude of the foreman. His suspicion was strong, 
 his evidence wholly inadequate. 
 
 Tom stood beside his bunk for a time. He had thrown 
 down his gauntlet ; he had taken a chance. He might, from 
 now on, face danger or humiliation but he experienced a 
 relief at knowledge that so far as he v;as concerned there 
 was no longer anything under cover. He did not fear Hep- 
 burn or Webb so far as his own safety went. But there 
 were other things, he told himself. 
 
 What was up ? Just what game would Hepburn play . . . 
 if any? And who was that man from the East? To what 
 was Jane's confusion due that afternoon? Was it only em- 
 barrassment ? Only ? 
 
 He dozed off and woke with a start. Again he felt the 
 weight of her body on his arm, again the warmth of her 
 breath on his -cheek. He lay there with his heart hammer- 
 ing, then, with a growl, rolled over and went to sleep. 
 
 Well he could that night ! But other nights were coming 
 when he would ponder the significance of Hilton, when the 
 cloud which he then saw vaguely over Jane Hunter's future 
 
56 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 would be real and appalling, when he would actually feel her 
 body in his arms, when her warm breath would mingle with 
 her warm tears on his cheek, when he would hope that 
 death might come to him as a tribute to her. Oh, yes, Tom 
 Beck could put it all aside and sleep this night, but there 
 were others coming . . . other nights. . . . 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE COURTING 
 
 JANE HUNTER was in work up to her trim elbows. 
 She had Httle time for anything else. Twice again Dick 
 Hilton came to see her, riding a horse in the second visit, 
 but his stays were not lengthy . . . and not satisfactory, be- 
 cause the girl had little thought for anything l^ut ranch af- 
 fairs. 
 
 For long hours she sat at the desk which she had placed 
 in a bay window that commanded a superb view of far 
 ridges and pored over records she had found. She dis- 
 covered a detailed diary of events for the past ten years, a 
 voluminous chronicle kept more for the sake of giving self- 
 expression to the old colonel than for an efficient record, but 
 it served her well as a key to the fortunes of the property. 
 
 From time to time she sent for one of her men and 
 quizzed him rigidly on some phase of the work with which 
 he was particularly familiar, never satisfied until she had 
 learned all that he could teach her. Every evening Hepburn 
 sat with her and discussed ranch affairs at length, Jane 
 forcing him into argument to defend his statements. 
 
 While with the girl Dad maintained his paternal, patron- 
 izing attitude, yet he was not content, as was evident from 
 the moroseness which he displayed before the men. He 
 had been stripped of initiative until his authority was re- 
 duced to executing orders ; this, despite the fact that Jane 
 depended on him for most of her information. 
 
 Beck watched the foreman's attitude carefully. Hepburn 
 was chagrined, yet dogged, as though staying on and accept- 
 ing the situation for definite purpose. It had been de- 
 cided after Jane had argued away Hepburn's objections that 
 
 57 
 

 58 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Beck was to have a free hand with the horses, gathering the 
 saddle stock and getting it in shape for the summer's work, 
 breaking young horses, watching the mares and cohs. This 
 made it unnecessary for Beck to look to the older man for 
 detailed orders and delayed the clashes which were bound 
 to come between them. 
 
 Jane's approach to her respwDnsibilities was considered 
 admirable by the men, but it occasioned little comment. 
 Their judgment of her was still suspended; that is, with 
 the exception of Two-Bits. Her first look had won him 
 without reservation. 
 
 She's smart ! " he declared at frequent intervals. 
 
 She's the smartest girl I've ever seen . . . an' the love- 
 liest ! " The last with a drop in the voice which provoked 
 laughter. 
 
 Once he said to Beck : 
 
 " My gosh, Tommy, how'd you like to have wife like her? " 
 
 The other smiled cryptically. 
 
 " Now you're gettin' into a profound subject," he said. 
 " It ain't wise to pick out a wife like you'd pick out a horse. 
 There ain't much can fool a man who knows horses when 
 he looks one over careful-like, but there's a lot about women 
 that you can't know by lookin' 'em over and watching 'em 
 step." 
 
 He was watching Jane " step " and though he still was 
 the first to listen when others spoke of her qualities his man- 
 ned toward her was the least flattering of any. 
 
 After she had ridden the sorrel twice, each time accom- 
 panied by Beck or Hepburn she sent Two-Bits to saddle 
 him. 
 
 " What you doing with that horse ? " Beck asked, looking 
 up from the hoof of a colt which he pared gently to reveal 
 some hidden infection. 
 
 " She wants him to ride," the cowboy explained. 
 
 ** Coin' alone ? " 
 
 "Guess so." 
 
THE COURTING ,59 
 
 " Then take that saddle off and put it on the little pinto." 
 
 " But she said to — " 
 
 " Makes no difference. You take it off or I'll make you 
 look like two bits, Mex ! " 
 
 On finding her order miscarried Jane demanded explana- 
 tion. 
 
 " Tommy, he told me," Two-Bits said, uneasily. 
 
 " But I ordered the sorrel — " 
 
 " And I told Two-Bits to give you this paint, ma'am,'* 
 Beck said, the foot of the colt still between his knees. 
 
 " And why?" — with a show of spirit. 
 
 *' Because you ain't up to him yet and he ain't down 
 to you. If somebody w^as with you, it'd be different. You 
 can't ride him alone, ma'am." 
 
 She gave her head an indignant toss and was about to 
 demand the execution of her plan but he turned back to 
 his work, talking gently to the animal. Then with a grud- 
 gingly resigned sigh she walked toward the pinto, for 
 there was something about Beck that precluded argument. 
 
 Again she told him of a contemplated visit to the ranches 
 further down the creek. 
 
 Why, ma'am ? " he asked. 
 
 There are many things to talk over, plans for the sum- 
 mer's work and the like. Besides, I want to become ac- 
 quainted." 
 
 He smiled and said: 
 
 " That last is fine, but I guess you'd better wait for the 
 rest." 
 
 "Wait? What for?" 
 
 " Until you know, ma'am. You see, you've only been 
 here a little while ; you've learned a lot, but you don't 
 know enough to talk business with anybody yet. It won't 
 be good for you to go talking about something you don't 
 understand." 
 
 " I think I am capable of judging that," she said bruskly. 
 " I will go." 
 
 it 
 
6o THE LAST STRAW 
 
 But she did not. She had intended to go the next day 
 but as she lay awake that morning she told herself that 
 he had been right, she did not know enough about her 
 affairs to discuss her relationships with neighbors intel- 
 ligently. She still smarted from his frankness, but the 
 hurt was leavened by a feeling that behind his presump- 
 tion had been thought of her own welfare. 
 
 She tired quickly in the first days that she rode and once, 
 remarking on it, she drew this advice from Beck : 
 
 " You'd do a lot better without corsets." 
 
 Simply, bluntly, impersonally and with so much assur- 
 ance that she could not even reply. His observation had 
 smacked of no disagreeable intimacy. She had told him 
 that she tired; he had given her his idea of the cause. 
 
 She took off her corsets. 
 
 A day of cold rain came on ; at noon the downpour abated 
 for a time and Jane asked Hepburn to ride dowm the creek 
 with her to look over land that was to be cleared and ir- 
 rigated. 
 
 " Have you got a slicker, ma'am ? " Beck asked when she 
 requested that a horse be saddled. 
 
 She had none. 
 
 " There ain't an extra one on the place," he said, " so I 
 guess you'd better not go." 
 
 " But the rain is over. Anyhow, what hurt will a wetting 
 do?" 
 
 " I don't guess the rain's all over," he said. " And to 
 get wet and cold ain't a good thing for anybody ; it'd be a 
 mighty bad thing for you. You're a city woman ; you can't 
 do these things yet." 
 
 An exasperating sense of inferiority came over her, bring- 
 ing a helpless sort of rage. This man was not even her 
 foreman and yet he brought her up short, time after time. 
 She started to tell him so, but changed her mind. Also, 
 she changed her plans for the day. 
 
 He was not rough, not obtrusive in any of this. Just 
 
THE COURTING 61 
 
 frank and simple, and when she bridled under it all she 
 saw that twinkle creep into his eye, as though she were a 
 child and her spirit amused him ! 
 
 But she did more than amuse. She could not see, she 
 could not know ; nights he roused from sleep and lay 
 awake trying to fathom the sensations he experienced ; days 
 he rode without sufficient thought for the work that was 
 before him. At times he was impelled to be irritable to- 
 ward her and this because his stronger impulse was to be 
 gentle ! 
 
 He did not want to care for this woman and he found 
 himself caring in spite of himself 1 He rode to town and 
 spent an evening with a waitress from the hotel, taking her 
 to a picture show, paying her broad compliments, seeing 
 her pride rise because of his attentions, and he rode home 
 before daylight, disgusted with himself. His life was be- 
 ing reshaped, his tastes, his desires. His caution against 
 taking chances was being beaten down. 
 
 She commenced to ride with him regularly and these 
 rides grew longer as she found her body becoming tough- 
 ened and her endurance greater until they were together 
 many hours each day, until, in fact, escorting her had 
 become Beck's job. The ostensible purpose of this was to 
 learn the country and the manner of range work but 
 though she did learn rapidly their talk was largely personal. 
 Beck was not responsive and the more reserved he became 
 the greater Jane's efforts to force him to talk of himself. 
 
 These efforts netted her little and after a time she gave 
 up, tentatively, and adopted other means of winning his 
 confidence. 
 
 Once she helped him gather a bunch of horses that had 
 not been corraled for seasons. The way led down a steep 
 point and Jane was ahead, holding up the bunch while 
 Beck crowded them from behind. She took the descent 
 with a degree of hesitation for the going — so steep that 
 she was forced to clamp a hand behind her cantle to re- 
 
62 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 tain a seat — chilled her with fear. On the level she fanned 
 the sorrel and kept ahead of the horses until she could 
 lead them safely into a corral. 
 
 The gate closed, Jane looked at Beck with sparkling eyes, 
 expecting a word of reward, but he only said : 
 
 " You've got to keep goin' with horses. The country's 
 all got to look level to you. You slowed up bustin' off that 
 point." , 
 
 The rebuke hurt her . . . and stimulated her ambition. 
 
 He taught her to use a rifle and she brought down her 
 first deer, a yearling buck, at long range. 
 
 " I told you to hold just behind his shoulder; see where 
 you hit," he said, indicating the wound, a hand's breadth 
 too far back. 
 
 She shot with his revolver and he told her that she would 
 never learn to use the weapon. She bade him teach her the 
 rudiments of roping and he decried the woman movements 
 of arms and body. 
 
 In all this he was quick to criticise, niggardly of praise; 
 ready to teach, reluctant to grant progress. 
 
 She was resentful but her resentment was no match 
 for her determination. Now and then his rebukes whipped 
 flushes to her cheeks and more than once she left him 
 with tears standing in her eyes, only to tell herself aloud 
 that she would make him acknowledge her accomplish- 
 ments. . . . 
 
 Once, riding on alone after Jane had turned back toward 
 the ranch Beck encountered Sam McKee. The man had 
 dismounted and was recinching when Tom passed him. He 
 looked up with that baleful expression, as though he was 
 impelled to do the H C rider great harm and held back only 
 by his cowardice. When Tom had passed McKee mounted 
 and before he started on his way he turned to shout over his 
 shoulder : 
 
 " Chaperone ! " 
 
 In it he put all that contempt which small, timid boys 
 put into their shouted taunts. 
 
THE COURTING 63 
 
 Beck was not angered but that gave him something to 
 think about. 
 
 Another time as, on his roan, he led the sorrel toward 
 the gate to the houseyard he saw Hepburn smiling at him 
 with scornful humour and when the foreman saw that 
 Beck had seen he said: 
 
 " A regular chaperone, ain't you ? '* 
 
 Tom did not reply though it roiled him. He thought 
 about the remark at length but the thing which interested 
 him was that Hepburn had used the same word that McKee 
 had used. . . . Was that, he asked himself, mere chance? 
 
 They had ridden far to the eastward one afternoon and 
 returning long after dark Jane made a meal herself and 
 they ate together at her table. Beck was noticeably re- 
 strained and when finished hastened to leave. 
 
 '* Can't you sit and talk with me a while ? " she asked. 
 
 '* I could, ma'am, but is it necessary?" 
 
 " Not necessary to the business, perhaps, but it might 
 mean a pleasant evening for me." 
 
 He gave her steady gaze for steady gaze and then said: 
 
 " Anybody would think you were courtin' me, ma'am." 
 
 She laughed easily, yet her gaze wavered. She asked: 
 
 "And what if I should be?" 
 
 This disconcerted him but he replied : 
 
 " It's likely I'd quit." 
 
 "I'm . . . wholly distasteful to you, then?" 
 
 " If I was to say yes, it'd hurt your feelings, needless. 
 So I won't. I don't mind tellin' you, though, that the 
 country is calling me your chaperone." 
 
 " And does what people say worry you ? " 
 
 " Not when they talk about something that I'm responsi- 
 ble for. I didn't hire out as a ... a companion, ma'am." 
 
 She stepped closer, hands behind her and said: 
 
 " The first time you talked to me at any length you had 
 a great deal to say about respect. No one had ever talked 
 to me as you did. I took it because it was true . . . and 
 I respected you. 
 
64 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 '* Since that time I have been trying to be worthy of the 
 respect of you men ; of yours particularly because you are 
 the only one with whom I have talked so frankly about 
 myself. But at every turn you repulse me, drive me back. 
 Nothing that I do seems to be pleasing to you. You pick 
 on me, Tom Beck ! Why do you do it ? " 
 
 He eyed her calculatingly. 
 
 " What would you think if I told you that it was because 
 I don't like you?" 
 
 " I would think it was not the truth." 
 
 He flushed and this time his eyes fell from hers. 
 
 " I would think just that, but I might be wrong." She 
 breathed rapidly, one hand on a gold locket that was at 
 her throat. " I might think that you fear that becoming my 
 friend would be taking a chance . . . but I might not want 
 to think that. 
 
 " You were the first man who ever dared tell me just 
 how little I have amounted to. You are the first individual 
 that ever made me feel ashamed of myself. You did those 
 things; you opened my eyes, you showed me what real 
 achievement is. 
 
 "Now I'm fighting for a place. I have won one thing: 
 my self respect. Now I'm going to win another : the re- 
 spect of other people and if I can win their respect I can 
 win their friendship. 
 
 " I may be overconfident. Time will prove that. But 
 there is one thing I want, Tom Beck, and that is your friend- 
 ship. Before I get through, and if I succeed, you are go- 
 ing to be glad to be my . . . friend ! " 
 
 There was challenge in her tone, which, withal its as- 
 surance, was sweet and gentle, almost appealing; and that 
 combination of qualities indicated that her words did not 
 express her whole thought. It steeled him and with that 
 mocking twinkle again he said : 
 
 " You seem quite sure, ma'am." 
 
 " As sure as I have ever been of anything in my life ! " 
 
 But her assurance did not compare with her desire, for 
 
THE COURTING 65 
 
 when he had gone she was seized with the fear that she had 
 said too much, had gone too far. And that which she had 
 boasted would be hers was to Jane Hunter a precious posses- 
 sion. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 OUTCASTS 
 
 AT sunset a girl rider descended from the uplands 
 into the shadows of Devil's Hole. The big brown 
 which carried her picked his way slowly down the treacher- 
 ous trail, nose low, ears forward, selecting his footing with 
 care. 
 
 The girl sat braced back in her saddle. Her face was 
 dark, eyes filled with a brooding, but the mouth though 
 sternly set showed a rueful droop at the corners. 
 
 Her mind was not on her progress. She was lost in a 
 very definite consideration, something which stirred re- 
 sentment, it was evident from her face. Finally she drew 
 a sharp deep breath of impatience. 
 
 " Oh, get along, you dromedary ! " she muttered and 
 rowelled her horse sharply. 
 
 The big beast sprang forward with a grunt and went 
 down the trail in long, shaking bounds, even more intent 
 on his footing, than before and when they reached the level 
 he crashed through the brush at a high lope, leaping little 
 washes with great lunges and bearing his light rider swiftly 
 toward the cabin from which a whisp of smoke curled. 
 
 The discouraged looking man stood before the doorway 
 watching her come and as the girl swung down, before the 
 horse was well halted, she flashed a quick smile at him. 
 
 " I heerd you comin', daughter, away back thar. I shore 
 thought the devil himself might 've been after you ! " 
 
 He smiled wanly. 
 
 " I seen her again,'* the girl said as she dragged her sad- 
 dle off. 
 
 The man pulled languidly at his mustache. 
 
 66 
 
OUTCASTS 67 
 
 " She see you ? " 
 
 " No. I set under a juniper and watched 'em . . . her 
 an' that Beck man." 
 
 " Mebby if you was to talk to her an' get friendly — " 
 
 " I don't want to be no friends with her ! I hate her 
 already ! " 
 
 She spat out the words and her face was a storm of dis- 
 like. 
 
 " What I meant . . . mebby 't would be easier for us 
 if you played like you was friends. Tlien she mightn't 
 suspect." 
 
 She rolled her saddle to its side and spread the blanket 
 over it. 
 
 " No. I can't do things that-a way, Alf ," — with a slow 
 shake of her head. " Mebby 't would get us more . . . but 
 there's somethin' in me, in here," — a palm to her breast — 
 *' that won't let me. I can steal her blind an' only be 
 glad about it, but I couldn't make up like I was her friend 
 while I done it." 
 
 " Mebby . . . mebby you would sure enough like her," 
 he persisted. " You ain't never had no friends — " 
 
 " I'd never like her, not while we're this way," — with a 
 gesture to include the litter about the cabin. " She's got 
 all that I want. She's had all the things I've never had. 
 She's got clothes, lots of pretty clothes ; she's lived in towns 
 an's always had things easy. She's got friends and folks 
 to respect her. You can tell that by lookin' at her. . . . 
 
 " What makes me that way, Alf ? What makes me hate 
 folks that have got the things I want ? " 
 
 He pulled on his mustache again and scanned the scarlet 
 sky which rose above the purple heights to the westward. 
 He shook his head rather helplessly and then looked at the 
 girl who stood before him, the eagerness of her query 
 showing in her eyes with an intensity that was almost des- 
 perate. 
 
 " Mebby you get it from me. I've had it . . . always. 
 That's all I have had . . . that an' hard luck." 
 
68 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " But I don't like it ! " she said and in the tone was 
 something of the spirit of a bewildered little girl. " I'd 
 like to be like other girls. I'd like to have friends . . . 
 girl friends, but the more I want 'em, the more I hate those 
 that have 'em ! 
 
 *' What's the matter with me, Alf ? " 
 
 " The same thing that's the matter with me, daughter : 
 hard luck. I've wanted things so bad that not hevin' 'em 
 has soured me. I've watched other outfits grow big an' 
 rich an' nothin' like that has ever come my way. The big- 
 ger the rest got, the harder 't was for me to get along 
 ... an' the worse I hated 'em ! " 
 
 There was no iron in his voice; just the whine of a 
 weakling, dispirited to a point where his resentment at ill 
 fortune, even, was a passive thing. 
 
 " Why, she's got a fine house to live in, an' I'll bet she al- 
 ways had. She's never knowed what it was to set out a 
 norther in a wagon. She's never lived on buckskin an' 
 frozen spuds all winter. She's never been chased from 
 one place to another. . . . 
 
 " Folks respect her for what she's got. Why don't 
 folks get respected for just what they are?" 
 
 There was pathos in that query. 
 
 The man answered: 
 
 ** It ain't what you are that matters, daughter. It's 
 what you own." 
 
 " You've always said that, ever since I can remember. 
 Mebby if you hadn't said it so much, Alf, I wouldn't feel 
 like I do." 
 
 He shifted his footing uneasily and looked again at the 
 flaring sky. 
 
 " Well, it's so," he whined. " You'd have found it out 
 yourself. I've brung you up the best I knowed how." 
 
 " Oh, Alf ! I didn't mean I was finding fault ! Damned 
 if you aint brought me up good ! Why, you're the only 
 friend I got Alf ! What'd I do without you ? You're the 
 only one I've ever knowed . . . real well. You're the only 
 
OUTCASTS 69 
 
 one who*s ever been good to me ! " She put her hands on 
 his shoulders and looked into his face with a smile of gen- 
 uine affection. '' Good old Alf ! We've been pals, ain't 
 we?" 
 
 K^ nodded, and said : 
 
 " An' if you stick to me a little mite longer, you'll have 
 enough. 
 
 " You're brighter'n I be, daughter. You got a longer 
 head. Now's your chanct to use it ! " He looked about, 
 somewhat nervously, as if they might be overheard. 
 " Sometimes I get afeerd. Lately, since we've come here, 
 IVe been afeerd. It's the only time I ever let anybody else 
 know what my plans was an' it makes me feel creepy to 
 think somebody else knozvs! " 
 
 '' 'Fraid of what, Alf ? " she asked. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Gettin' caught again, an' — " 
 
 **' Oh, but you won't ! You can't. Alf, you can't get 
 caught an' sent to jail an' leave me alone again ! " 
 
 She spoke in a whisper and gripped her fist for emphasis. 
 
 " I shore don't want to leave you, daughter. I shore 
 don't want to get catched. That's where you come in . . . 
 helpin' me scheme ! I ain't afeerd of havin' 'em come up on 
 me an' git me red-handed so much as I am of havin' some- 
 body else know what's goin' on." 
 
 " But he sent for us. He told us the outfit was goin' 
 to be owned by a tenderfoot. He's as much in danger as we, 
 ain't he ? " 
 
 Her father nodded slowly. 
 
 " You're right ... in a way, but if it ever come to a 
 show-down, I'd be the one to hold th' bag, wouldn't I? 
 That's what we got to watch out for. 'Course, it's easy 
 pickin', with this gal tryin' to run things herself, an' what 
 with her brand workin' over into ourn so easy, there ain't 
 many chances. . . . Except havin' somebody else to know." 
 
 "If anybody ever was to double cross you, Alf, I'd get 
 'em if it was the last thing I done ! " 
 
THE LAST STRAW 
 
 \ 
 
 That threat carried conviction and her father looked all 
 her with a rare brand of admiration in his eyes. 
 
 " Lord, daughter, sometimes I think you was meant to 
 be a man . . . an' a hard man ! Sometimes you almost 
 scare me, th* way you say things ! " 
 
 She made no reply and he said: 
 
 " All we got to do is go slow. A brandin' iron has built 
 many a fortune, an' nobody ever had it any easier 'a 
 
 us." 
 
 " Do you think we'll ever get rich enough, Alf , to have 
 a regular house ? An' be respected by folks ? " 
 
 " Luck's bound to change sometime," he muttered. 
 " Ours has been bad a long time ... a long, long time." 
 
 He gathered an arm load of wood and entered the cabin. 
 The girl stood alone a long time, watching the brilliant 
 flowering of the sky sink slowly into the west, drawing 
 steely night to cover its garden. A sharp star bored its 
 way through the failing light and stood half way between 
 earth and heaven. A vagrant breeze slid down the creek, 
 bringing with it the breath of sage, and afar off some- 
 where a cow bawled plaintively. 
 
 '' She has 'em," she muttered to herself. " Friends . . . 
 an' respect ... an' everything I want. . . . 
 
 " I wonder what makes me hate folks so. . . .'* 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE CATAMOUNT 
 
 THREE weeks after her arrival Jane made her first 
 trip to town and Beck drove the pair of strong bays 
 which swirled their buckboard over the road at a spanking 
 trot. 
 
 Events had arisen to prevent their being together in the 
 days immediately following the frank discussion of their 
 attitudes toward one another and Jane thought that she 
 detected a feeling of curiosity in him, as though he won- 
 dered just how she would go about forcing him to like 
 her. Shrewdly, she avoided personalities and talked much 
 of the ranch. 
 
 When they broke over the divide and began the long 
 drop into town, he said : 
 
 " Since you asked advice from me, I keep thinkin' up 
 more, ma'am." 
 
 " That's nice. I need it. What now ? " 
 
 " I s'pose Dad mentioned that water in Devil's Hole ? " 
 
 " Why, I don't recall it. We've talked so much and 
 about so many things that perhaps it's slipped my mind." 
 
 " Maybe. He said he had." 
 
 She questioned him further but he said it might be well 
 for her to mention it to Hepburn. " He's foreman, you 
 know." 
 
 They swung into the one street of Ute Crossing and 
 stopped before the bank. As Beck stepped down to tie 
 the team a girl came out of a store across the way and 
 vaulted into the saddle on a big brown horse with grace- 
 ful ease. It was the nester's daughter. 
 
 Two men came from the saloon just as she reined her 
 
 71 
 
72 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 horse about. They eyed her insolently with that stare of a 
 type of loafer which is eloquent of all that is despicable 
 and one of them, a short, stodgy man, smiled brazenly. 
 
 The girl gave them one stare, hostility in her brown 
 eyes, and then looked away, her lips moving in an un- 
 heard Tvord, surely of contempt. 
 
 Then the man spoke. It is not well to repeat. His words 
 were few, but they were ugly. The girl had touched her 
 horse with a spur and he leaped forward. Just that one 
 bound. As he made it the man spoke and with a wrench 
 she set the brown back on his haunches and whirled him 
 about. Her face was suddenly white, her lips in a tight, red 
 line, and her eyes blazed. 
 
 She rode back to the men, who had continued on their 
 way, holding her horse to a mincing trot, for he seemed to 
 have caught the tensity of her mood. 
 
 *' Did I hear you right?" she said to the man who had 
 spoken. 
 
 He stood still and looked up with the rude leer. 
 
 " That depends on your ears, likely. All I said was that 
 you — *' 
 
 She did not give him time to repeat. Her right arm 
 flashed up and the quirt, slung to its wrist, hissed angrily 
 as it cut back and with a stinging crack wound its thong 
 about the man's face. 
 
 " Take that ! " she cried. " And that ... and that ! " 
 
 At the first blow the man ducked and turned, throwing 
 up his hands to guard, and as other slashes, relentless, rapid, 
 of scourging vigor, fell upon his head and face and neck, 
 he doubled over and ran for the shelter of a store. But 
 the girl's wrath was not satisfied. She sent the big horse 
 from street to sidewalk where his hoofs thundered on the 
 planks, crowded in between her quarry and the building 
 fronts, cutting off his flight, striking faster, harder, teeth 
 showing now between her drawn lips. 
 
 The man fled into the street again, but she followed, 
 guiding her horse without conscious thought, surely, for 
 
THE CATAMOUNT 73 
 
 no woman roused as her face showed she was roused could 
 have had thought for other than the thrashing she ad- 
 ministered. Endangered by the excited hoofs which were 
 all about him as he ducked and dodged in vain to escape, the 
 man ran with hands and arms close about his head, moving 
 them with each blow that fell in futile attempts to save 
 other parts from the cut and smart of that rawhide. 
 
 The girl uttered no word. All the rancor, all the rage 
 he had roused by his insult, found vent in the whipping. 
 Her whole lithe torso moved with each stroke as she put 
 into the downward swing all the strength she could com- 
 mand, and across the man's cheek rose broad red welts, con- 
 trasting with his pallor of fright, until his face looked 
 like a fancy berry pie. 
 
 Scuttling, dodging, doubling, the man worked across 
 the street, turned back time and again but persisting until, 
 with a cry of pain and desperation, he threw out one hand, 
 caught the bridle and in the instant's respite the move gave 
 him stumbled to the other sidewalk, across it and sprawled 
 through the swinging doors of the saloon he had left mo- 
 ments before. 
 
 The horse came to a halt with a slam against the flimsy 
 front of the building. The girl drew back her quirt as for 
 a final blow, but the man, regaining his feet, fled through 
 the bar room and disappeared. She dropped her hand to 
 the top of the door, pushed it open and held it so, peering 
 darkly into the room. 
 
 People had come into the street to watch. There had 
 been excited shouts and a scream or two, but as the girl 
 sat looking into the place a quick silence shut down and 
 when she spoke her voice, trembling with emotion but 
 scarcely raised above its normal pitch, was easily heard. 
 
 " I've took a lot from men," she said, '* ever since I was 
 a kid. When I come into this country I thought maybe 
 I'd get a little respect . . . for bein' just a girl. I didn't 
 get it ... I've got to take it. 
 
 "If that man's a sample of the kind you've got here, 
 
74 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 you're a nest of skunks. And you talk easy hereafter, every 
 one of you, because so long as I've got a quirt and an arm, I'll 
 hide you till you're raw if you make any breaks like he did. 
 Keep that in mind ! " 
 
 She released her hold on the door; it swung outward 
 smartly and as it struck the horse he sprang sideways, 
 wheeled, and clearing the shallow gutter with a lunge, swung 
 down the street at a gallop. 
 
 When she passed Jane Hunter, who stood amazed in her 
 buckboard, tears showed in the girl's eyes, but her back was 
 as erect, her shoulders as trimly set as though no great 
 emotion was surging in her heart. 
 
 " She's quite a catamount, I'll guess," said Tom Beck 
 as he gave the knot in the tie rope a securing tug and turned 
 to face Jane. 
 
 His eyes were fired with admiration. 
 
 " But a girl — " 
 
 " She was magnificent ! " 
 
 It was Dick Hilton who had interrupted with the words. 
 Beck looked at him and the enthusiasm which had been in 
 his face faded. He eyed the Easterner briefly and turned 
 to adjust a buckle on the harness. 
 
 " And only a girl ! " exclaimed Jane under her breath. 
 
 Dick, did you see it all ? " 
 
 " A typical Western girl, I should say," he replied. 
 
 Your. . . . Your neighbor and associate? Your com- 
 panion, Jane ? " he asked. " The sort you want to cast your 
 lot with?" 
 
 " And a moment ago you thought her magnificent ! " she 
 taunted as she stepped down and offered him her hand. 
 
 *' rU meet you in, say, two hours, ma'am," Beck said. 
 
 " Very well ; right here," she replied, and he left her 
 as she turned to meet Hilton's unpleasant smile. 
 
 They began the return trip shortly after noon. Hilton 
 had been with Jane when Tom returned and he stood be- 
 side the buckboard talking some minutes after Beck had 
 
 t( 
 
 t( 
 
THE CATAMOUNT 75 
 
 picked up the reins and was ready to commence the drive. 
 Occasionally Dick's eyes wandered from Jane to the other 
 man's face but Tom sat, knees crossed, idly toying with the 
 whip, as indifferent to what was being said as if the others 
 were out of sight and hearing. Hilton made an obvious 
 effort to exclude the Westerner but Beck's disregard of 
 him was as genuine as it was evident. He sat patiently, with 
 an easy sense of superiority and the contrast was not lost 
 on Jane Hunter. 
 
 The town was far behind and below them, a mere cluster 
 of miniature buildings, before either spoke. Then it was 
 Jane. 
 
 " That girl. . . . There was something splendid about her, 
 wasn't there ? " 
 
 ** There was," he agreed. '' She sure expressed her opin- 
 ion of men in general ! " 
 
 *' A newcomer, evidently." 
 
 Beck nodded. " Came in soon after you did, with her 
 father, it looked like." 
 
 *' And she wins the respect of strange men by blows ! " 
 she said. 
 
 ** He deserved all he got, didn't he ? " Besk asked, smil- 
 ing. ** I like to see a bad hombrc like that get set down 
 by a woman. There's something humiliating about it that 
 counts a lot more than the whippin' she gave him." 
 
 '* But wouldn't it have spoken more for the chivalry of 
 the country if some man had done it for her?" 
 
 " That's likely. But there ain't much chivalry here, 
 
 ma'am." 
 
 " And am I so fortunate as to have enjoyed the pro- 
 tection of what httle there is?" 
 
 He looked at her blankly. 
 
 " I had to come clear to Ute Crossing to learn how one 
 man defended me from the insult of another." 
 
 He stirred uneasily on the seat. 
 
 '* That was nothin'," he growled. " I'd been waiting for 
 a chance to land on Webb for a long time." 
 
76 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 He did not look at her and his manner had none of its 
 usual bluntness; clearly he was evasive and, more, uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 " First, I want to thank you," Jane said after she had 
 looked at him a moment. " You don't know how a woman 
 such as I am can feel about a thing like that. I think it was 
 the finest thing a man has ever done for me . . . and many 
 men have been trying to do fine things for me for a long 
 time." 
 
 She was deeply touched and her voice was not just steady 
 but when Beck did not answer, just looked straight ahead 
 with his tell-tale flush deepening, a delight crept into her 
 eyes and the corners of her pretty mouth quirked. 
 
 " Besides, it was a great deal to expect of a man who 
 has made up his mind not to like me ! " 
 
 They had topped the divide and the sorrels had been 
 fighting the bits. As she spoke Tom gave them their heads 
 and the team swept the buckboard forward with a banging 
 and clatter that would have drowned words anyhow, but 
 the fact that he did not reply gave Jane a feeling of jubila- 
 tion. Her thrust had pricked his reserve, showing it to be 
 not wholly genuine ! 
 
 Dick Hilton had told her of the encounter Beck had 
 had with Webb, told it jeeringly as he attempted to im- 
 press her with the distasteful phases of her environment. 
 He had failed in that. He had impressed her only with the 
 fact that Tom Beck had gone out of his way, had taken a 
 chance, to protect her standing. Others of her men had 
 heard her insulted, men from other ranches had been there, 
 but of them all Beck had been her champion. 
 
 And it was Beck who had bullied her, had doubted her 
 in the face of her best efforts to convince him of fitness ! 
 He had even challenged her to make herself his friend ! 
 
 She had believed before she came into those hills that she 
 knew men of all sorts but now she had found something 
 new. Here was a man who, in her presence, would plot to 
 
THE CATAMOUNT 77 
 
 humiliate her and yet when ^he could not see or hear his 
 loyalty and his belief in her were outstanding. 
 
 And what was it, she asked herself, that made her pulse 
 leap and her throat tighten? It was not wholly gratitude. 
 It was not merely because he resisted her efforts to win his 
 open regard. Those things were potent influences, surely, 
 but there was something more fundamental about him, a 
 basic quality which she had not before encountered in men ; 
 she could not analyze it but daily she had sensed its growing 
 strength. Now she felt it . . . felt, but could not identify. 
 
 Two-Bits opened the gate for them and Tom carried her 
 bundles into the house. 
 
 At the corral, as Beck unharnessed, the homely cow 
 puncher said : 
 
 " Gosh, Tommy, how'd it seem, ridin' all the way to town 
 an' back with her settin' up beside you ? " 
 
 " Just about like you was there, Two-Bits, only we didi't 
 swear quite so much.'' 
 
 " I got lots of respect for you, Tommy, but I think you're 
 a damned liar." 
 
 And Beck chuckled to himself as though, perhaps, the 
 other had been right. 
 
 " Two weeks now since he wrote," Two-Bits sighed. 
 " He shore ought to be comin'. Gosh, Tom, but he's a 
 bright man ! " 
 
 Again that night Jane Hunter looked from a window after 
 the lights in the bunk house had gone out and the place 
 was quiet, to see a tall, silent figure move slowly beneath 
 the cottonwoods, watching the house, pausing at times as 
 if listening. Then it went back through the shadows more 
 rapidly, as though satisfied that all was well. 
 
 Many times she had watched this but tonight it seemed of 
 greater significance than ever before. He denied her his 
 friendship ; he had made Webb his sworn enemy by de- 
 fending her (she had not told him that part of the tale she 
 heard in Ute Crossing) and yet disclaimed any great inter- 
 
78 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 est in her as a motive. Still, he patrolled her dooryard 
 at night ! 
 
 A sudden impulse to do something that would make 
 him give her that consideration in her presence which he 
 gave before others came to life. His attitude suddenly an- 
 gered her beyond reason and she felt her body shaking as 
 tears sprang into her eyes. The great thing which she de- 
 sired was just there, just out of reach and the fact exas- 
 perated her, grew, became a fever until, on her knees at the 
 window, hammering the sill with her fists, she cried : 
 
 " Tom Beck you're going to love me ! " 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AND NOW, THE CLERGY 
 
 TWO-BITS was the last into the bunkhouse the follow- 
 ing evening. He had ridden his Nigger horse in 
 from the westward hills and had not come through the big 
 gate so not until he stepped across the threshold were 
 the others aware of his presence. 
 
 " Here he is ! " said a rider from down the creek who 
 was stopping for the night and the group in the center of the 
 low room broke apart. 
 
 '' Two-Bits, here's your brother," said Curtis. 
 
 A small man stood beside him. He wore a green, bat- 
 tered derby hat, band and binding of which were sadly 
 frayed. He wore spectacles, steel rimmed, over searching 
 gray eyes. He was unshaven. A celluloid collar, buttoned 
 behind, made an overly large cylinder for his wrinkled neck. 
 He wore a frock coat, also green with age, the pockets of 
 which bulged and sagged and their torn corners spoke of 
 long overloading. His overalls, patched and newly washed, 
 were tucked into boots with run-down heels. In his hand he 
 held a fountain pen. 
 
 At the entrance of Two-Bits all talk had ceased ; at Curtis* 
 introduction, Two-Bits stopped. He swallowed, setting his 
 Adam's apple in sharp vibration. He took off his hat. He 
 flushed and his mild eyes wavered. Then he advanced 
 across the room, extending a limp hand and said in a thin, 
 embarrassed voice : 
 
 '* Please to meet you. Mister Beal." 
 
 Tom Beck bit his lips but one or two of the others 
 laughed outright ; they ceased, however, when the Reverend 
 
 79 
 
8o THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Beal, in a voice that was tremendously deep and impressive 
 for such a small man, said: 
 
 " My brother, I extend to you the right hand of fellow- 
 ship ! It is a deed of God that enables me to look once 
 more into your beloved face after these years of separa- 
 tion. Givt me your hand, brother. May the blessings of 
 Heaven descend upon and abide with thee ! " 
 
 He shook Two-Bits' paw, looking up earnestly into his 
 face, while the blushing became more furious. 
 
 " Marvelous are the ways of Providence ! " he boomed. 
 *' Let us give thanks." 
 
 He doffed his hat, and still clinging to Two-Bits' hand, 
 lowered his head. 
 
 " Almighty Father, whose blessings are diverse and mani- 
 fold, we, brothers of the flesh, give our thanks to Thee for 
 bringing about this reunion on earth. We realize, oh Lord, 
 that these mundane moments are but brief forerunners of 
 greater joys that are to come, that they are but passing 
 pleasures; but joy here below is a rare thing and from this 
 valley of tears and sin we lift our hearts and our voices in 
 thanks that such blessings have been visited upon us by Thy 
 blessed magnanimity ! " 
 
 He lifted his head and honest tears showed behind his 
 spectacles. 
 
 " And now, brother," — in a brusk, business-like man- 
 ner, ** you, too, will be interested in this article which I 
 was about to demonstrate to the congregation." 
 
 He replaced his hat with a dead punk, held the pen aloft 
 in gesture, drew a pad of paper from one of his sagging 
 pockets and continued : 
 
 " Made of India rubber, combined in a secret process with 
 Belgian talc and Swedish, water-proof shellac, this pen will 
 withstand the acid action of the strongest inks. It is self- 
 filling, durable, compact, artistic in design. The clip pre- 
 vents its falling from the pocket and consequent loss. 
 
 " The point is of the finest, specially selected California, 
 eighteen carat gold. It was designed by that peerless in- 
 
AND NOW, THE CLERGY 81 
 
 ventor, Thomas Edison. Its overy feature, from the safety 
 shank to the velvet tip, is covered by patents granted by 
 the authority of this great repubhc ! 
 
 " It does not leak ! " — shaking it vigorously. " It does 
 not fail to flow. It does not scratch or prick. Follow me 
 closely, men ; watch every move." 
 
 With facility he guided the point across the paper in great 
 flourishes, sketching a crudely designed bird on the wing. 
 
 " See ? See what can be done with this invention ? How 
 can any mature man or woman do without this article? 
 Such an article ! 
 
 '' This, men, is a three dollar commodity, but for the 
 purposes of advertising I am permitted by the firm to charge 
 you — Two-fifty? No! Two dollars? No! One fifty? 
 NO ! For the sum of one dollar, American money, E 
 Pluribus Unum and In God We Trust, I will place this in- 
 valuable article in your possession. One dollar, men ! One 
 dollar! 
 
 '* But wait. Further " — diving into another pocket, " we 
 will give away absolutely free of charge to every purchaser 
 one of these celebrated key rings and chains, made of a new 
 conglomerate called white metal, guaranteed not to rust, 
 tarnish or break except under excessive strain. Keeps your 
 keys safe and always handy. Free, with each and every in- 
 dividual purchase ! 
 
 " Still more ! " — making another dive into the inexhaust- 
 able pockets — " Another article used by every gentleman 
 and lady. A hand mirror, a magnifying hand mirror. 
 Carry it in your pocket, have it always handy for the thou- 
 sand and one uses to which it may be put. 
 
 '' Think ! This magnificent fountain pen, this key-ring 
 and chain, this pocket mirror, a collection which regularly 
 would retail for from four to five dollars, are yours for 
 one dollar. . . . 
 
 " Now, who's first?" 
 
 Two-Bits who had watched and listened with a growing 
 amazement, mouth open, Adam's apple jumping, was roused. 
 
82 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " I am, Mister Beal," he said eagerly, digging in a pocket 
 for the money. 
 
 ** Ah, brother, part of being a Beal is knowing a bargain ! 
 Who else, now ? " 
 
 He sold six of the pens before the big bell at the ranch 
 house summoned the men to supper; then slipped his 
 stock back in the pockets of that clerical looking garment 
 and, grasping Two-Bits by the arm, beaming up into his 
 face, stumped along by his side. 
 
 At the table he ate and talked, at one and the same time, 
 doing both with astonishing ease. No matter how great 
 the excess of food in his mouth, he was still able to articulate, 
 and no matter how rapidly he talked, he could always thrust 
 more nourishment between his lips. 
 
 " Oh, it warms the heart of a seeker after strays from 
 the herds of the Master to look upon the bright, honest 
 faces of stalwart men ! " he cried, brandishing his fork and 
 helping himself to more syrup with the other hand. 
 
 " Blessed are the pure in heart, it is written, and I know 
 that when in the presence of such men as you, I am among 
 the blessed of the Father ! I can see integrity, devotion to 
 duty, uprightness and honor in all your faces. Or, that is, 
 in most of your faces. What contrast ! " — heedless of the 
 uproar his qualification of a broad statement caused. 
 " What contrast to the iniquitous ways of those who dwell 
 in the tents of the wicked. 
 
 *' Why, brethren, only last night I stood in the hotel in 
 yonder settlement and watched and listened to the cries of 
 a lost soul, a young man sunk hopelessly in sin. He was 
 a stranger in a strange land, but he had not yet felt the 
 heavy hand of a slowly- roused God, had not yet become 
 the Prodigal. He had tasted of the wine when it was red 
 and out of his mouth flowed much evil. 
 
 " A man possessed of a devil, I am sure, and I spoke 
 to him, asking if he did not desire to seek redemption in 
 the straight and narrow way which leads to the only right- 
 eous life. 
 
AND NOW, THE CLERGY 83 
 
 " ' Righteousness, hell ! ' he shouted at me, his face black 
 with ungodly thoughts. 
 
 " ' That's what I want less of : righteousness ! That's 
 what's raised hell in me ! ' 
 
 " Oh, it was terrible, brothers ! He drank continually 
 and finally they carried him off to bed, cursing and swear- 
 ing, cherishing bitterness in his heart, which is against the 
 word of the Almighty. A definite wrong was in his mind, 
 I was led to presume, for he cried again and again : ' I'll 
 break her if it's the last thing I do ! I'll ruin her and bring 
 her back ! * 
 
 " I tell you, my fellow men, I prayed fervently for that 
 lost soul through the night. Something heavy is upon him, 
 something tremendous." 
 
 '* Likely some of that high-pressure booze," remarked 
 one, at which everybody except the Reverend and Two-Bits 
 laughed. 
 
 " Goin' to stay long?" Oliver asked. 
 
 " Alas, I am not my own master. My feet are guided 
 from up Yonder. To tarry with my dear brother is my 
 most devout prayer and wish, but we have no promise of 
 the morrow. I may remain in your midst a day, a month. 
 I cannot tell when the call will come." 
 
 Tom Beck had watched with a glimmer in his eye until 
 the newcomer told of the scene in the hotel. It was not 
 difficult for him to identify the sin beset young man as Hilton 
 and at that he became less attentive to the garrulous talk 
 of the itinerant preacher-peddler. In fact, he gave no heed 
 at all until, returned to the bunk house, the Reverend made 
 a point of seeking out Dad Hepburn and talking to him in 
 confidence. 
 
 Dad's bed was directly across from Tom's and he could 
 not help hearing. 
 
 " I waited to get you alone," Beal said, dropping his 
 elocutionary manner, " because what other's don't know 
 won't hurt 'em, and so forth. But just before I was leav- 
 
84 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 ing town, saddling my mare in the corral, I heard two men 
 talking and it may interest you. 
 
 " This outfit uses the H C on horses as well as cattle, 
 don't it?" 
 
 " That's right." 
 
 "Exactly! One of the men said (they didn't know I 
 was near, understand). ' So there's eight more H C horses 
 gone west.' And the other one said, ' Yes, they was camped 
 at the mouth of Twenty Mile this mornin'. It's easy. They 
 had the horses in a box gulch, with a tree down across the 
 mouth, most natural.' 
 
 " Have you sold any horses lately ? " 
 
 Hepburn glanced about cautiously and just before he 
 turned to reply his eyes met Beck's gaze, cold and hard 
 this time, flinging an unmistakable challenge at him. 
 
 *' Not a horse," he mumbled. '* They're sneaking out of 
 the country with 'em. Tom, come here," — with a jerk of 
 his head. Beck walked over and sat down. " Did you 
 hear what the Reverend says ? " Dad asked. " About the 
 horses ? " 
 
 *' Yes, I ain't surprised. Are you ? " 
 
 His eyes, again amused, bored into Hepburn's face with 
 the query: 
 
 " No, but — " 
 
 The sharp batter of running hoofs cut him short. The 
 whole assemblage was listening. The rider stopped short 
 at the gate, they heard it creak and a moment later he 
 came across toward the bunk house at a high lope. They 
 heard him speak gruffly to the horse, heard the creak of 
 leather as he swung down and then jingling spurs marked 
 his further progress toward the door. 
 
 It was Henry Riley, owner of the Bar Z ranch, thirty 
 miles down Coyote creek. A cattleman of the old order, a 
 man not given to haste or excitement. His appearance 
 caught the interest of all, for he was breathing fast and 
 his eyes blazed. 
 
AND NOW, THE CLERGY 85 
 
 " Where's Dad ? " he asked and Hepburn, rising, said : 
 " Here. What's the matter, Henry? " 
 
 " Who's this nester in Devil's Hole ? " Riley asked. 
 
 *' Why ... I didn't know there was a nester there." 
 
 Dad answered hesitatingly and Beck scraped one foot 
 on the floor. 
 
 " Well, there is. Guess we've all been asleep. He's there, 
 with a girl, and they filed on that water yesterday. That 
 shuts your outfit and mine out of the best range in the 
 country if he fences, which he will ! If they're goin' to dry 
 farm our steers of¥ the range we'd better look alive." 
 
 " I'll be damned," muttered Hepburn. " That was one 
 of the next things I was goin' to have her do, file on that 
 water." 
 
 He scratched his head and turned. Beck was waiting 
 for him to face about. 
 
 " Now," he said slowly, " what are you going to do ? " 
 
 His eyes flashed angrily and any who watched could see 
 the challenge. 
 
 Silently Hepburn reached for his belt and gun, strapped 
 it on, dug in his blankets for another revolver and shoved 
 it into his shirt. 
 
 '*' First," he said, " I'm goin' after those horses. That 
 ain't too late to be remedied. No, I'll go alone ! " as Tom 
 stepped toward his bunk where his gun hung. 
 
 Hepburn gave Beck stare for stare as though defying 
 him now to impute his motives and strode out into a fine 
 rain, drawing on his slicker. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DESTROYER 
 
 HILE the men were eating that night another rider 
 had come to H C. He entered slowly, tied his horse 
 to the fence and walked down along the cottonwoods toward 
 the house. He stood outside a time, looking through the 
 window at Jane whose golden head was bowed in the mel- 
 low glow of the student lamp as she worked at her desk. 
 
 He stepped lightly across the veranda and rapped; at her 
 bidding he entered. 
 
 " Dick ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Undoubtedly," he said, with forced attempt at light- 
 ness. 
 
 " How did you get here ? Why come at this time of 
 day ? " — rising and walking toward him. 
 
 " I rode a horse, and I came because I couldn't stay away 
 from you any longer." 
 
 She looked at him, head tilted a bit to one side, and 
 genuine regret was in her slow smile. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, don't look or feel like that ! I'm glad to 
 see you, but I zvish you'd stop thinking and talking and look- 
 ing like that. I don't like to have you so dreadfully de- 
 termined . . . when it's no use. 
 
 "All this way to see me! And did you eat? Of course 
 you didn't ! " 
 
 " I don't want anything," he protested glumly. 
 
 " But you must." 
 
 She seized on his need as welcome distraction from the 
 love making, which undoubtedly was his purpose. She 
 took his coat and hat, placed cigarettes for him and went 
 to the kitchen to help Carlotta prepare a quick meal. She 
 
 S6 
 
THE DESTROYER 87 
 
 served it herself, going to pains to make it attractive, and 
 finally seated herself across the table from Hilton, who 
 made a pretense of eating. 
 
 She talked, a bit feverishly, perhaps, but compelled him 
 to stick to matters far from personal and after he had fin- 
 ished his scant meal and lighted a cigarette he leaned back 
 in his chair and smiled easily at her. It was a good smile, 
 open and frank and gentle, but when it died that nasty light 
 came back; as though the smile showed the man Jane 
 Hunter had tolerated for long, masking the man she now 
 tried to put from her. 
 
 "If your enthusiasm were for anything else, I'd like it," 
 he said. 
 
 " But it isn't. Why can't you like it as it is ? " 
 
 He ignored the question. 
 
 "Busy, Jane?" 
 
 " As the devil on Forty-Second street." 
 
 " And still think it's worth while ? " 
 
 " The only worth-while thing I've ever done ; more worth 
 while every day. So much worth while that I'm made over 
 from the heart out and I've been here less than a month ! " 
 
 " After taking a bottle of your bitters I am now able to 
 support my husband and children," he quoted ironically. 
 
 "Laugh if you must," — with a lift of her shoulders. 
 " I mean it." 
 
 " You get along with the men, Jane ? " 
 
 *' Very well so far. They're fine, real, honest men. I 
 like them all. There are some things I don't quite under- 
 stand yet," examining a finger nail closely. " I haven't 
 made up m.y mind that my foreman can be trusted or that 
 he's as honest as he seems to be." 
 
 "The fellow who was with you yesterday?" 
 
 " No ; Dad Hepburn. An older man. He. . . . He 
 seems to evade me some times." 
 
 Hilton watched her closely. She was one of the few 
 women he knew who had been able to judge men; he made 
 a mental note of the name she had mentioned. 
 
88 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The talk became desultory and Dick's eyes clung more 
 closely to Jane's face, their hard, bright light accentuated. 
 It began to rain and Jane, hearing, looked out. 
 
 " Raining ! You can't go back tonight. You'll have to 
 stay here. Mr. Hepburn can fix you up with the rest of 
 the men." 
 
 He smiled peculiarly at that, for it cut. He made no 
 comment beyond expressing the belief that a wetting, since 
 it was not cold, would do no harm. She knew that he 
 did not mean that and contrasted his evasion with Beck's 
 quiet candor. 
 
 "What's the idea of the locket?" he asked and Jane 
 looked down at the trinket with which she had been toy- 
 ing. " You never were much addicted to ornaments." 
 
 She laughed with an expression which he did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 '' Something is in there which is very dear to me," she 
 said. " I don't wear it as an orn?.tnent ; as a talisman, 
 rather. I'm getting to be quite dependent on it." Her 
 manner was outwardly light but at bottom was a serious- 
 ness which she did not wholly cover. 
 
 " Excuse me . . . for intruding on privacies," he said 
 bitterly. Then, after a moment : '' The picture of some 
 cow-puncher lover, perhaps ? " 
 
 " No, though that wouldn't be unreasonable," she replied. 
 *' Such things have happened in — " 
 
 " Let's cut this ! " he said savagely, breaking in on her 
 and sitting forward. *' Let's quit these absurd banalities. 
 
 " You know why I came here. You know what's in my 
 mind. There's a job before me that gets bigger every day; 
 the least you can do is to help me." 
 
 "In what?" 
 
 " Tell me what I must do to make you understand that I 
 love you." 
 
 He leaned across the table intently. The girl laughed. 
 
 " Prove to me first that two and two -make six ! " 
 
 "Meaning?" 
 
THE DESTROYER 89 
 
 " That it can't be done." 
 
 " It's the first time you've ever been that certain." 
 
 " The first time I've ever expressed the certainty, per- 
 haps. Things happen, Dick. I progress." 
 
 " Do you mean such an impossible thing as that there is 
 someone else ? " 
 
 ** Another question which you have no right to ask." 
 
 *' Jane, look at me ! Are you wholly insane ? " 
 
 ** No, but as I look back I think I have been a little oflF, 
 perhaps." 
 
 *' But you're putting behind you everything that is of 
 you," — his color rising with his voice as her secure con- 
 viction maddened him. '' The life that is yours by nature 
 and training. You're going blindly ahead into something 
 you don't know, among people who are not yours ! " 
 
 He became suddenly tense, as though the passion which 
 he had repressed until that moment swept through him with 
 a mighty urge. His breath slipped out in a long sigh. 
 
 " You are repeatedly mistaken, Dick. I have just found 
 my people." 
 
 '' Your people ! " he scoffed. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " ' East is East and West is West,' you know, and the two 
 shall never meet. It must be true, and, if so, I have never 
 been of the east. I never felt comfortable there, with the 
 lies and the shams and the hypocricies that were all about 
 us. Out here, I do. 
 
 " Perhaps that is why you and I , . ." She shrugged 
 her shoulders again. *' You see, Dick, I have cast my lot 
 here. The East is gone, for me ; it never can pass for you. 
 I have found my people ; they are my people, their Gods are 
 my Gods. I have a strength, a peace of mind, self respect, 
 ambitions and natural, real impulses that I never knew be- 
 fore. I feel that I have come home ! " 
 
 He laughed dryly, but she went on as though she had not 
 heard : 
 
 You have never understood me ; you never can hope 
 
 << 
 

 go THE LAST STRAW 
 
 to now. There's a gulf between us, Dick, that will never 
 be bridged. I am sorry, in a way. I never can love you and 
 I hate to see you wasting your desires on me. 
 
 " I have thought about you a great deal lately. You are 
 missing all that is fine in life and because of that I am sorry 
 for you. We used to have one thing in common : the lack 
 of worthy ideals. I have wiped out that lack and I wish 
 you might ; I truly wish that, Dick ! And it seems possible 
 to me that you may, just because you are here where reali- 
 ties count. There's an incentive in the atmosphere and 
 I do hope it gets into your blood. 
 
 '* It is all so nonsensical, the thing you are doing, so 
 foolish. I suppose I am the only thing you have ever 
 wanted that you couldn't get and that's what stimulates your 
 want. It's not love, Dick. 
 
 *' How do you know ? 
 
 *' I have learned things in these weeks," with a wistful 
 smile. " I have learned about . . . men, for one thing. I 
 have found an honesty, an honor, a simple directness, which 
 I have never known before." 
 
 He rose and leaned his fists on the table. 
 
 *' You mean you've found a lover? " 
 
 She met his eyes frankly. 
 
 " Again I say, you have no right to ask that question. In 
 the second place, I am not yet sure." 
 
 His mouth drew down in a leer. 
 
 " So that's it, eh ? So you would turn me away for some 
 rough-neck who murders the English language and smells 
 of horse. You'd let a thing like that overwhelm you in a 
 few days when a civilized human has failed after years of 
 trying ! 
 
 " I've tried to treat you with respect. I've tried to be 
 gentle and honorable. Now if you don't want that, if you 
 want this he-man sort of wooing, by God you'll get it ! " 
 
 He kicked his chair back angrily and advanced about 
 the table. A big blue vein which ran down over his fore- 
 head stood out in knots. Jane rose. 
 
THE DESTROYER 91 
 
 " Dick ! '' she cried and in the one word was disappoint- 
 ment, anger, appeal, reproach, query. 
 
 *' Oh, I'm through," he muttered. ** I used to think you 
 were a different sort; used to think you were fine and fin- 
 ished. But if you're a woman in the raw . . . then I'll 
 treat you as such. You've got me, either way; I can't get 
 you out of my mind an hour. 
 
 '* I'm through holding myself back, now. You've driven 
 me mad and you prove by your own insinuations that the 
 lover you want is not the one who will dally with you. You 
 want the primitive, go-and-get-it kind, the kind that takes 
 and keeps. Weil, mine can be that kind ! " 
 
 She backed from him slowly and he kept on advancing 
 with a menacing assurance, his face contorted with jealousy 
 and desire. 
 
 " The other day," — stopping a moment, " when I took 
 your hands and felt your body here in this room I was almost 
 beside myself. You haven't been out of my thoughts an 
 hour since then ! I tried to kill it with reason and then 
 with drink. I've tried to be patient and wait among the 
 . . . the cattle in that little town." He walked on toward 
 her. 
 
 " Dick, are you mad ? " she challenged, trying to summon 
 her assurance through the fright which he had given her. 
 " It's not what you think. , . . It's none of your affair — 
 
 •'Dick!" 
 
 He grasped her wrists roughly. 
 
 '* Am I mad ? " he repeated, looking down at her, his 
 jaw clenched. ** Yes, I'm mad. Mad from want of you 
 . . . your eyes, your lips, your hair, your very breath 
 drives me mad and when I hear you tell me that you've 
 found the flesh that calls to your flesh among these men it 
 drives me wild ! I can offer you more than any of them 
 can a thousand times over. . . . 
 
 " Great God, I love you ! " 
 
 But his snarl was notfthe snarl of devotion, of affection. 
 It was the lust cry of the destroyer, he who would possess 
 
92 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 hungrily, unthinkingly, without sympathy or understand- 
 ing . . . even without respect. 
 
 He drew her to him roughly and she struggled, too fright- 
 ened to cry out, face white and lips closed. He imprisoned 
 both her hands in his one and with the other arm about her 
 body crushed it against his, her breast to his breast, her 
 limbs to his limbs. He lowered his lips toward her face 
 and she bent backward, crying out lowly, but the touch of 
 her lithe torso, tense in the struggle to be free, made his 
 strength greater, swept away the last barrier of caution 
 and his body was aflame with desire. 
 
 " Dick . . . stop. . . ." she panted and managed to free 
 one hand. 
 
 She struck him on the mouth and struck again, blindly. 
 He gave her efforts no notice but, releasing her hands, 
 crushed her to him with both arms and she could feel the 
 quick come and go of his breath through her hair as he 
 buried his face in it. 
 
 And at that she became possessed of fresh strength. She 
 turned and half slipped, half fought her way through his 
 clutch, running down the room to the fireplace where she 
 stood with the davenport between them breathing irregularly, 
 a hand clenched at her breast. 
 
 " You . . . you beast ! " she said, slowly, unsteadily as 
 he came toward her again. 
 
 " Yes, beast ! " he echoed. " We're all beasts, every one 
 of us who sees and feels and I've seen you and I've felt 
 you and the beast is hungry ! " 
 
 *' And you call that love ! " She spoke rapidly, breath- 
 lessly. '' An hour ago if anyone would have said that Dick 
 Hilton, sober, would have displayed this, this thing which is 
 his true self, I'd have come to your defense ! But now 
 . . . you . . . you ! " 
 
 Her face was flaming, her voice shook with outraged 
 pride. 
 
 " Stop ! " she cried, drawing herself up, no longer afraid. 
 She emerged from fear commanding, impressive, and Hil- 
 
THE DESTROYER f3 
 
 ton hesitated, putting one hand to a chair back and eyeing 
 her calculatingly as though scheming. The vein on his fore- 
 head still stood out like an uneven seam. 
 
 '* For shame ! " she cried again. " Shame on you, Dick 
 Hilton, and shame on me for having tolerated, for having 
 believed in you . . . little as I did ! Oh, I loathe it all, you 
 and myself — that was — because if it had not been for that 
 other self which tolerated you, which gave you the opening, 
 this . . . this insult would never have been. You, who 
 failing to buy a woman's love, would take it by strength ! 
 You would do this, and talk of your desire as love. You, 
 who scoff at men whose respect for women is as real as the 
 lives they lead. You . . . you beast ! " 
 
 She hissed the word. 
 
 " Yes, beast ! " he repeated again. " Like all these other 
 beasts, these others who are blinding you as you say I have 
 blinded you, who have — " 
 
 " Stop it ! " she demanded again. " There is nothing 
 more to be said . . . ever. We understand one another now 
 and there is but one thing left for you to do." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " Go." 
 
 He laughed bitterly and ran a hand over his sleek hair. 
 
 ** If I go, you go with me," he said evenly. 
 
 '* Leave this house," the girl commanded, but instead of 
 obeying he moved toward her again menacingly, a disgusting 
 smile on his lips. 
 
 He passed the end of the davenport and she, in turn, re- 
 treated to the far side. 
 
 " When I go, two of — " 
 
 '* I take it that you heard what was said to you, sir." 
 
 At the sound of the intruding voice Hilton wheeled 
 sharply. He faced Tom Beck, who stood in the doorway, 
 framed against the black night, arms limp and rather awk- 
 wardly hanging at his sides, eyes dangerously luminous ; 
 still, playing across 'them was that half amused look, as 
 though this were not in reality so serious a matter. 
 
94 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 For an interval there was no sound except Hilton's breath- 
 ing: a sort of hoarse gasp. The two men eyed each other 
 and Jane, supporting her suddenly weakened limbs by a hand 
 on the table, looked from one to the other. 
 
 " What the devil are you doing here ? " Dick asked heavily. 
 
 " Just standin' quiet, waiting to open the gate for you when 
 you ride out." 
 
 The Easterner braced his shoulders backward and sniffed. 
 
 "And if I don't choose to ride out? What will you do 
 then?" 
 
 Beck looked at Jane slowly and his eyes danced. 
 
 " It ain't necessary to talk about things that won't hap- 
 pen. You're going to go." 
 
 *' Who the hell are you to be so certain ? " 
 
 " My name's Beck, sir. I'm just workin' here." 
 
 " And playing the role of a protector? " 
 
 " V/ell, nothing much ever comes up that I don't tr^} to 
 do." 
 
 Hilton made as if to speak again but checked himself, 
 walked down the room in long strides, seized his coat, thrust 
 his arms into the sleeves viciously and stood buttoning the 
 garment. Beck looked away into the night as though noth- 
 ing v/ithin interested him and Jane stood clutching the locket 
 at her throat, caressing it with her slim, nervous fingers. 
 
 " Under the circumstances, making my farewells must 
 be to the point," Hilton said. He spoke sharply, belliger- 
 ently. " I have just this to say : I am not through." 
 
 '' Oh, go ! " moaned Jane, dropping into a chair and cov- 
 ering her face with her hands. 
 
 She heard the men leave the veranda, heard a gruff, low 
 word from Hilton and knew that he went on alone. After 
 the outer gate had closed she heard Tom walk slowly up the 
 path toward the bunk house. He had left her without com- 
 ment, without any attempt at an expression of concern or 
 sympathy. She knew it was no oversight, but only a deli- 
 cacy which would not have been shown by many men. 
 
 Her loathing was gone, her anger dead ; the near past was 
 
THE DESTROYER 95 
 
 a numb memory and she looked up and about the room as 
 though it were a strange place. There, within those walls, 
 she had experienced the rebirth, she had felt ambition to 
 stand alone come into full being, she had shaken off the fet- 
 ters with which the past had sought to hamper her. . . . 
 
 And now she was free, wholly free. The tentacle that 
 had been reached out to draw her back had been cast away. 
 Tonight's renunciation had burned the last bridge to that 
 which had been; Dick Hilton, she believed, would never 
 again be an active influence in her life. 
 
 She could not — perhaps fortunately — foretell how mis- 
 taken this belief actually would prove to be. She did not 
 know the intensity of a man's jealousy, particularly when 
 P'ate has tricked him of his most valued prize. Nor could 
 she foresee those events which would impell her to send for 
 Hilton, to call him back, and the wells of misery which that 
 action would tap ! 
 
 To-night he was gone, and she was even strong enough to 
 rise above loathing and pity him for the failure he was. 
 Just one fact of him remained. Again she heard his omi- 
 nous prediction, pronounced on his first visit there : You 
 cannot stand alone ! You will fail ! You will come back 
 to me ! 
 
 She knew, now, that she would never return to him, but 
 there were other possibilities as disastrous. Could she meet 
 this new life and beat it and make in it a place for herself? 
 Was her faith in herself strong enough to outride the de- 
 feat which very possibly confronted her? 
 
 She did not know. . . . 
 
 Outside the rain drummed and the cottonwoods, now in 
 full leaf, sighed as the wind bowed their water weighted 
 branches. She went to the window and looked out, search- 
 ing the darkness for movement. There was none but he was 
 not far away she knew. . . . 
 
 Her fingers again sought the locket and she lifted it 
 quickly, holding it pressed tightly against her mouth. 
 
 ** It's all there, locked up in a little gold disc ! " 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 A MATTER OF DIRECTION 
 
 IF Dick Hilton had not been bewildered by passion, jeal- 
 ousy and rage at thwarted desires, he might have known 
 that his horse was not taking the homeward way, and had 
 the horse not been bred and raised by one of Colonel 
 Hunter's mares he might have carried his rider straight 
 back to Ute Crossing. 
 
 But he was a canny little beast, he was cold and drenched, 
 the trip to town was long and the range on which he had 
 spent his happy colthood was not far off. Horses know 
 riders before riders know horses so, as he went through the 
 gate, he slyly tried out this rider and instead of swinging 
 to the right he bore to the left. He went tentatively through 
 the pitch darkness, one ear cocked backward at first but 
 when Hilton, collar up, hat down, bowed before the storm, 
 gave no evidence of detecting this plan, the beast picked up 
 his rapid walk and took the trail for the nearer, more satis- 
 factory place where many times in the past he had stood out 
 such downpours with no great discomfort under the shelter 
 of a spreading cedar. 
 
 And direction was the last thing in Dick Hilton's mind. 
 For a long interval his thoughts were incoherent and the 
 conflicting emotions they provoked were distressing. Being 
 alone, made physically uncomfortable by the water seeping 
 through his shoulders and breeches, sensing the steady 
 movement of the animal under him, brought some order to 
 his mental chaos and finally realization began to dawn. 
 
 Yes, he had followed his strongest impulses ; there could 
 be no question about what he had done, but as for its wis- 
 dom: Ah, that was another matter, and he cursed himself 
 
 96 
 
A MATTER OF DIRECTION 97 
 
 for a fool, at first mentally, then under his breath and when 
 the horse began mounting a steep incline, clattering over 
 rocks with his unshod hoofs, Hilton halted him and looked 
 about in foolish attempt to make out his whereabouts and 
 said aloud: 
 
 " Off the road. That's twice you've made an ass of your- 
 self tonight ! " 
 
 There was nothing for him to do but go on and trust to 
 the horse. He knew that this was not the highway but con- 
 soled himself that it might be a short cut to the Crossing. 
 Small consolation and it was dissipated when they com- 
 menced a lurching descent with a wall of rock uncomfort- 
 ably close to his right, so close that at times his knee 
 scrubbed it smartly. He became alarmed for the horse went 
 cautiously, head low, feeling his way over insecure footing. 
 Once his fore feet slipped and he stopped short while loos- 
 ened stones rolled before them on the trail and Hilton heard 
 one strike far below to his left, and strike again and again, 
 sounds growing fainter. He peered down into the gloom 
 but could see nothing, hear nothing but the hiss of rain. An 
 empty ache came into his viscera as he imagined the depths 
 that might wait to that side. 
 
 After a moment the horse went on, picking his way gin- 
 gerly. 
 
 Somewhere beyond or below he made out a light. It was 
 a feeble glow and its location becam.e a weird thing for lack 
 of perceptive, but it cheered him. He was decidedly un- 
 comfortable and his state of mind added to the physical need 
 of warmth and shelter so he urged the horse on. 
 
 Finally they reached a flat and he felt wet brush slapping 
 at his legs as the horse, intent on the light himself, trotted 
 forward. 
 
 Their destination was a cabin. The glow finally resolved 
 itself into cracks of light showing between logs and through 
 a tarpaulin which hung across the doorway. 
 
 Dick shouted. Movement inside ; the curtain was drawn 
 back and he rode blinking into the light, which he could see 
 
98 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 came from a fireplace. A woman stood outlined against the 
 flare. 
 
 *' Who's there ? " she asked sharply, and Dick stopped his 
 horse. 
 
 "My name is Hilton," he said, ''but that won't do you 
 much good. I'm a stranger and I'm off my way, I guess." 
 
 The other did not reply as he dismounted and walked 
 toward her. 
 
 *' Without a slicker," she said. " Come in." 
 
 The first thing he saw inside was movement : A cartridge 
 belt, swinging from a nail. A rifle leaned handily against 
 the door casing. 
 
 The girl who had held the curtain back for him to enter 
 let it drop and turned to face him. Hilton drew his breath 
 sharply. Blue-black hair, in a heavy, orderly mass atop a 
 shapely, high-held head and falling down her straight trim 
 back in one thick plait ; brown eyes, ripe red lips, a delicate 
 chin and a throat of exquisite proportions. His gaze trav- 
 eled down her figure, the natural grace of which could not 
 be concealed by the shirt and riding skirt she wore. She 
 was wholly beautiful. 
 
 " Oh, I've seen you before," he said slowly. " You're 
 the girl that demanded respect and got it in the Crossing 
 the other day ! " 
 
 She eyed him in silence a moment, evidently unaware of 
 the admiration in his tone. 
 
 '' I never saw you. I ain't been here long," she said, her 
 expression still defiant, as though he had challenged her. 
 She searched his face, his clothing, and back at his face 
 again. " Where was you travelin' tonight ? " 
 
 " I was going to the Crossing," he said with a short laugh. 
 " My horse brought me here." 
 
 Without comment she walked to the fire and threw on an- 
 other knot. He watched her movements, the free rhythmic 
 swing of her walk, the easy grace with which her hands and 
 arms moved, the perfect assurance in even her smallest ges- 
 ture. His eyes kindled. 
 
A MATTER OF DIRECTION 99 
 
 " Set," she said, indicating a box by the hearth. " You're 
 soaked. Lucky you struck here or you'd made a night 
 of it." 
 
 Hilton seated himself, holding his hands toward the 
 fire. He looked about the one room of the cabin. In two 
 corners were beds on the earthen floor, a table made from a 
 packing box contained dishes, Dutch ovens and a frying pan 
 were on the hearth. The roof leaked. 
 
 The girl sat eyeing the fire, rather sullenly. He held 
 his gaze on her, watching the play of light over her throat 
 as it threw a velvety sheen on the wind kissed skin. Her 
 shirt was open at the neck and he could see the easy rise and 
 fall of her breast as she breathed. He noticed that her fin- 
 gers were slender and that her wrists, bronzed by exposure, 
 indicated with all their delicacy, wiry strength. Another 
 thing: She was clean. 
 
 Suddenly the girl looked up. 
 
 "Think you'd know me again?" she said bruskly, and 
 rather swaggered as she moved. 
 
 " I don't think I shall ever forget you," he replied. " I 
 knew I should not the first time I saw you. I shall never 
 forget the way you gave that fellow what he deserved. It 
 was great ! " 
 
 His manner was kindly, showing no resentment at her 
 belligerence and though her only reply was a sniff he knew 
 that what he had said pleased her. 
 
 " I wouldn't want you to think I'm staring at you," he 
 went on. '* A man shouldn't be blamed for looking at you 
 closely." 
 
 " How's that ? " 
 
 " You are very beautiful." 
 
 She poked at the fire with a stick. 
 
 "I reckon that'll be enough of that," she said as she 
 walked back toward the door. 
 
 The man smiled and followed her with his eyes, which 
 squinted speculatively. 
 
loo THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " You'd better unsaddle that horse," she said. " He'll 
 roll with your kak if you don't." 
 
 Hilton looked about the room again. 
 
 '' Are you alone ? " he asked. 
 
 She whirled and looked at him with temper. Her hand, 
 perhaps unconsciously, was pressed against the wall near 
 that rifle. 
 
 *' What if I am? "— sharply. 
 
 *' Because if you are I shall not unsaddle my horse. I'll 
 have to go on." 
 
 When she put her question she had been rigidly expectant 
 but at his answer she relaxed and the fierceness that had 
 been about her yielded to a curiosity. 
 
 '' Go on in the rain ? How's that ? " — in a voice that was 
 quite different, as though she had encountered something 
 she did not understand. 
 
 He looked at her a lengthy interval before replying. 
 
 " Because I respect you very much. Do you understand 
 that?" 
 
 She moved back to the fireplace, eyeing him questioningly, 
 and he met that look with an easy smile. 
 
 *' No, I don't understand that," she said. 
 
 " You should. I saw you beat a man the other day be- 
 cause he didn't respect you. No one but that type of man 
 would refuse to respect you. It's wise, perhaps, for you 
 to take down that rifle when strangers come at night . . . 
 but it isn't always necessary. Some men might stay here 
 with you alone, but I couldn't." 
 
 You mean, that you'd ride on in the rain ? " 
 
 Surely." 
 
 Well. . . . You ain't afraid of the gun, are you?" 
 
 He laughed outright. 
 
 ** No, it's not that ! It's because I'd ride any distance 
 rather than do something that might bring you unhappiness. 
 Don't you see ? " He leaned forward, elbows on knees, 
 looking up into her serious face. " Don't you see that if I 
 
 a 
 
A MATTER OF DIRECTION loi 
 
 stayed here with you, alone, and people heard about it, they 
 might not respect you?" 
 
 '* It's none of their business ! " 
 
 " Neither was it any business of that man to insult you 
 in town the other day. But he did." 
 
 '* But it's rainin' and you're cold. I ain't afraid of you." 
 
 It was raining, but he was not cold. The fire was close 
 and, besides, another warmth was seeping through his body 
 as he looked earnestly into the face of that daughter of the 
 mountains. The ready defiance was gone from it and the 
 features, in repose, gave it an expression that was little less 
 than wistful. 
 
 " And you are a young girl who deserves the admiration 
 of every man that walks. If I stayed here with you, you 
 would know it's all right, and so w^ould I. . . . Others 
 might not understand." 
 
 She sat down abruptly, leaned back, clasped one knee 
 with her hands and smiled for the first time. It was a beau- 
 tiful smile, in great contrast to her earlier sullen defiance. 
 
 " I Hke you," she said simply, and Hilton's face grew hot. 
 
 *' If you like me, my night's ride hasn't gone to waste," 
 he replied, and laughed. 
 
 She looked him over again, calculatingly, as closely as she 
 had at first, but with a different interest. Her smile faded 
 but the lips remained slightly parted, showing teeth of cal- 
 cium whiteness. 
 
 " You're the first man that's ever talked that-a way to me. 
 I've been travelin' ever since I can remember, first one place, 
 then another. I've always had to look out for men. . . . 
 I've been able to, too, since I got big enough to be bothered. 
 
 " This is the first time any man's talked like you're talkin' 
 to me." 
 
 " Bless you," he said very gently, " that's been tough luck. 
 A girl like you are doesn't deserve that." 
 
 " Don't she ? Well, it ain't what you deserve that counts, 
 it's what you get." 
 
102 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " What's your name ? " 
 
 " Bobby. . . . Bobby Cole." 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I don't know . . . just. About twenty. Alf knows; 
 I ain't thought to ask him for quite a while." 
 
 " Who's Alf ? " 
 
 '' My father." 
 
 ". . . And your mother?" 
 
 " I never had none that I recall. She died early ; that was 
 back in Oklahoma, Alf says." 
 
 " No brothers or sisters ? " 
 
 A shake of the head. 
 
 " And since then you've been alone with your father? " 
 
 She nodded. '' For weeks an' months, without talkin' to 
 another soul." 
 
 *' Have you always lived so far away as that ? Always in 
 such remote places that you didn't even see people ? " 
 
 " Huh ! Usually I've seen 'em, 'most every day. . . . 
 But there's a difference between seein' folks and talkin' to 
 
 em. 
 
 <( 
 
 n 
 
 He was puzzled and said so. 
 Funny ! " she repeated after him. " Maybe it's funny 
 but I can't see it that-a way." 
 But surely you've made friends! A girl like you 
 couldn't help make friends." 
 
 " I've never had a friend in my life . . . but Alf," she 
 answered bitterly. 
 
 " Then it must have been because you didn't want to make 
 friends with people." 
 
 " Didn't want to ! " she echoed almost angrily. " What 
 else does anybody want but friends ... an' things like 
 that? Oh, I wanted to all right, but folks don't make 
 friends with . . . with trash like we are. We ain't got 
 enough to have friends; ain't got enough even to have 
 peace." 
 
A MATTER OF DIRECTION 103 
 
 Hilton studied her face carefully. It was a queer blend- 
 ing of appealing want and virulence. 
 
 " They won't even let you have peace ? " he asked delib- 
 erately to urge her in further revelation. 
 
 " Folks that have things don't want other folks to have 
 'em. In this country when poor folks try to get ahead all 
 they get is trouble." 
 
 " Is that always so ? " 
 
 She shrugged and said, *' It's always been so with us. Big 
 cattle outfits have drove us out time after time. They're 
 always say in' Alf steals; they're always makin' us trouble. 
 I hate 'em ! 
 
 " I could get along all right. I can fight but Alf can't. 
 He's had so much bad luck that it's took th' heart out of 
 him. ... If it wasn't for me he couldn't get along at all. 
 He's discouraged." 
 
 " You must think a lot of your father." 
 
 She shook her head as if to infer that measuring such 
 devotion was an impossibility. 
 
 "Think a lot of him? God, yes ! He's all I got. He's 
 all I ever had. He's the only one that hasn't chased' me 
 out ... or chased after me. We've been on the move ever 
 since I can recollect, stayin' a few months or a year or two, 
 then hittin' the trail again. Move, move, move ! Always 
 chased out by big outfits, always made fun of, an' he's been 
 good to me through it all. I'd crawl through fire for Alf." 
 
 " A devotion like that is a very fine and noble thing." 
 
 " Is it? It conies sort of natural to me. I never thought 
 about it," — with a weary sigh. 
 
 ** How did you happen to come here? " he asked. 
 
 She looked at him and a flicker as of suspicion crossed 
 her face. 
 
 " Just come," she replied, rather evasively, he thought. 
 
 For a time they did not speak. The fire crackled dully. 
 Steam rose in wisps from Hilton's soaked clothing and a 
 cunning crept into his expression. The rain pattered on the 
 
104 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 roof and dripped through in several places, forming dark 
 spots on the hard floor; the horse stamped in the mud out- 
 side. 
 
 The man saw the regular leap of the pulse in her throat 
 and caressed his thumb with finger tips as delicately as 
 though they stroked that smooth skin. 
 
 Her lips were parted . . . and such lips ! He told him- 
 self that she was more beautiful than he had first thought 
 and as filled with contrasts as the heavens themselves. 
 Shortly before she had been defiant, ready for trouble, pre- 
 pared to defend herself with a rifle if necessary; now she 
 was a child ; that, and no more . . . and she was distinctive 
 . . . quite so. 
 
 " You better stay/' she said rather shyly after a time. 
 ** Alf'll be back some time before 'mornin'. Nobody'll 
 know." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " You and I would know, and after I've told you what I 
 think about it, maybe you wouldn't like me if I did stay . . . 
 you've said you did like me." 
 
 He rose, smiling. 
 
 " Sure enough goin' ? " 
 
 " Sure enough going." 
 
 " But you're soaked and cold." 
 
 " No man could do less for a girl like you." 
 
 He bowed playfully low and when he lifted his eyes to her 
 again they read her simple pleasure. He had touched her 
 greatest love, the desire to be treated by men with respect. 
 
 " I'll just ask you to show me the way." 
 
 " You come by the way, I guess. Just start back that 
 trail and your cayuse'll take you to the road — 
 
 " But Alf'll be back. We've never turned anybody out 
 in the rain before." 
 
 " Then this is something new. Don't ask me again, please. 
 When you ask a man it makes it very hard to refuse and I 
 must . . . for your sake. 
 
 " After I strike the road, then what? " 
 

 A MATTER OF DIRECTION 105 
 
 " Follow right past the H C ranch to town. You know 
 where that is ? " 
 
 A wave of rage swept through him. 
 
 *' I ought to ! " he said bitterly. " I was sent away from 
 there tonight." 
 
 ** Sent away? In the rainf " 
 
 *' In the rain." 
 
 " Why did they do that ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 *' Because there are things which some people do not value 
 as highly as you do. Generosity, thoughtfulness for the de- 
 sires of others, hospitality." 
 
 He licked his lips almost greedily as he watched her. 
 
 " Did she know ? " 
 Who do you mean? " 
 That greenhorn gal." 
 
 Yes, she knew," he answered grimly, and buttoned his 
 coat. 
 
 He put out his hand and she took it, rather awed. 
 
 " Some time I may come back and thank you for what 
 you've wanted to do." 
 
 '* Oh, you'll come back ? " 
 Do you want me to ? " 
 Yes," — eagerly. 
 
 *' Then it is impossible for me to stay away for long ! " 
 
 She stood watching, as, touching his hat, he rode into the 
 night. She let the curtain drop and returned to the fire, 
 standing there a moment. Then she sat down, rather 
 weakly, and stretched her slim legs across the hearth. 
 
 " I'll be damned 1 " she said, rather reverently. 
 
 Hilton did not ride far. His horse was reluctant to go 
 at first and then stopped and stood with head in the air, 
 nickering sokly and would not go on when his rider spurred 
 him. After a moment Hilton sat still and listened. He 
 heard the steady plunk-plunk-pliink of a trotting horse and, 
 soon, the swish of brush; then a call, rather low and cau- 
 tious. 
 
 << 
 
io6 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The canvas before the doorway was drawn back. 
 
 "You decided to stay?" Then, in surprise, "Who's 
 there ? " — sharply. 
 
 One word in answer and Hilton remembered it: 
 
 " Hepburn." 
 
 The rider dismounted and entered. 
 
 Dick rode on up the trail. When he reached Ute Cross- 
 ing his clothing was dried by the early sun. He ate break- 
 fast and crawled into his bed, angered one moment, puz- 
 zled the next and, finally, thrilled as he dropped asleep with 
 a vision of firelight playing over a deliciously slender throat. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Hepburn's play 
 
 IT was the next morning. Beck, standing beside Jane's 
 desk, had told her of the foreman's departure and its 
 motive. 
 
 " But doesn't that mean he'll be in danger ? " she queried 
 in frank dismay. 
 
 ** A man who goes after horse thieves is likely to run into 
 trouble, ma'am. That is, if he gets close to 'em. He 
 wouldn't let anybody go with him so I guess he figures he's 
 competent," — dryly. " He'll come back all right. I'd bet 
 on it." 
 
 *' But I don't want any of you men to put yourselves in 
 danger for me, for the things I own. I won't have it! 
 Haven't we any law to protect us ? " 
 
 Beck shook his head. 
 
 " There's law, on books. But using that law takes time 
 and in some cases, like this, there ain't time to spare. 
 You've got to make a law of your own or those that some- 
 body else makes won't be worth much to you. 
 
 '* It ain't just pleasant to have to go gunning for your 
 horses and cattle, but if that's the only way to hold 'em it's 
 got to be done. It's either go get 'em and drive the thieves 
 out or be driven out yourself. You don't want to be driven 
 out, do you, ma'am ? " 
 
 " You know the answer to that," she declared resolutely. 
 " Where is this place ? How long will it take him to get 
 there?" 
 
 " Can't tell that. Twenty Mile is only a short ride, but 
 we got the news late. They're probably gone yonder by now 
 and he might trail 'em a good many days an' then lose 'em." 
 
 107 
 
io8 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Again that dryness of manner as he looked at the girl. 
 
 " And this other? This water hole? What about that? '' 
 
 Beck could not give her an answer. 
 
 " It all depends on what sort of nester this is. He might 
 be talked out of it, though that ain't likely/' 
 
 She tapped the desk with nervous fingers. 
 
 " I came down to tell you about Dad last night. That's 
 why I was here," he explained, as though he considered an 
 explanation necessary. And with it was an indication of the 
 curiosity which he could not conceal. 
 
 Jane flushed, and her gaze fell. The man stood looking 
 down at her golden hair, the soft skin of cheeks and throat, 
 the parted lips. One of his hands closed slowly, tightly. 
 For a moment he let himself want her ! 
 
 " I am very glad that you did come. I don't know how 
 much you heard or what you saw but — " 
 
 " Nothing that I can recall, except that you wasn't havin' 
 your own way." 
 
 The courtesy of this touched her and she smiled her 
 gratitude. 
 
 " Dick Hilton had been an old friend of mine ; that is, I 
 thought he was a friend. I . . . 
 
 " He said some things last night that I wouldn't want you 
 to misunderstand. They. . . . That is, it would hurt me 
 to think that you might believe what you heard him say." 
 
 " I don't think there's any danger of me misunderstanding 
 anything that man would say about you. I mean, his mean- 
 ing, ma'am, not only his words." 
 
 " That is as much assurance as could be given," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 For forty-eight hours following Hepburn's departure the 
 H C was in a state of expectation. Frequently, even on the 
 first night following, the men would stop talking and listen 
 at any unusual sound as though that all believed it might 
 be the foreman returning or some one with the word that he 
 would never return, because the remainder of the crew did 
 
HEPBURN'S PLAY 109 
 
 not have the faith in his well being that Beck had expressed 
 to Jane Hunter. 
 
 The Reverend held the floor much of the time, preaching 
 frequent impromptu sermons, discoursing largely on small 
 matters. To him the rest listened in delight with the excep- 
 tion of Two-Bits, who was overawed by the verboseness of 
 his kin. 
 
 A less obvious activity of the Reverend's was his pertinent, 
 never ceasing questioning. He asked questions casually and 
 covered his attempts to glean information by long-winded 
 comments on irrelevent subjects. Tom Beck, even, caught 
 himself expressing opinions when he had not intended to 
 and guarded himself thereafter. 
 
 " He's an old fox ! " he thought. " He knows a heap more 
 than he lets on . . . like some other folks." 
 
 Otherwise the man seemed harmless. He let no oppor- 
 tunity pass to sell his fountain pens which he carried always 
 in the pockets of his frock coat. He took frequent inven- 
 tories of his stock and when he miscounted or actually found 
 some article missing he turned the place upside down until 
 the loss was adjusted. 
 
 He seemed inclined to linger because though assuring the 
 rest that his plans were not of mortal making he often spoke 
 of the summer's work. He was no mean ranch hand himself 
 and was with his brother much, doing everything from 
 branding colts to digging post holes. 
 
 When, on the morning of the third day Hepburn had not 
 returned, Jane called Beck to the house and asked if he did 
 not think it wise to send help. The man did not reply at 
 once because at this suggestion a possibility flashed into his 
 mind which he had not considered hitherto. He looked at 
 the girl who stood fingering the locket and asked himself: 
 
 " Has he taken this chance to quit the country ? Has 
 something happened that is bound to come to light ? " 
 
 Aloud, he said : 
 
 *' Your worry is in the wrong place. You're worr}'ing 
 over 3'our men and you ought to be worrying over your 
 
no THE LAST STRAW 
 
 stock. You've come into this country ; you want to stay ; 
 you don't seem to understand, quite, that this is no polite 
 game you're playing. 
 
 " When a man goes to work for an outfit, if he's the right 
 kind to be a top hand out here, he's willing to do anything 
 that comes up, even if it's risking his life. That ain't right 
 pleasant to think about, ma'am, but we all understand it. 
 If it has to be it has to be ; no choice. 
 
 " If you're going to worry more about your men in a case 
 like this than you do about havin' them hold up your end of 
 the game you ain't going to play up to your part. You can't 
 be soft hearted and stand off horse thieves." 
 
 " But, don't you see that I can't feel that way ? " she 
 pleaded. 
 
 " Then you've got to act that way, ma'am," he replied in 
 rebuke. " Your men have got to understand that you care 
 whether school keeps or not ... or school ain't going to 
 keep. Get that straight in your head." 
 
 He looked down at her a moment and his face changed, 
 that little dancing light coming into his eyes at first ; then he 
 smiled openly. 
 
 " There's a word we use out here that I guess that they 
 didn't use in the country you come from. It's Guts. 
 They're necessary, ma'am." 
 
 He waited to see how she would take his assertion, but 
 she only flushed slightly. 
 
 "If Hepburn don't show up soon, it might be wise to go 
 prospectin', but it won't be best to think more about him 
 than you do about the men he's after . . . least, it won't be 
 wise to show you do. I ain't advisin' you to be hard hearted. 
 Just play the game ; that's all." 
 
 He left her, with a deal to think about. 
 
 After all, there had been no occasion for concern because 
 at noon, dust covered, on a gaunt horse, the foreman brought 
 eight H C horses into the ranch. 
 
 The men hastened from the dinner table but Hepburn did 
 
HEPBURN'S PLAY in 
 
 not respond to their queries and congratulations. He bore 
 himself with dignity and had an eye only for the completion 
 of his task. 
 
 '* Open the gate to the little corral, Two-Bits," he directed 
 and, this done, urged the horses within. 
 
 Next he dragged his saddle from the big bay and rubbed 
 the animal's back solicitously, let him roll and led him to the 
 stable where he measured out a lavish feed of oats. 
 
 Meanwhile he had been surrounded by insistent question- 
 ers but he put them off rather abruptly ; when he emerged 
 from the stable, slapping his palms together to rid them of 
 moist horse hair he stopped, hitched up his chaps and looked 
 from face to face until his eyes met those of Tom Beck, 
 who had been the last to approach. Their gazes clung, 
 Hepb'' *n's in challenge, now, and in the other's an expression 
 which defied definition. 
 
 " I brought 'em in," the foreman said, still staring at Beck 
 and bit savagely down on his tobacco. " Does that mean 
 anything "^ " 
 
 ^fc> 
 
 Beck smiled, as though it did not matter much, and said : 
 
 *' For the present . . . you win." 
 
 The others had not caught the significance of this ex- 
 change and when Dad moved forward their talk broke out 
 afresh. The foreman grinned, pleased at the stir. 
 
 '* Now, now ! Don't swamp a waddie when he comes in 
 after next to no sleep an' ridin' from hell to breakfast ! " 
 he protested. " One at a time, one at a time." 
 
 ** Tie to the story an' drag her past us," advised Curtis. 
 
 " It ain't much," — with a modesty that was somewhat 
 forced. " It wasn't nothin' but a case of goin' and gettin' 
 the goods. Picked up the trail at the mouth of Twenty 
 Mile early the mornin' after I set out and dragged right 
 along on it. There was three of 'em, so I laid pretty low 
 after noon. Then one cuts oft towards the rail road and 
 at night the others turned the horses into that old corral at 
 the Ute's buckskin camp. I waited until they got to sleep, 
 
112 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 saw I couldn't sneak the stock away so," — he spat and 
 wiped his mustache, " I just naturally scattered their fire 
 all ways ! " 
 
 He laughed heartily. 
 
 '' You'd ought to seen 'em coming out of their blankets ! 
 I dropped two shots in the coals and then blazed away at 
 the first man up. Missed him but cut 'em off from their 
 ridin' horses, got ours out of the corral while their saddle 
 stock was stampedin' all over the brush and lit out for here, 
 hittin' the breeze ! 
 
 " That's about all. Stopped at Webb's last night and tried 
 to figure out the men, but they're strangers, I guess." 
 
 There were comments and questions. Then Jimmy 
 Oliver, looking at Dad's saddle, said : 
 
 " What happened to your horn, there? " 
 
 The foreman chuckled. 
 
 " One of 'em almost got me, boys, but a miss is as good 
 as four or five days' ride, ain't it? Was circlin' for the 
 horses, shootin' sideways at 'em when one of 'em put some 
 lead in betwixt me and the horn, only quite close to the 
 horn, it seems." 
 
 " Well, I'll be darned if you didn't have a close shave, 
 and — " 
 
 Just then Jane Hunter rode up on her sorrel and when 
 she saw her foreman she smiled in relief. 
 
 " You're back, and safely ! " she said as she dismounted. 
 
 " With the bacon, ma'am." 
 
 " An' they almost got his bacon, Miss Hunter," Oliver 
 said. " Look here ! " He indicated the damaged saddle 
 and explained. 
 
 " They came that close to shooting you ? " she asked Dad. 
 Her voice was even enough but she could not conceal her 
 dismay at his narrow escape. 
 
 " Why, Miss Hunter, that ain't nothin' ! I was just tellin' 
 the boys that a miss is as good as a long ride. I'm your 
 foreman, they was your horses — " 
 
HEPBURN'S PLAY 113 
 
 " Such things have to be," she broke in, making an effort 
 to be decisive and convincing, but her voice v^^as not just 
 steady and Beck, at least, knew how desperately she tried to 
 play up to her part, to smother her impulse to show that she 
 held life dearer than she did her property, to shrink from 
 the hard facts of the hard life she faced. 
 
 " So long as I'm your foreman nobody's goin' to get away 
 with your stock without a fight," Hepburn went on pomp- 
 ously, well satisfied with the impression he had made. "If 
 necessary they'll come a lot closer to lettin' blessed sunshine 
 in to my carcass than this ! There ain't a man of us who 
 wouldn't do it for you an' gladly. If they're goin' to tr}' 
 to fleece you they've got us to reckon with first. 
 
 " Ain't that the truth, Tom ? " 
 
 Beck did not reply but watched Jane Hunter as she stood 
 looking down at the saddle with its tell tale scar. 
 
 The Reverend remained when the group broke up. He 
 leaned low over the saddle and examined the leather binding 
 about the horn. He fingered it, then lowered his face close 
 against it. For a moment he held so and then straightened 
 slowly. He walked toward the bunk house so absorbed that 
 he talked to himself and as he passed Beck he was mutter- 
 ing: 
 
 **. . . wolf in sheep's clothing . . ." 
 
 " What's that ? " asked Beck. 
 
 The Reverend stopped, surprised that he had been over- 
 heard. He looked at Tom and blinked and rattled the pens 
 in his coat pocket; then looked about to see whether they 
 were observed. 
 
 " Brother, when a man is honest does he go to great pains 
 to make that honesty evident ? Does he lie to make people 
 believe he does not act a lie ? " 
 
 *' Not usually. What are you drivin' at. Reverend? " 
 
 The other stepped closer. 
 
 " If you'll examine that saddle horn, you'll discover that 
 the shot which tore it was fired from a gun held so close 
 
114 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 that the powder burned the leather. More: that it was 
 fired so recently that the smell of powder is still there. 
 
 " There is something rotten, brother, in a locality nearer 
 than Denmark ! " 
 
 Beck whistled softly to himself. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 A NEIGHBORLY CALL 
 
 THE mountains which had been brown and saffron 
 when Jane Hunter came to take possession of her 
 ranch grew tinted with green as grasses sprouted under the 
 coaxing sun. Pinions were edged with ligliter tints, con- 
 trasting sharply with the deep color of older growth. Serv- 
 ice bushes turned cream color with bloom and sage put out 
 new growth ; calves, high-tailed and venturesome, frolicked 
 between frequent meals from swollen udders, birds nested 
 and shy mountain flowers completed their scant cycle. 
 
 No life remained arrested and with the rest the girl de- 
 veloped. She took on a more robust color, her eyes which 
 had always been clear and cool, possessed a different look 
 and a thin sprinkling of tiny freckles appeared across her 
 nose. She had taken to the ways of the mountains easily. 
 Her modish clothing was discarded and she wore brightly 
 colored shirts, a brimmed hat, drab riding skirt and the 
 smallest pair of boots that had ever been manufactured in 
 that country. 
 
 Two-Bits was wide-eyed in his enthusiasm. 
 
 " My gosh, Reverend ! " he whispered, " look at them 
 boots! Ain't they th' grandest little things you ever seen? 
 . . . Gosh, they're too little for any spurs she can buy, ain't 
 they? Gosh . . ." — in helpless admiration. 
 
 Two-Bits and the Reverend had something on. This was 
 evident from the manner in which they kept apart from the 
 others. Each evening they would sit on a wagon seat or 
 perch on a corral or Azariah would stand near while his 
 brother groomed his little horse, Nigger, and they would 
 talk, low and confidently, the Reverend gesticulating and 
 
 IIS 
 
ii6 THE LAST STR.\W 
 
 Two-Bits looking far away and talking laboriously as though 
 he were memorizing something. 
 
 The homely fellow took several mysterious trips to town 
 and once he borrowed ten dollars from Beck and offered a 
 buckskin bridle as security, which the other waved away 
 with affectionate curses. 
 
 Hepburn had been commissioned to talk with Cole, the 
 nester, and determine his plans as they might affect the H C. 
 This took him away from the ranch repeatedly ... so 
 many times, in fact, that it gave Beck one more thing to 
 wonder about. Also, there was a letter for Hepburn, ar- 
 riving a day or two after his return with the stolen horses, 
 which sent him suddenly to Ute Crossing; thereafter he 
 went frequently. 
 
 There seemed no way around the potential difficulty which 
 the nester presented and, as one of her last resorts, Jane 
 sent Tom to the Crossing to look up the record of the filing 
 himself and to confer with the one remaining attorney in 
 the town. He announced his going and Two-Bits, hearing, 
 asked him to bring back a package which would be waiting 
 there. When Tom returned that night he handed the gawky 
 lad a small parcel which he immediately stuffed into his 
 shirt and carried to the supper table. 
 
 " Them your jooles? " Ohver asked. 
 
 " None of your gol-darned business ! " 
 
 " Ah, come on, old timer, an' let us in on It," the other 
 pleaded. " I'll bet it's a present for your best girl." 
 
 " If you got to know, it's corn plasters for th' corns on 
 your brains, Jimmy," Two-Bits countered. 
 
 He hurried through his meal and from the table and, with 
 the Reverend, walked down toward the creek where they 
 went through their usual performance, this time, however, 
 with less prompting from the clergyman. Then, brushing 
 the dust from his shirt, adjusting his scarf, Two-Bits walked 
 nervously toward the ranch house. 
 
 Jane answered his knock with a call to enter. He stepped 
 in with the package in his hand, but as he removed his hat 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 117 
 
 the parcel dropped to the floor and when he regained an erect 
 position after recovering it his face was fiery red. 
 
 " What's your trouble tonight, Two-Bits ? " Jane asked, 
 approaching him. 
 
 " In," he began and stopped to clear his throat. He swal- 
 lowed with great difficulty. " In — In recognition of your 
 — your God — " He coughed and swallowed once more. 
 
 " What? " — in amazement. 
 
 *' In recognition of your God — your God given beauty, 
 an' estim — estimable qualifications — " 
 
 He ran a finger inside his collar and dropped his hat. 
 Perspiration stood on his lip in beads and his dismayed eyes 
 roved the room. He moved his feet nervously. 
 
 "In recognition of your God — '' he began again, but 
 broke short: 
 
 *' Hell, ma'am," he exploded, *' my brother taught me a 
 fine speech — 
 
 *' Here ! " — holding the package toward her with an un- 
 steady hand and a great relief coming into his eyes. " I 
 found this in th' road an' thought mebby you might want 
 'em." 
 
 Controlling her desire to laugh at his confusion Jane took 
 the package and turned it over in her hands. 
 
 What is it, Two-Bits ? Why do you bring it to me ? " 
 I can't use it — 'em. I thought ... I ..." he began, 
 backing rapidly toward the door, moving with accelerated 
 speed as he put distance between them. 
 
 " Two-Bits, you wait ! " she commanded. " I'm going to 
 find out what this is before you go." 
 
 He looked about in a fresh agony of embarrassment but 
 her order had rendered him unable to move. Jane broke 
 the string, took ofif the wrapping and opened a paper box. 
 Within reposed a pair of spurs, as small spurs as her boots 
 were small boots. They were beautiful products of some 
 mountain forge, one-piece steel, heavily engraved by hand, 
 silver plated. Small silver chains and hand-tooled straps 
 
 
ii8 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 were attached and as she held them up the delicate rowels 
 jingled like tiny bells. 
 
 " Two-Bits ! " she cried. " Aren't they beautiful? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," he said, and made for the door again. 
 
 She caught him by the arm that time, else he would have 
 fled, and she made him look at her. 
 
 " Two-Bits, you lied to me ! You didn't find these on the 
 road, now, did you ? " 
 
 " Well, that is . . . Not exactly, ma'am," — weakly. 
 
 " Where did they come from ? " 
 
 " A fella, he made 'em an' give 'em to me an' they was 
 too small for me — " 
 
 " Don't you tell me another single lie ! Where did you 
 get them ? " 
 
 " Well ... I had 'em made," — swallowing again, and 
 very weakly. 
 
 '' Two-Bits ! " — seizing his rough, cold hand w^hile a sug- 
 gestion of tears came into her eyes. " You had these made 
 for me? W^hy, bless your heart, I've never had a finer gift 
 before. And to think — 
 
 " You're a dear ! " 
 
 " Oh, my gosh ! " he whimpered, and despite her detain- 
 ing hand, fled the disquieting presence. 
 
 Of all men in that country, Two-Bits was the only one 
 who openly accepted Jane Hunter and his devotion was 
 caused by an awed appreciation of her beauty. The others, 
 ever her own riders, remained stolidly skeptical of her abil- 
 ity to measure up to the task she had undertaken and when 
 men talked of the business of the country they unconsciously 
 spoke of the prestige of the H C as a thing of the past. 
 
 Hepburn had brought back some of her property that was 
 being driven off but he had not halted attempts to make away 
 with her horses and cattle. There were rumors, vague but 
 persistent, of other depredations and those who best knew 
 the ways of the cattle country awaited that time when the 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 119 
 
 situation must reach a crisis, when Jane Hunter must be put 
 to the ordeal that would test her mettle. 
 
 She was yet unconscious of much of this for her urge 
 to make a place for herself centered on penetrating the 
 callousness of the one man she wanted to impress most of 
 all. He remained aloof, watching her either with that 
 tantalizing amusement or a subtle challenge to win his open 
 friendship. There were moments when, as on that night 
 after their drive to Ute Crossing, she wanted to throw her- 
 self on him, to beg, to plead that he lower his reserve and 
 give her a place ... a place in his heart. 
 
 But that, reason told her, would be the last thing to win 
 him. She must trust to the force of her personality to drive 
 her way into his life. . . . 
 
 Occasionally he would talk, for she offered a sympathetic 
 audience to the things he had to say but never did their 
 conversation become intimate ; the subjects he discussed were 
 invariably abstract and impersonal. While listening she 
 studied the man, striving to define that quality about him 
 which lay behind his reserve and drew her on. She could 
 not seize and analyze it. . . . He was, aside from obvious 
 minor qualities, a closed book. 
 
 Still she saw him at night patrolling the cottonwoods be- 
 fore he slept! 
 
 She could not know what went on in the heart of that 
 man, of the fight he waged with himself, of the struggle he 
 made to stick to his creed : never to take a chance. He did 
 not know that she was aware of those nightly vigils. The 
 first had been on that night after he had played with her 
 pride and her high spirits. Returned to the bunk house 
 he had suddenly seen her not a smart, capable stranger but 
 as a girl, alone, facing a new life, surrounded by strange 
 people and unfriendly influences. He sensed a pity for her 
 and walked back to look about the place and see that all was 
 well, as he might have watched over a sleeping child. 
 
 And then, the day that the sorrel threw her, he had felt 
 
120 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 her body and the man in him had been stirred and when next 
 he paced those shadows it was not as a protector of some 
 defenseless life, but as one who quite tenderly lays siege to 
 the heart of a woman. 
 
 He did not admit that even to himself. He reasoned that 
 he was protecting her because she was a stranger in a strange 
 land and that the impulse was only kindness. But his rea- 
 son in that was a conscious He for as he stood under the 
 stars with the cool, quiet night all about him he could hear 
 her voice in the murmur of the creek, hear her limbs rustling 
 her skirts in the soft sigh of wind in the trees, could feel her 
 presence there . . . when he was stark alone. . . . 
 
 And he fought it off, fought stubbornly, coldly because 
 he did not know, he did not know love, did not know the 
 ground into which he was being carried. 
 
 Women ? He had had many but the experiences had been 
 casual, mere surface rifflings, and he had never been stirred 
 as this woman stirred him. It was new, entirely new, and 
 Tom Beck feared that which he did not know. 
 
 He was accustomed to talk to his horses as men will who 
 love them and while he rode the gulches alone he would in 
 later days reason aloud with his own roan or the H C black 
 or bay he used. 
 
 " Why, old stager, we can't take a chance like that ! " he 
 said time after time. '' We've kept our heels out of trouble 
 by playing a close game, not gettin' out on a limb, but up to 
 now everything that come along has been boy's play . . . 
 compared to this. 
 
 "If an hombre took a chance with his love that'd be the 
 limit, wouldn't it? He'd have his stack on the table, an' the 
 deal wouldn't be more than started ! " 
 
 He talked over the loves of other men with those horses, 
 earnestly, soberly. He recalled the marriages he had known 
 between men and women who were from the same stocks, 
 who knew none but the same life; so many were failures! 
 And this girl, this girl of whom he dreamed at night and 
 thought by day, scarcely yet spoke his language! 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 121 
 
 But he could not argue away the disturbing impulse. He 
 could cover it, hide it froni others, hide it from himself at 
 times, but drive it out? Never! 
 
 Tom's report to Jane after his trip to town offered no en- 
 couragement. The filing had been legally accomplished and 
 its significance was further impressed on the girl when he 
 said : 
 
 " It's a mighty popular subject in town, ma'am. Every- 
 body's interested." 
 
 " I suppose they all think it will mean trouble for me ? '* 
 
 " Yes, an' they're likely to be right." 
 
 She shook her head sharply. 
 
 " We don't want trouble, but if it does come we must 
 meet it half way ! " She leaned forward determinedly and 
 Beck stirred in his chair. It was a gesture of dehght for 
 those were almost his very words to Hepburn when they 
 cleared their relationships of pretense ; but he said only : 
 
 " That's the easiest way to take trouble on." 
 
 Just then Hepburn came in with his report on his visit 
 to the Hole. 
 
 " The old fellow seems reasonable, Miss Hunter," he 
 said ponderously. " He don't look like he's a permanent 
 neighbor even if he has bought some cows from Webb, 
 which I found out today. He's poor as a church mouse to 
 begin with — " 
 
 " And buyin' more cattle ? " put in Beck. 
 
 " Oh, they were old stock an' I guess Webb was glad 
 to get rid of 'em," the foreman said with a wave of his hand, 
 yet he did not return Beck's searching gaze. 
 
 *' Cole told me he didn't have any intention of fencin* up 
 the water so I guess there ain't anything to fret you. Miss 
 Hunter. I sounded him out on buyin' but didn't get far. 
 He's a shiftless old cuss, from th' look of things, so I don't 
 anticipate any trouble at all. He may not even last the 
 summer out." 
 
 Tom left and afterward Hepburn talked at length of the 
 
122 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 situation, minimizing the menace the others saw, urging 
 Jane to put the matter out of her mind. But the girl was 
 not satisfied and the next day, with Tom, rode off toward 
 the Hole. 
 
 They made an early start, riding out of the ranch just as 
 the sun topped the heights to the eastward. Dew hung 
 heavily on the sage from which fresh, clean fragrance rose 
 as their horses stirred the brush. Their shadows were 
 thrown far in advance as they followed a narrow gulch and 
 the sunlight was caught and concentrated and scattered again 
 as the drops flew from leaf and twig. 
 
 The girl breathed deeply of the light, sweet air and looked 
 at Beck with a little laugh as of relief. 
 
 " When I sit at that desk, I feel like a prosaic business 
 woman whose interest is in ledgers," she said, '* but when 
 I ride in this country I feel like a character in some romantic 
 story." 
 
 Tom scratched his chin thoughtfully. 
 
 *' That's too bad, -ma'am," he said. 
 
 " Which ? " 
 
 *' Both." 
 
 " I can see disadvantages to the first, but why the other ? " 
 
 " I guess I ain't struck much with stories. Used to read 
 'em, used to get real interested in some but that was before I 
 commenced to get interested in folks." 
 
 " Yes ? " she encouraged after a moment. 
 
 " You see, I think the folks I see and hear and live with 
 and get to know are a lot more interestin' than the folks 
 somebody's thought up out of his head. 
 
 " A man in a book talks and acts like a man in a book an' 
 nothing else. You never hear men talk out here in the bunk 
 house or ridin' the country like a writer would make 'em talk 
 on the page of a book ; take my word for that. . . . 
 
 " Folks are mighty interestin'. The best fun I get is 
 watching folks, studying them. It's a lot more fun than 
 reading about some man or woman you know ain't real, 
 ma'am. 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 123 
 
 ** Life is mighty interesting if you look at it right. If 
 you try to glorify and lie about it you cheapen the whole 
 works. It's either damned serious or a joke. There's no 
 in between. I don't know which it is, yet, but I do know 
 that most of the books I ever read was th' in-between kind, 
 neither one thing nor the other. 
 
 ** I've been around considerable among men but I never 
 seen things happen in life like writers make things happen 
 m books. Everything works out so lovely in books, folks 
 never make mistakes in anything . . . that is, the heroes 
 don't. Why, love even works out right in books ! " 
 
 He spoke the last in a lowered voice as if he talked of a 
 sacred thing that had been mistreated. Unconsciously he 
 had voiced the fear that had grown in his own soul and 
 when he turned to look at her his eyes reflected a queer men- 
 tal conflict, almost fright! 
 
 She caught something of his mood and waited a moment 
 to summon the courage to ask very gently : 
 
 " And doesn't it . . . doesn't love work out in life ? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Seldom, ma'am. In books folks gamble with it like it 
 "was . . . why, ma'am, like their love was a white chip ! " 
 
 Again he spoke as of a sacrilege and his earnestness, 
 though he did not appear to be thinking of her, confused the 
 girl. The wordless interval which followed was distressing 
 to her so she said : 
 
 " And the other forms of expression ? Music ? Poetry ? 
 Painting ? " 
 
 " You've got me on music," he confessed with a laugh. 
 ** Tve heard greasers playin' fandangoes on busted old gui- 
 tars that sounded a lot sweeter to me than any band I ever 
 heard. 
 
 As for poetry ... I don't know," — shaking his head. 
 
 I read some ; tried to understand it, but it seems all messed 
 up with words as if poets liked to take the long, painful way 
 of telling things. 
 
 " I expect poets want to tell something that's sort of . . • 
 
 
124 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 delicate an' beautiful. . . . Now and then I've got a funny- 
 feel out of poetry, but it ain't anything to me like, say, seeing 
 a bunch of little quail run along under the brush, heads up, 
 lookin' back at you, whistlin' to each other. That's the 
 most delicate thing I've ever seen or heard. . . . 
 
 ** I've seen some paintings, in Los and San Francisco ; 
 once in Chicago and once in Denver. I don't know. They 
 don't gtt my idea of it. I never want to see anything more 
 beautiful than sunrise over the Grand Canon, or sunsets over 
 these hills, dust storm on the desert, snow blowin' before a 
 norther off the ridges, and things like that. God, who's such 
 a close friend to the Reverend, and who I don't know much 
 about, is as good a painter as any I've ever seen." 
 
 He said no more but rode apparently thinking of much 
 more that might be said and Jane watched him carefully, a 
 hungry look coming into her eyes. His words had partly 
 analyzed him for her : 
 
 He was real. 
 
 He was the most real human being she had ever known, 
 real because he lived a real life, because he appreciated 
 realities ; he was sufficient to himself, finding such an inter- 
 est in life about him that his own impressions and reactions 
 occupied the foreground of his consciousness. 
 
 All her life she had been fed on the artificial, living on a 
 soft pad of unrealities which softened and hid the bed-rock 
 foundation of existence from her. Within the last weeks 
 she had had her first taste of the real, was face to face with 
 life and with herself; it had been sweet and inspiring; she 
 felt a great urge for more of that experience and her mind 
 sped ahead into the vague future, the future which her im.ag- 
 ination could not even conjure because the new foundation 
 beneath her feet was as yet unfamiliar. But for all that 
 vagueness she thrilled and as she peered forward eagerly 
 she saw this man, this clean, frank man ever at her side. . . . 
 
 And yet he had spoken of love as a gamble which did not 
 work itself out in life ! A sharp stab of shame shot through 
 her heart, for she had once handled her love as though it 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 125 
 
 had been a white chip, she had been willing to chance it as 
 a thing of little value and she knew that to him that would 
 be the outraging of a sacred thing. 
 
 And again she heard the pronouncement of Hilton : You 
 cannot stand alone ! You will fail ! A knave, she now 
 knew, but he knew her as she had been. And could he be 
 right? Could she measure up to where a real man's love 
 would not be wasted upon her? She did not know; she 
 dared not think further, so driving back these doubts, she 
 said: 
 
 " There's one question I want to ask and I want your 
 honest answer. What is your opinion of Hepburn ? " 
 
 He looked at her with that twinkle in his eye again. 
 
 "In just what way, ma'am?" 
 
 " At times he seems reluctant to talk to me, as though he 
 knew more than he wanted to tell and again I've had a no- 
 tion he didn't want me asking about certain ranch matters 
 at all. 
 
 " I confess to you that with all the talk of thieving I've 
 wondered if he didn't know more about it than he gave me 
 to understand, but what he did the other day seems, in all 
 reason, to wipe that suspicion out." 
 
 He said : " It seems you've answered your own question. 
 When you've said that he went a long ways to prove that 
 he's the man you want by what he's just done, you've said 
 all there was to say." 
 
 " But do you mean that? Are you keeping some suspicion 
 of your ow^n from me ? " 
 
 He deliberated a moment, then smiled. 
 
 " It's easy to suspect but it don't pay very big until you 
 know somethin'. Then you don't need to." 
 
 They climbed out of the gulch, horses breathing loudly as 
 they made the last steep ascent and gained the ridge they 
 were to follow and there was little more talk until they 
 stopped and sat looking down across the great flat-bottomed 
 cavity of Devil's Hole. It was a pear-shaped depression, 
 perhaps four miles from rim to rim at the widest point and 
 
126 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 fully a score of miles in length. Its sides were sprinkled 
 with cedars which clung to the sheer <:liffs determinedly, but 
 its bottom was blanketed with thrifty sage brush, purple in 
 the sunlight that was just then slanting across the floor and 
 beneath this sheen they could see the bright green of new 
 grasses. A dark line marked with the clarity of a map 
 the course of the creek and half way down toward the 
 neck of the Hole was a small cabin erected by the man 
 who had filed on the land for Colonel Hunter and who had 
 drifted on without establishing title. 
 
 " There's your neighbor," Beck said. 
 
 Jane looked for a moment, then lifted her eyes to the 
 country which showed through the narrow outlet of the 
 deep valley. Behind her endless ridges tossed upward to 
 a sharp horizon, but out through that gap the range lay in 
 a vast basin, rising gently to diminutive lavendar buttes 
 plastered against the sky many miles away. It seemed soft 
 and vague and unreal . . . like one of the unreal paintings 
 'Beck had seen hanging within walls. 
 
 Tom led the way through trees and among upstanding 
 ledges of rock into the narrow, dangerous trail and as he 
 went down, his big roan picking the way quickly yet cau- 
 tiously, he half turned in his saddle to explain the signifi- 
 cance of the descent. 
 
 It was the only egress on that side of the Hole. There 
 was one trail on the far side, so steep and hazardous 
 that a man must lead his horse either up or down. The 
 only other outlet was through the narrow Gap where the 
 wash of flood water during storms had made the going 
 easy for men and stock. Out to the northwest, however, lay 
 miles of desert, the great basin of which Jane had had a 
 glimpse, well enough to use for range in three seasons, but 
 in summer it became parched and useless. In the Hole 
 cattle could feed on the abundant gramma, could drink 
 from the creek, but getting them out and over the divide 
 to the more plentiful water of Coyote Creek was an under- 
 taking. 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 127 
 
 " That's the danger," he told her, '' It's a long, hard climb 
 for stock in good shape, but if anything should happen to 
 prevent your stock from drinkin' down here and they should 
 get low from lack of water, why then you'd leave a lot of 
 *em down there if you tried to bring 'em up." 
 
 He pointed over the abrupt drop at his left where a 
 pebble would fall hundreds of feet before striking again and 
 as he indicated his right chap scrubbed the face of the 
 cliff, so narrow was the way to which they clung. 
 
 Finally they reached the flat and swung along at a free 
 trot through the brash sage. 
 
 " There's water here now," he explained, as they followed 
 the steep creek bank, '' but that don't last. It's mighty low 
 right this mornin'. The creek sinks when it don't rain 
 an' its been comin' up in just one spot for years. That's 
 what makes a nester dangerous for you." 
 
 They approached the cabin. A mare and a newly born 
 colt eyed them suspiciously. An ancient wagon, its top tat- 
 tered, its tires red with rust, stood close beside a frail 
 corral. Fire wood was scattered about ; here was an axe 
 with a broken helve, there a rust-eaten shovel, and the whole 
 place spoke of poverty. 
 
 And yet piled against the cabin was spool upon spool 
 of new barbed wire! 
 
 *' Fence ! " muttered Beck. 
 
 "But Mr. Hepburn said—" 
 
 " Yeah, I recall what he said?'' 
 
 Just then the canvas which served as a door was thrown 
 back and the girl stepped out. She stood just across the 
 threshold looking at them, sullen and defiant. 
 
 ** Good-morning," said Jane. 
 
 " Howdy," replied the girl indifferently. 
 
 An awkward pause. Surely, she would volunteer" no 
 more and Beck asked : 
 
 " Your dad around ? " 
 
 ** What do you want with him? " — a demand rather than 
 a question. 
 
128 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 ti 
 
 " I am Miss Hunter. I own the — " 
 
 " Oh, I know who you are ! " the girl cut in defiantly. 
 
 " I came down to talk to your father. We are neigh- 
 bors. If we are to be good neighbors there are things we 
 must discuss.'' 
 
 Jane was unpoised by the attitude of the other but she 
 dismounted and walked toward the cabin. 
 
 What did you want with him ? " the girl asked again. 
 I want to ask some things about your plans." 
 
 " And what is our business to you ? " The girl's eyes 
 snapped and her vivid color intensified. 
 
 " It may be a great deal to me. That is why I am frank 
 in coming here. For years this place has been range for 
 H C cattle. Recently water has been short. You have 
 wire and evidently are going to fence. 
 
 " I don't come as an enemy. Now that you are here 
 I want to make the best of it." 
 
 " But you don't want us here ! " 
 
 The simple declaration, voiced with that same defiance, 
 confused Jane ; then she met the other on her own ground. 
 
 " No, we don't want you here unless you will work with 
 us as we all try to work together. I think you will do 
 that because it is the wiser — " 
 
 " So you start out workin' with us by lookin' up our 
 claim, the way we filed it, before you come to talk ! " 
 
 "Yes, I did that,'' — frankly. ''I wanted to be sure just 
 what your rights were before I came to talk business." 
 
 " Well, you know now. You know no lawyers can run 
 us ofif. Ain't that enough? If you know we've got rights, 
 what do you come here for?" She stopped, but before 
 Jane could reply went on, her eyes flashing sudden heat: 
 '' You don't want us here but we've come to stay an' from 
 the way you've started in to talk your business I guess 
 that's all you'll find out." 
 
 Jane eyed her for an interval then said : 
 
 " You and I are the only women for miles about in 
 this country. We are near neighbors as neighbors go in 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 129 
 
 the mountains; do you think this is the best way to start 
 in being friends ? " 
 
 " Who said anything about bein' friends ? " 
 
 ** I want to be your friend." The sincerity of this balked 
 the girl and her eyes became puzzled. " I want to be your 
 friend and want you for my friend. We can help each 
 other in a good many ways." 
 
 " I don't recollect askin' for your help." 
 
 " No, but I wan4: to give it to you and I want to ask 
 yours in return. We are here in a big country. We are 
 ail dependent to an extent on those about us. None of us 
 can get along so well alone as we can by working to- 
 gether." 
 
 " Like turnin' folks out in the rain at night, for in- 
 i;tance ? " 
 
 Jane's cheeks flamed. 
 
 " I don't understand," she said. 
 
 " Think it over an' maybe you will ! " 
 
 The girl's eyes blazed uncovered hate, but as they took 
 Jane in again from hat to boots a curious envy showed 
 in them. 
 
 '* I've seen how much you big outfits want to help poor 
 folks before," she said. " I know all about that," — bitterly. 
 ^' Maybe it's a good thing you come here today so you'll 
 get to understand, first hand, instead of sendin' your men 
 around to learn things for you. 
 
 " We've come a long ways. We've been on th' move ever 
 since I can recollect. Folks have offered to help us be- 
 fore, an' they have helped us ... to decide to move. 
 We've come to stay here; we can take care of ourselves; 
 we don't ask nothin' but to be let alone, an' we're goin' to 
 be let alone if we have to make it stick with gun play." 
 
 She had advanced and, hands on her hips, weight on one 
 foot, spoke the last with her face close to Jane's, her head 
 nodding in slow emphasis. 
 
 " I trust it won't come to that," Jane said evenly. She 
 had not flinched, but studied the girl carefully, impersonally, 
 
130 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 though the color in her cheeks had died; her face was in 
 repose, her bearing dignified and assured, yet without 
 suggestion of any superficial superiority. "If it does come 
 to that it will not be because I am unwilling to do all that 
 is reasonable. I have come down here to talk to you, which 
 should be evidence of my good faith ; I have been frank. 
 You meet me as though I had come to cheat you or drive 
 you out. I don't think that is fair." 
 
 The other drew back a step, clearly puzzled again. Her 
 face, in spite of its forbidding expression, was very beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 " That sounds all right," she said at length, *' but I've 
 heard it before and I know how much it's worth. You ain't 
 my kind. You don't belong here and I do. You don't want 
 to be my friend . . . you wouldn't know how. 
 
 " All we want is to be let alone. Our business ain't yours 
 an' we won't try to make yours ours. Have you said all you 
 wanted to say ? " 
 
 '* No, not quite all, but if you won't listen to me, if you 
 won't believe me, there is only one more thing I can say: 
 You will know where to find me any time you want to talk 
 to me. I will be ready to work with you, to do my share, 
 and maybe a little more. I hope there will be no trouble, 
 for it would force me to make my share of that," 
 
 She turned abruptly and walked toward Beck. 
 
 The man had purposely held aloof to watch the en- 
 counter between the two women. He had been certain that 
 the meeting would be anything but amicable and it was 
 like other situations into which he had let Jane Hunter 
 walk, needlessly and only to see how she would handle 
 herself. Usually the result only amused him but today 
 he had watched Jane bear up admirably under difficult cir- 
 cumstances, refusing to be angered or confused, refusing 
 to plead yet, while retaining dignity, leaving the door to 
 friendship open. 
 
 As Jane mounted Bobby Cole stepped back into the cabin 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL* 131 
 
 with no word and the riders turned back on the way they 
 had come. 
 
 ** I've been wonderin'/' Beck said after a time, " how this 
 old codger rakes up the dust to buy cattle and wire." 
 
 Jane did not reply. She wondered at that, too, but there 
 was another wonder in her mind about another, more human 
 mystery, going back to a night of storm in the heavens 
 and storm in hearts. How did Bobby Cole know she had 
 turned Dick Hilton out? 
 
 As they went silently each thinking of significant things 
 which had been revealed the girl threw back the curtain 
 in the doorway and watched them. 
 
 " I hate you ! " she whispered at Jane Hunter. '' I hate 
 you ! . . . Because you turned him out . . . because you're 
 . . . youVe you." 
 
 She stood a long time watching them and with the dark- 
 ness in her face another quality finally mingled: that envy 
 again. 
 
 After a time Jane said: 
 
 " A queer creature, that girl." 
 
 " On the peck from the start ! " Beck replied. 
 
 " And beautiful ! " 
 
 " Ain't she, though ? . . . Poor kid ! I've seen 'em be- 
 fore, kids of movers like that, not so good looking not so 
 smart as she is, but like her because they was always 
 suspicious, always ready to scrap. . . . 
 
 " That's because they've never had a chance to be decent, 
 brought up in a wagon that way." 
 
 *' A shame ! " Jane whispered. 
 
 " I like kids," he said later, as though his mind had been 
 on nothing else. " I like all kids, but I feel sorry for a lot 
 of 'em . . . for most of 'em. . . . Every kid that's born 
 ought to have a chance, a fair show against the world, be- 
 cause the old world don't seem to like kids any too much. 
 
 " That girl didn't have a chance, never will have it. She 
 was marked from the day she was born. 
 
132 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 '* Why, ma'am, one winter I worked for a cow man 
 down in the Salt River valley which is in Arizona. He 
 didn't have a big outfit, he didn't have much luck ; trouble 
 with his water, his cattle got sick and his horses didn't do 
 well and he had just one dose of trouble after another. 
 
 " But he had three kids, all in a row they seemed," — 
 indicating progressive heights with his hand. " I think 
 they was the happiest kids I've ever seen. I always think 
 of 'em when I see kids that've had to grow up like that 
 girl. I remember those mornin's when we used to start 
 out for a day's ride, looking back and seeing those kids 
 playing in the dirt beside the rose bushes. Their clothes 
 was dirty the minute they stepped outside and their hands 
 an' faces was a sight from the 'dobe, but there was roses 
 in their cheeks as bright as th' roses on the bushes and they 
 laughed loud and their eyes always smiled . . . like that 
 Arizona sky, which ain't got a match anywhere. . . . 
 
 *' This man and his wife just buckled down an' bucked 
 old Mister Hard Luck from the word Go, for them kids ! 
 They sure thought the world of 'em. I guess that was 
 what put the roses in their cheeks an' the smiles in their 
 eyes. . . . 
 
 " I'll never forget those kids by the rose bushes with 
 somebody to care for 'em, an' work their hearts out for 'em. 
 That's the way kids ought to grow up; not like that cata- 
 mount grew up." 
 
 He smiled in reminiscence and his smile was tender. 
 
 " Roses and kids," he repeated after a while. *' They 
 ought to go together." 
 
 He looked at Jane and saw that her eyes were filmed. 
 
 She rode closer to him, until her knee touched his chap 
 and said : 
 
 " I think that is beautiful: Roses and kids. I shall al- 
 ways remember it; always. ..." 
 
 She knew, now, the man she loved, the man whose love 
 she would win, the man behind that exasperating front of 
 caution. His clear eyes and keen mind were interested only 
 
A NEIGHBORLY CALL 133 
 
 in realities and yet he could display a tenderness more 
 delicate than she had ever before encountered in men. He 
 was strong, and as gentle as he was strong; he was gener- 
 ous while a skeptic; he had poise and personality. And he 
 could liken love to a poker chip ; without using the word 
 make her know that he held love sacred ! 
 
 She raised her hand to that locket again and held it 
 tightly in her small palm. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE FRAME-UP 
 
 THE water in Devil's Hole was fenced. 
 It was the Reverend who brought word of the 
 fencing. He had made a circuit of the ranches, holding 
 services and selling pens, and on his way back from the 
 lower reaches of Coyote Creek he stopped to call on the 
 Coles. His visit was not financially productive but he did 
 see long rows of posts set by three Mexicans, and saw 
 wire being stretched on them. 
 
 Another thing he saw, which he did not mention to 
 Hepburn: He saw Bobby Cole riding beside a man, a 
 man who did not wear the dress of her country but who 
 wore swagger riding clothes; who did not talk with the 
 self consciousness of a mountain man who rides beside a 
 pretty girl, but who leaned toward her and talked engagingly, 
 so engagingly that the girl lost her hostile attitude and 
 looked up into his face with wide, eager eyes. 
 
 The fencing stirred the country as nothing had done 
 since the first and only time sheep bands attempted to come 
 in. There was talk of it in town, there was talk of it when 
 men met on trail or road, there was talk of it in ranch 
 houses down the creek and there was talk of it elsewhere, 
 at length, in stealthy jubilation. . . . 
 
 Riley of the Bar Z rode the thirty miles from his ranch 
 to discuss it with Jane Hunter. 
 
 *' I don't guess you quite understand how serious it is. 
 Miss Hunter," he said after they had talked a time. " Do 
 you realize that if we have a dry summer — ^and it's startin' 
 out that way — that this is goin' to cut your cattle off some 
 of your best range. It may break you." 
 
 134 
 
THE FRAME-UP 135 
 
 " I understand that, Mr. Riley," she said, leaning across 
 her desk, " but there are other things I do not understand 
 and I am incHned to beheve that they are of first importance. 
 Without understanding them, this condition can not be 
 remedied." 
 
 He gave evidence of his surprise. 
 
 " Vm not wanted here," she went on. " I'm not wanted 
 because the H C is a rich prize. It seems to be the accepted 
 opinion that I cannot stay, that I will be unable to stand 
 my ground. 
 
 " I want to know why! I want to know who is going to 
 drive me out. Some one is behind this nester, I am con- 
 vinced, and it is the influence behind the things we can 
 see that is dangerous. Loss of range is serious, surely ; but 
 by what manner has that range been lost. That is what 
 I want to know ! " 
 
 Riley eyed her with approval. 
 
 " I came up here with the idea that you didn't under- 
 stand but I guess you do," he said quietly. " You've got the 
 situation sized up right, but there's one thing I want to 
 tell you : So far only one blow has been struck ; it has 
 fallen on you. The next and the next may fall on you, but 
 every time you are hurt it's goin' to hurt the rest of us. 
 That makes your fight our fight. ... If you fail, others 
 are likely to fail. 
 
 " I've lived here too long in peace after fighting for that 
 peace, to stand by and see trouble start again if I can help 
 it. I'm of the old school, Miss Hunter; your uncle and 
 I came in here together. I think a lot of his ranch and 
 . . . well, if it comes to a fight I can fight again beside his 
 heir as I fought by his side. 
 
 *' It won't be pleasant for a woman. Cattle wars ain't 
 gentle affairs. They can't be if they're going to be short 
 wars. There's three things to be used; just three: guns 
 an' rope and nerve." 
 
 " I trust I can stand unpleasantness if necessary," was 
 her reply. 
 
136 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Riley was impressed with the girl's courage btit like the 
 others he was reluctant to believe that she was made of the 
 stuff that could recognize disaster and fight it out, her 
 strength unweakened by panic. 
 
 Another visitor was there that day: Pat Webb. Jimmy 
 Oliver had found one of his colts badly cut by wire and 
 had brought it in. Webb had come to see the animal and 
 had lingered to talk intimately with Hepburn. 
 
 This gave Beck much to think about. 
 
 He was saddling his horse at noon when Hepburn ap- 
 proached and asked his plans for the balance of the day. 
 
 *' It depends on what I find. I'm after horses first, but 
 I might have a look at other things. There's so damned 
 much happenin' around here that it pays a man to look 
 sharp." 
 
 " You'd better cut out that sort of talk, Beck ! " 
 
 " What talk ? " — mockingly. " Seems to me if you didn't 
 know any more than I do you wouldn't be so easily roiled up, 
 Hepburn." 
 
 " You mind your business and I'll look after mine," the 
 foreman warned, breathing heavily. " About one more 
 break from you and we'll part company." 
 
 His eyes glittered ominously and his face was malicious. 
 
 " I wouldn't be surprised. This outfit's a little too small 
 for you and me. It seems to shrink every day, Dad. 
 Maybe, sometime, you'll have to go, but just keep this in 
 your head: I've promised Miss Hunter to stay and my 
 word is good." 
 
 He mounted and Hepburn, walking slowly toward the 
 stable, twirled his mustache speculatively, one eye lid 
 drooped as though he saw faintly a plan which promised to 
 solve perplexities. 
 
 Beck was cautious that afternoon, as he had trained him- 
 self to be when riding alone. He kept an eye on the back 
 trail and scanned both gulches when he rode a ridge; but 
 cautious as he was he did not see the two riders who sat on 
 
THE TRAME-UP 137. 
 
 quiet horses beneath a spreading juniper tree at the head 
 of Twenty Mile. 
 
 It was after dark when he returned to the ranch and the 
 moon was just commencing to show. The others were at 
 supper. He threw his gun and chaps into the bunk house 
 and fed his horse. As he walked down toward the ranch 
 house the other men were straggling out and their dining 
 room was empty. Carlotta brought him steaming food and 
 he ate with gusto. 
 
 When he had nearly finished Jane entered and he started 
 to rise, but she made him remain seated. 
 
 '* What do you suppose that man Webb is doing here?'* 
 she asked. " Hepburn explains that he is trying to arrange 
 to send a representative with our round-up.'* 
 
 " Whatever he's doin' here, it ain't for your good," he 
 replied. 
 
 " Nor yours." 
 
 " Don't you worry about mine, ma'am and unless he's a 
 lot smarter than I think he is, or unless he's got lots of 
 help, don't figure he's goin' to do you any great harm. 
 He's just a low-down — " 
 
 A man was running toward the house and he broke off ta 
 listen. 
 
 Two-Bits came hurriedly into the room, eyes wnde, 
 face white, showing none of his usual confusion at Jane's 
 presence. 
 
 " Tommy, they want you," he said unnaturally. 
 
 " Yeah ? What for, Two-Bits ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Tommy. Hepburn an' Riley an' W^ebb an' 
 the rest want you. I don't know what it is, Tommy, but it 
 must be serious." 
 
 Tom saw the anxiety in Jane's eyes. She did not put her 
 query into words ; it was not necessary ; he knew and an- 
 swered : 
 
 " I ain't got an idea, ma'am, but I'll go find out. You're 
 all wound up, Two-Bits ! " — laughing. 
 
138 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " My gosh, Tommy, they acted funny. Have you done 
 anything?" the cowboy asked in an undertone as they left 
 the house. 
 
 " A lot, Two-Bits. I sure hope they don't go proddin' 
 into my awful past! There's some terrible things they 
 might find ! " 
 
 He hooked his arm through the other's and laughed at 
 the boy's apprehension. 
 
 But Beck knew that something of grave consequence im- 
 pended the instant he set foot in the bunk house for the 
 men, who had been talking lowly, stopped and eyed him in 
 sober silence. Afterward he had a distinct recollection of 
 Two-Bits slipping along the wall, looking at him over his 
 shoulder with the freckles showing in great blotches against 
 his white skin. Hepburn, Riley and Webb sat on one bed. 
 The foreman was leaning back, hands clasping a knee, but 
 he chewed his tobacco with nervous vigor. 
 
 '' The Reverend about to offer prayer ? " Tom asked 
 easily. 
 
 There was no responsive smile on any fa'ce. Someone 
 coughed loudly and sharply as if it had been an unneces- 
 sary cough. Tom halted. 
 
 "I'm here. What's up?" he asked quietly. "This is 
 like a funeral ... or a trial." 
 
 At that Hepburn cleared his throat. 
 
 " Want to ask you somethin'. Beck. I want you to tell 
 these other men what you said to me this noon." 
 
 Tom hitched up his belt. 
 
 "If you want 'em to know, w^hy don't you speak the piece 
 yourself ? You recall it, don't you ? " 
 
 " Better talk, Tom," Riley advised. 
 
 " I don't know what this is all about ; I don't know what 
 difference what I said to Hepburn can make to the rest of 
 you, but I respect your opinions, Riley, and if he's willing 
 for you to know what I said, I sure am willing to repeat it. 
 
 " Hepburn and I've had a little argument. It's been 
 
THE FRAME-UP 139 
 
 goin' on for some time. He'd be pleased to have me move 
 on, I take it, but I sort of like this outfit." 
 
 " Go on," Hepburn said impatiently. 
 
 " I told you, Hepburn, and I'll tell you again that this 
 ranch is gettin' a little small to hold both of us. It seems 
 to shrink every day and I don't get good elbow room any 
 more, but so far as I'm concerned I'm more or less perma- 
 nent." 
 
 Webb nodded and Riley shifted uneasily, looking from 
 Beck to Hepburn, frankly puzzled. 
 
 '* Yes, that's what you said to me. Now will you tell 
 the boys where you rode this afternoon ? " 
 
 Beck eyed him a long moment and the foreman stared 
 back, assured but not quite composed, his little eyes dark. 
 Once he bit his chew savagely but his expression did not 
 change. 
 
 " I rode out of here straight up Sunny Gulch, climbed out 
 at the head, rode those little dry gulches as far down as 
 Twenty Mile and came up the far ridge. Then I took a 
 circle to the east and came home by the road." 
 
 ''You admit bein' at the head of Twenty Mile, then?"" 
 
 ''Admit it? Yes." 
 
 "What time?" 
 
 " Three o'clock or thereabouts," — after a pause in which 
 he considered. 
 
 " See any other men ? " 
 
 " Not a man until I got back." 
 
 Hepburn looked about. Two-Bits muttered lowly to 
 himself. Riley dragged a spur across the floor slowly. 
 Every eye in the room was on Beck, and Beck's eyes were 
 on Hepburn. 
 
 " Then will you tell the boys how come this ? " 
 
 The foreman drew a gun and holster from behind him. 
 It was Beck's gun. He drew it from the scabbard, broke it 
 and dropped the cartridges into his palm. 
 
 Three of the shells were empty. 
 
140 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The two gave one another stare for stare. Hepburn 
 was breathing rapidly but his look was of a man who faces 
 a crisis with all confidence. Beck did not move or speak. 
 His eyes smouldered and his face settled into stern lines. 
 Then that smouldering burst into blaze and before the 
 glare of will the foreman's hand, holding the contents of 
 the revolver chambers, trembled. He closed it quickly and 
 looked away and where a moment before he had been the 
 accuser he was now on the defense. It was determination 
 against determination and in the conflict words were wrung 
 from him. 
 
 " Somebody fired three shots at me at the head of Twenty 
 Mile at three o'clock this afternoon." 
 
 And that sentence, though it was an indictment, was 
 voiced more in a manner of defense than in accusation. 
 V/ith it Beck's expression changed ; it became alert, as 
 though following some play upon which great stakes hung, 
 but following intelligently, not blind to the way of the 
 game. 
 
 " I can explain those empty shells. I took a shot at a 
 coyote on the way back. I didn't see you, Hepburn, after I 
 left here this afternoon until I got back." 
 
 Webb got up. 
 
 '' I guess that makes the case," he said to no one in par- 
 ticular. 
 
 Then to Tom : " I was with Dad ; he was ten rod ahead 
 of me. Th' shots come from above and landed all around 
 him. 
 
 '' IVe didn't have to look very hard for somebody who 
 wants to get rid of Dad, but we wanted it from you, 
 Beck." 
 
 Triumph was in his little beady eyes and on his mottled 
 face. There was a shuffling of feet and Tom hooked one 
 thumb in his belt, with a slow, uncertain movement. His 
 eyes held on Hepburn's face, prying, searching, striving 
 to force a meeting but the other would not look at him, he 
 busied himself stuffing the evidence into his shirt pocket. 
 
THE FRAx\IE-UP 141 
 
 Riley rose and the low stir which had followed the revela- 
 tion subsided. 
 
 ** Isn't there something else you want to say, Beck?" he 
 asked. '* Didn't you see any other man ? Can't you say 
 something for yourself ? " 
 
 " I didn't see another man this afternoon," the other re- 
 plied, still striving to make Hepburn meet his gaze, " an' be- 
 sides there don't seem to be much to say. I've told my 
 story. It's simple enough. . . . You've heard the other 
 story, which seems simple enough. Now it's my word 
 against Hepburn's . . . an' Webb's," — as though the last 
 were in afterthought, and of little matter. 
 
 Riley faced the circle of listeners. 
 
 " This is no boy's play," he said grimly. " The foreman 
 of the biggest outfit in this country has been shot at, shot at 
 by somebody who didn't come from cover and give h:m 
 even a fair show for a fight. We know that there's been 
 bad blood between these two men ; Tommy's admitted that. 
 I hate like hell to think he lost his head over a quarrel and 
 that he'd fight a man from cover, but it looks bad. 
 
 ** We can't have this go on ! There's been stealing and 
 rumors of stealing for months. There's trouble comin' 
 over water and fence. W^e've gotten along like good neigh- 
 bors for years but now trouble seems to be in the air. I 
 don't see that there's much to it but to take Tom to town 
 an' turn him over to the sheriff. 
 
 " Unless," — facing Beck. " Tommy, ain t there any- 
 thing you want to say? You've refused once but I keep 
 thinkin' you've got something else you could tell us." 
 
 " No, Riley, I'd be taking a chance by doing more talkin* 
 tonight. I'll do it when it'll do me more good," he said, but 
 at his own words, brave though they sounded, his heart 
 sank and a rage boiled up in him. 
 
 " Then I'm afraid it's jail for you, son," Riley said. " I 
 can — " 
 
 " Jail ? " 
 
 Jane Hunter had stepped into the bunk house. It was 
 
142 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 the first time she had ever been there and that was reason 
 enough to rivet attention on her ; but now she came under 
 circumstances which were stressed, her face was white, 
 Hps parted, eyes wide with a child-Hke wonder and as she 
 paused on the threshold, one hand against the casing, dread 
 was in every Hne of her figure. 
 
 " Jail? " she repeated in a strained voice. *' And why? " 
 
 The silence was oppressive and for a breath no one moved 
 or spoke. Beck had not turned to face her ; his eyes never 
 left Hepburn's face and it was he who broke the suspense 
 with one word, addressed to the foreman. 
 
 -Well?"— a challenge. 
 
 Hepburn moved slowly toward the girl. 
 
 " There's been a little trouble, Miss Hunter," with an at- 
 tempt at a laugh, which resulted dismally. 
 
 " Trouble ? " — with rising inflection. 
 
 She took a step forward, looking about at the serious 
 faces. She looked back at Hepburn; then at Beck. Her 
 eyes clung to him a moment, then swept the circle again. 
 
 " Trouble ? About what ? Who is in trouble ? " 
 
 " I didn't want to bother you with it," her foreman said, 
 his assurance coming back, for Beck had ceased looking 
 at him. "It's a nasty mess; I don't like it. None of us 
 like it. Even if he is inclined to be a little hot-headed, 
 we all thought better of Tom — " 
 
 "Tom?" 
 
 Slowly she turned to face Beck. 
 
 " Yes. Tom. We're. . . . We're sorry, ma'am," Dad 
 stammered ; then recovered and with an effort to belittle 
 the situation by his manner proceeded : " Somebody did a 
 small amount of shootin' at me this afternoon. Webb, 
 here, an' I was at the head of Twenty-Mile and somebody 
 fired three times at me. Tom come in tonight with three 
 empty shells in his gun. He . . . He didn't explain well 
 enough to suit us because all he could say was that he fired 
 at a coyote comin' down the road, but — " 
 
 "And you're going to take him to jail?" 
 
THE FHAME-UP 143 
 
 Her hand had gone slowly to her throat, fingers clamp- 
 ing on the gold locket as if for support. Her eyes had be- 
 come very dark. 
 
 " Well, ma'am, that's about all we can do : turn him over 
 to the sheriff," Hepburn said. 
 
 She drew a deep breath, a second interval of tense silence 
 prevailed and then Jane, putting one arm across her eyes, 
 began to laugh. The laugh started low in her throat and 
 rippled upward until it was full and as clear as the ringing 
 of a glass gong. She swayed back against the wall and 
 pressed her extended palms hard against the tough logs. . . . 
 
 " On that evidence ? " she cried. '* On such evidence 
 you would charge a man with attempted murder and turn 
 him over to the law? Because there were empty shells in 
 his revolver? 
 
 " Why, I was with him when he came down the road 
 and he did shoot at a coyote . . . three times ... I heard 
 it; I saw it ... I was there." 
 
 She leaned her head back and her body shook with silent, 
 nervous laughter. 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord ! " chanted the Reverend, " For his 
 ways are wonderous and strange to behold ! " 
 
 A babel of comments, loud, profane, excited, relieved, 
 arose. Hepburn stood as if struck dumb, mouth agape and 
 then, face growing dark with a rush of blood under the 
 bronzed skin, he said : 
 
 " I thought you said you didn't see a soul ! " 
 
 " I said I didn't see a man, you pole-cat ! " Beck retorted 
 and his eyes danced. Webb sat down on a bunk as though 
 suddenly weakened. Riley, voice husky, took Tom's hand, 
 shook it gravely. 
 
 *' Why didn't you tell us, my boy? " he questioned. 
 
 The rest stopped to hear the answer : 
 
 '* I didn't want to spill my case before this . . . this 
 hombrc showed his full hand," he lied. 
 
 He turned to look at the other who had lied . . . but 
 Jane Hunter had fled. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE BIG CHANCE 
 
 OURS later, after the Reverend had offered a strong, 
 verbose prayer, invoking the wrath of the Almighty 
 upon those who plot to strike from cover, after the bunk 
 house had finally become quiet, Beck stole out into the 
 night. 
 
 The moon rode high, flooding the creek bottom with its 
 cold, blue-white light and he stood bareheaded, shirt open 
 at the chest, staring at one bright star which stared back 
 from the edge of the hills. Far off, away down the creek, 
 a coyote yapped and, waiting, cried again and its faint echo 
 reverberated into silence. A horse in the corral stomped and 
 blew loudly. . . . 
 
 He moved on down toward the cottonwoods and reach- 
 ing them stood in their shadows, arms at his sides, shoulders 
 slacked as if weakened, irresolute. The ranch house was 
 dark, its shingles smeared with a sheen of silver by the 
 moon, the veranda in deep black. 
 
 Tom did not see her coming until she was halfway across 
 the dooryard. Then, rather heavily, he climbed the wire 
 fence and met her. 
 
 Without words of greeting Jane put out her hands and 
 he took them both, holding them between his, looking down 
 into her face silently. Her eyes were dry, but there had 
 been tears on her cheeks, and her lips, as she looked into 
 his smouldering eyes, trembled. 
 
 " What were they trying to do to you ? " she whispered. 
 
 *' They were trying to send me to jail for shooting at a 
 man." he answered. " W^hy did you lie for me?'' 
 
 " Oh, you were in trouble ! I didn't know. I couldn't 
 think. ... I saw it all so clearly, all in a flash, saw that all 
 
 144 
 
THE BIG CHANCE 145 
 
 you needed was one little word from someone else to make 
 it right and I didn't care beyond that. It was the only 
 thing that mattered. If they had taken you away I'd have 
 been alone, wholly alone. . . ." 
 
 " You believed me when I told 'em I shot at a coyote ? " 
 
 " Believe ? Believe ? I didn't think, didn't consider. It 
 made no difference to me what you had done. The only 
 thing I wanted to do was to set you free, to clear you ! " 
 
 " You'd lie for me, even if you thought I'd shot to kill 
 a man?" he insisted. 
 
 " I didn't know what you had — " 
 
 " You'd take a chance like that ? Why would you, 
 ma'am ? " 
 
 For a long moment their eyes, half seen to one another 
 in those shadows, clung almost fiercely, his inquisitory, hers 
 changing as wave followed wave of emotion through her 
 body. She had never seen him so dominating, and he had 
 no need to insist again that she answer. She let her head 
 fall back with a half smile. 
 
 " Oh, I did it because it was the only thing I could do. 
 ... I did it, Tom, because I — " 
 
 He straightened sharply and cut in: 
 
 " I know, ma'am ; you did it because you need me here, 
 on the ranch." 
 
 His chest swelled with a great breath and he released her 
 hands, stepping back and putting a hand slowly to his head. 
 
 For an instant she made no sound. Then she laughed 
 strangely. 
 
 " Because I need you here. . . . Yes, that was it. That 
 was why I lied for you." She spoke with nervous rapidity, 
 rather breathlessly, and one hand went again to that locket, 
 clutching it in a cold clasp. " I knew it was not like you to 
 try to shoot a man unfairly. I didn't think here was much 
 chance in lying. All I saw was their taking you away and 
 leaving me here alone to face all this, without anyone I 
 can trust, without anyone to help me. That was why I 
 lied to them. 
 
146 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " You promised me once that you would stay. I knew 
 then that I needed you ; every hour since that promise was 
 made I've had a greater reaHzation of my need for you 
 until it . . . it . . ." Her breath caught in a sob and she 
 pressed knuckles to her lips. 
 
 Beck stood silently watching her, a cold moisture forming 
 on his brow, hands clenched as if he were holding himself 
 against the urge of some great impulse. 
 
 '' I felt when I stepped in there and learned what it all 
 was, that the last thing I have to depend on was slipping 
 away . . . and I reached out and grasped you like I'd grasp 
 a straw in a sea. It ... I can't tell you," — her voice 
 trembled, " what it meant, what it means to me. . . ." 
 
 Words, words ! They spilled from her lips with a rapid- 
 ity that approached hysteria. She was talking without 
 thought, without reason, letting her voice run on while her 
 consciousness, divorced entirely from it, fell into chaos. 
 
 ** Everything seems to be working against me and now, 
 because you have been my help, my strength, they are trying 
 to take you away. Oh, I need all the help there is, and 
 that is you ! " — with a stamp of the foot as she drove tears 
 back. 
 
 " There are influences which I can't see, v/hich I can only 
 feel, all about me, within me," — beating her breast — " and 
 outside." 
 
 " It may be interestin' to you to know that I didn't shoot 
 at any coyote." 
 
 She gasped lightly and for a moment did not speak. 
 
 " Then you did shoot at Hepburn ? " — in a whisper. 
 
 " No, I didn't. I'd never shoot from cover." 
 
 *' I knew that," she said quickly, knowing that by her 
 question she had hurt him. 
 
 '' It appears that I ain't very welcome with your foreman. 
 It was a frame-up, a good way to get rid of me. They 
 planted that evidence in my gun while I was eating. It was 
 one of those influences at work, the kind you've only felt. 
 You can see some of 'em now, ma'am. . . . 
 
THE BIG CHANCE 147 
 
 " It's lucky you thought to lie," he said, with a weak 
 laugh that was unlike him. " I guess you're going to need 
 all vour luck. . . . 
 
 *' But you better go in now. It's late and cold." 
 
 He wanted her to be away from him, to be rid of her 
 presence, for it pulled him, drew him, and he fought against 
 it, fought against the strongest impulse that has been born 
 to man, fought blindly, his old, deeply rooted caution, drag- 
 ging him back . . . dragging him. . . . 
 
 " I don't want to go in ; I don't want to leave you," she 
 said. '' I want — " 
 
 " But you must go. Have I got to pick you up an' carry 
 you into your house, ma'am?" 
 
 " I want you to take this," she went on where he had 
 interrupted, fumbling at the catch of the chain which held 
 the locket against her throat. " Take it/' she said, holding 
 it swinging toward him, spattered with moonlight. " It's 
 brought me all the luck I've ever had ; it will help you, it 
 w^ill protect you. You need luck as much as I do . . . and 
 you need it for me. Wear it, a foolish little trinket but 
 it means . . . oh, more than you can know ! I'd like to 
 think of you as wearing it. . . ." 
 
 ** I don't think I need that, ma'am. What's in it ? " 
 
 " Don't ask that ! Don't even open it, please. Just take 
 it and wear it, for me." 
 
 He made no move to take the ornament, just stood looking 
 at it skeptically. 
 
 " Take it . . . and then I will go in, without being car- 
 ried." 
 
 She reached up to place the chain about his neck with her 
 own hands ; her unsteady fingers, fumbling with the catch, 
 slipped and her cool, bared arms, touched his flesh. x\t the 
 contact she swayed against him. 
 
 *' Oh, carry me in," she pleaded gently, " carry me in . . . 
 not into my house, but into your life ! " 
 
 All the caution, all the reason he had summoned to hold 
 back that urge was swept aside. The touch of her skin 
 
148 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 against his skin sent seething blood to the ends of his limbs. 
 It did not need her plea to break him down; the touch 
 accomplished it, and fiercely, roughly, he caught her to 
 him. 
 
 ** It's all been a lie, another lie, all this youVe said ! " he 
 cried lowly. " You didn't lie tonight because you need me ; 
 you lied because you love me, ma'am ! You love me, like a 
 good woman can love, and I love you. ... I love you, 
 ma'am, like I never thought I could love. It's bigger than 
 I am, bigger than all the rest of my life. . . . 
 
 " From that first night you talked to me I've been afraid 
 I was goin' to love you. That was why I planned to go 
 away because I didn't want to take a chance with my love. 
 It's the only sacred thing I've ever owned and I've kept 
 it back, savin' it for the time when I could turn it loose. . . . 
 
 " When you told me you'd made up your mind to stay 
 here, that you wanted to do something that was real and 
 worth-while, I felt that I couldn't hold it back. . . . 
 
 " But I didn't know you. I got to love you so much I 
 was afraid of you, afraid of myself. That was why I bul- 
 lied you, that was why I picked on you. I tried to drive 
 you away from me, I tried, even, to keep from bein' your 
 friend, but somethin' told me all the time that this had to 
 come. 
 
 " I've watched you grow strong and big. I've hurt you 
 on purpose. I've made some things hard for you to do, but 
 you've done 'em. You're like a man, in the way you stand 
 up to things . . . and the gentlest, the sweetest woman down 
 in your heart ! " 
 
 *' Not that! " she pleaded. " Not all that. I'm not what 
 you think, I'm only what you can make me. I'm weak and 
 need it. I want to be carried . . . along and upward by 
 it!" 
 
 Chin drawn in, he looked down into her face as she lay 
 in his arms, her breath quick and fast and warm on his 
 cheek. He could feel his limbs vibrate as his pulse leaped 
 
THE BIG CHANCE 149 
 
 and his whole body trembled as he read the look in her eyes, 
 revealed by the moonlight. 
 
 Up on the hills a little owl hooted and again the coyote 
 yapped. A vagrant night wind touched the trees above 
 them and the leaves whispered sleepily, as if roused by a 
 pleasant dream. The murmur of the creek sounded almost 
 as a blessing. None of these they heard. They were lost in 
 a vague, limitless world, alone, swayed by the most power- 
 ful, the most beautiful forces in life. 
 
 " You lied because you love me," he whispered. 
 
 And at that she stirred and her breath slipped out in a 
 long sob. He lowered his face to hers as scalding tears 
 brimmed from her eyes. He felt them on his cheek, 
 mingled with her breath and he felt her arms tighten about 
 his neck, her body draw closer to his. 
 
 " It wasn't any chance ! " he whispered fiercely. " It 
 wasn't any chance, and I've been holdin' back, fighting it oft, 
 denying it to myself for weeks . . . afraid to risk it, afraid 
 to let it come out . . . afraid of what is .yo.' '"' 
 
 " Isn't it a chance ? " she asked almost in a gasp. " Isn't 
 it? Are you sure, Tom?" 
 
 " As sure as I am that the moon is up there, Jane." 
 
 He lowered his lips to hers and for a long kiss they 
 clung. 
 
 " But you don't know — you don't know ! " she cried, 
 suddenly struggling to be free. " You don't know me," 
 pressing her palms against his chest as he held her. " It's 
 big, it's fine , . . the biggest, the finest thing that has ever 
 come into my life. 
 
 " Tom ! What if it should be a chance? " 
 
 " But, Jane it can't — " 
 
 With a faint little cry, almost as though she were hurt, 
 she broke from him and fled toward the house through the 
 moonlight. 
 
 He stood alone, the feel of her lips still on his, heart 
 leaping, mind swirling. And, looking down, he saw that in 
 his hand he held the little gold locket. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 war! 
 
 SO, for Jane and Tom, at least, Hepburn came into the 
 open. 
 
 And for Hepburn, these two displayed their hands. 
 
 Of greater consequence. Beck's reserve, his caution was 
 swept away. He had taken his big chance I 
 
 *' You're all there is to me," he told Jane the following 
 morning with a desperation in his eyes and a seriousness 
 in his voice that made her search his face with alarm. *' I 
 fought against my love for you but it wasn't any use. You 
 made me love you. You'll make me keep lovin' you, won't 
 you, Jane ? " 
 
 " I hope so ! You don't know how much I hope so ! " 
 she assured him as her arms clasped his neck closely. *' It 
 frightens me, having this responsibility. It's the greatest 
 I've ever had and I'm weak, Tom, a weak woman ! " 
 
 " No, strong ! " he declared and stopped her further pro- 
 test with kisses. 
 
 Dad Hepburn, of course, could not stay on under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 " There's an advantage of having a reptile in sight if 
 you've got to have one in the country," Beck told Jane as 
 they discussed the matter, '* but he won't stay. He's got an 
 excuse to back out gracefully now and we haven't any ex- 
 cuse to keep him on." 
 
 " And will you be my foreman ? " she asked. 
 
 ** If you'll trust me that far," he replied with the laugh in 
 his eyes again. 
 
 Hepburn departed that day, telling Jane that he would 
 like to stay but that he did not feel like risking his life for 
 the sake of a job, to which she made no reply other than 
 
 150 
 
WAR I 151 
 
 writing his check. This nettled him ; he did not meet her 
 gaze because, though they both had Hed, her guilt was white 
 while his was smirched with treachery. 
 
 His farewell to Beck was not open but his successor read 
 in it an ominous quality. 
 
 " I wish you luck on your job, Beck," he said as he 
 mounted, ready to ride away. " Lots of luck." 
 
 " Mostly bad luck, Hepburn ? " Tom taunted and the flush 
 that whipped into the face of the older man was not that of 
 humiliation. 
 
 He reined his horse away with a growl and did not look 
 back. 
 
 If the little gold locket which Tom wore about his neck 
 brought luck, it supplied a dire need. He had two deter- 
 mined personal enemies in the country, Webb and Hepburn, 
 and as foreman of the H C he had many others, identities 
 not fully established. 
 
 There was Cole and the Mexicans he had hired to build 
 the fence and clear his land. There was the usual gathering 
 of riff-raff at Webb's. And there was Sam McKee, the 
 coward, who was not reckoned as a menace by Beck and 
 who, in later days, was to figure so largely ! 
 
 Another piece of news the Reverend brought : 
 
 " They're talkin' about you in town, brother. They're 
 saying that now some of this thieving will stop. They're 
 looking to you to clean up the country." 
 
 ^' Ain't that a lot of responsibility to put on one peaceful 
 citizen?" Beck asked, but though he jested over the fact 
 he did not fail to appreciate its significance. 
 
 " Be cautious. These men are without scruple, brother." 
 
 " And so am I . . . but I got lots of luck, Reverend ! " 
 was his parting. 
 
 He needed his luck. 
 
 Riding alone, under a rim rock, with the country falling 
 away to the westward, he speculated on his luck and on the 
 talisman Jane had given him. He drew the locket from 
 his shirt front and held it on his big palm eyeing the thing, 
 
152 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 wondering what it contained that Jane had wanted to con- 
 ceal from him. 
 
 ** I've got a half grown notfon to open it," he muttered 
 and stopped his horse shortly. 
 
 And he might have sprung the lid had not a zipping 
 and a dull, dead spatter on the rock just ahead caught his 
 attention. He looked up sharply, saw the stain of metal 
 against the ledge and saw in the sunlight a fragment of the 
 bullet that had shattered itself there, that would have drilled 
 him had his horse taken the next step. 
 
 Whoever fired had calculated on that next step because 
 he was at such a distance that no report of a rifle reached 
 him. 
 
 Beck turned his horse and raced to cover and lay for an 
 hour scanning the country, but his assailant did not ap- 
 pear. 
 
 When Tom rode away he smiled grimly to himself and 
 said to the roan: 
 
 ** We won't look in it now. Stoppin' to consider saved 
 our skin that time; maybe we'll need that luck again . . . 
 and worse." 
 
 Another time, the same week, he threw his bed on a 
 pack horse and started a two-day ride to the south-east for, 
 as foreman, he gave close heed to the detail of his work. 
 
 At sundown he made camp and while his cofifee boiled 
 stripped himself and bathed luxuriously in a waterhole. 
 
 He lay looking upward at the stars that night thinking 
 more of Jane Hunter than her property, thrilling at memory 
 of her hair and eyes and lips, telling himself that conditions 
 were reversed now, and that instead of fighting her off, evad- 
 ing her charms, he was consumed with an eagerness for 
 them. 
 
 Drowsiness came and, turning on his side, he reached a 
 hand for the locket to hold it fast while he slept. It was 
 not about his neck. He remembered that he had left it 
 on a rock where he had undressed for his bath and, slipping 
 
WAR ! 1 53 
 
 out of his blankets, turning them back that the night chill 
 might not dampen his bed, he picked his way carefully to 
 the place and groped for the trinket. 
 
 His fingers had just touched the gold disc when the 
 quiet of the night was punctured by a shot . . . then four 
 more in quick succession. 
 
 He squatted low, holding his breath. He heard booted 
 feet running over rocks, heard a man speak gruffly to a 
 horse and, in a moment, heard galloping hoofs carrying a 
 rider away. He waited a half hour, then stole back to his 
 bed. The tarp and blankets were drilled by five bullet holes. 
 
 " Maybe I'm superstitious," he muttered, fastening the 
 gold chain about his neck, " but this thing, or whatever is in 
 it, has saved my hide twice in one week." 
 
 The man who had fired into his blankets had trailed him 
 deliberately, had waited until satisfied that he was asleep 
 and had stolen up to murder him without offering a fighting 
 chance. 
 
 " Hepburn has gone into partnership with Webb," Jane 
 told him on his return to the ranch. " The Reverend 
 brought in that word. What do you make of it?" 
 
 '* Not much. Without my help it makes about the finest 
 couple of snakes that could be brought together ! " Tom 
 muttered. 
 
 " And somebody tampered with the ditch in the upper 
 field. Curtis and the men started the water down late in 
 the afternoon. They left their tools there and the ditch bank 
 was broken. They tell me it surely was shoveled out. The 
 water is low and losing it hurt." 
 
 *' That looks quite like war," he told her. 
 
 War it was. That night the men in the bunk house were 
 awakened by a bright glare and looking out Beck saw that 
 four stacks of hay, totaling more than a hundred tons of 
 feed left from the winter, were in a blaze. While the others 
 hastily dressed and ran toward the stack yard in the futile 
 
154 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 hope that some portion might be saved, the foreman stayed 
 behind . . . Hstening. From far up the road he heard the 
 faint, quick rattle of a running horse. 
 
 In the morning a note was found stuck in the latch of 
 the big gate. It was addressed to Jane Hunter and, in a 
 rude scrawl, had been written : 
 
 " The longer you stay the more you will lose." 
 
 She showed it to Beck and after he had read and re- 
 read and turned the single sheet of paper over in his hands 
 he looked up to see her eyes tear filled. 
 
 '' It isn't worth it ! " she cried with a stamp of her foot. 
 " This is only the start. Do you know what they are 
 saying in town? The word has been passed that first you 
 are to be driven out and that then I will have to go. People 
 are saying that the others are too many and too ruthless for 
 you, that they are bound to drive us away. It is being said 
 that you are too straight to win a crooked fight! 
 
 " I could risk losing the things I own, my property, but 
 I wouldn't risk you, Tom dear ... I wouldn't do that ! " 
 
 " And there's somethin' else you wouldn't do," he said 
 lowly, stroking her forehead. " You wouldn't let 'em , 
 drive you out. You didn't start that way. You come out 
 here to beat the game and if you quit cold you wouldn't 
 think much of yourself, would you? We didn't want 
 trouble, but we've got to go and meet it ! " 
 
 " But you ! " she moaned, putting her arms about his big 
 shoulders. " What of you ? " 
 
 *' Don't worry about me when the only danger is from 
 men that won't come into the open ! Maybe I'm a bigger 
 crook than I'm given credit for. Besides, you've given me 
 lots of luck. ... 
 
 *' I don't know what's in this thing," — holding out the 
 locket — " but I've got a lot of faith in it . . . and in you, 
 Jane ! " 
 
 Where, before he gave his love recognition, he had taken 
 pains to bring Jane into contact with adversities, he now was 
 impelled to shield her from all that he could. In the 
 
WAR! 155 
 
 natural role of her protector he did everything possible 
 to allay her apprehension. He could not blind her to the 
 broad situation but he could and did withold the seriousness 
 of some of its detail, even keeping some things that tran- 
 spired, such as the attempts on his life, to himself. 
 
 But he did worry about the enemy that worked from 
 cover, that shot at sleeping men, that broke ditches and 
 burned property and sent unsigned threats to women. That 
 made his fight a battle in the darkness and his strength v/as 
 the strength of light, of frankness, of honesty. His mind 
 was not adapted to scheming and skulking. 
 
 To drive his foe into the open was his first objective and 
 that night he set out. 
 
 " You call it recognizing a state of war, I believe,'' he 
 told Jane with a twinkle in his eye when she queried his 
 going. 
 
 " Tom ! You're not going — " 
 
 " Not going to take a chance," he said soberly. " It's 
 just a diplomatic mission, you might say." 
 
 He put her ofif and rode out of the ranch gate. It was 
 dark and when he had progressed a mile he halted his horse, 
 dropped off, loosened the cinch so the leather would not 
 creak when the animal breathed, and stood listening. Aside 
 from the natural noises of the night, the world was with- 
 out sound. 
 
 He drew his gun from its holster and twirled the cylinder. 
 Usually he carried the trigger over an empty chamber; to- 
 night it was filled. And inside his shirt was another gun. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE WARNING 
 
 THE fire in Webb's cook stove was not all that fur- 
 nished warmth to the three men sitting about it that 
 night, for they drank frequently from the bottle which, 
 when not passing from hand to hand, was nestled on Dick 
 Hilton's lap, his hands caressing its smooth surface lovingly 
 . . . save the word ! 
 
 Sam McKee and three other men played solo on the 
 table, noisily and quarrelsomely after the manner of their 
 kind. Engrossed in the game they gave little heed to the 
 talk of the others. It was shop talk, of plots and schemes, 
 of danger and distrust. 
 
 Webb's little button eyes were even more ugly than 
 usual, Hilton's mouth drawn in lines that were even more 
 cruel, but Hepburn, under influence of the liquor, only 
 became more paternal, more deliberate as the evening and 
 the drinking went on. He was not nettled by Webb's dis- 
 favor, and even smiled on the rancher indulgently as he 
 listened to the querulous plaint. 
 
 "If you'd only used yer head an' stayed there," Webb 
 went on, " then we'd hev had it all easy-like. You could 
 've stole her blind an' she'd never knew. Then you had 
 to git on the peck about him!'' He sniffed in disgust. 
 
 " Now, Webb, you're too harsh in what you say," the 
 other replied blandly. " I done all I could but Beck wouldn't 
 be blinded! He's got second sight or somethin'," — with 
 a degree of heat. 
 
 " We had him scotched all right, but we hadn't figured 
 on the girl. Nobody'd thought she was sweet on him ! " 
 
 Hilton stirred uneasily and the color in his face deep- 
 
 156 
 
THE WARNING 137 
 
 ened. He looked at Hepburn with an ugly light in his eyes. 
 
 '' That upset everything," Hepburn went on. " There 
 wasn't no use tryin' to play a quiet game after that. They 
 both know we want to get rid of 'em worst way and now 
 we've got to keep under cover an' use our heads harder'n 
 ever." 
 
 " There's too many in it," Webb whined. " I tell you 
 the's too many in it! If you'd let me alone, just me an' 
 the boys, I'd felt safer. But now there's Cole an' his 
 daughter an' . . . half the country ! " 
 
 He flashed an indecisive glance at Hilton who studied 
 the bottle, frowning. 
 
 ** Lots in it," Hepburn said heavily, '' but they've got to 
 hang together or . . ." 
 
 " Separately," added Dick cynically. 
 
 Hepburn nodded and Webb shifted and jerked his head 
 petulantly. 
 
 " But there's nothin' to fret about," Dad went on. " None 
 of us will be a leak. Cole can't because we could put him 
 behind bars by just lettin' on that he'd used his homestead 
 rights under another name an' had no right on this place, 
 let alone other things. 
 
 " We can use his brand, which is why I brought him in 
 here. I've spread the news that he's bought cows of you 
 an' between workin' over the H C and ventin' your marks 
 we'll have a herd here in a couple of seasons that'll make 
 us rich ! 
 
 '* An' we'll have range for 'em, too. She won't stand 
 up under a range war ! " 
 
 " But Beck will," Webb protested. 
 
 ** He will if you don't get rid of him ! " with slow anger 
 behind the words and a cunning glitter in his eyes. '* I 
 don't see how in hell you missed him. You must 've been 
 drunk ! " 
 
 " He wasn't in his bed, I tell you. He couldn't 've 
 been ! " 
 
 " Well, if / had against him what you got, I'd get him," 
 
158 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Hepburn stated emphatically, well satisfied, and showing 
 it, that this was a masterly stroke. " He made you laughed 
 at by the whole country." 
 
 " You wait," Webb snarled. " My time's comin' ! " 
 
 " Deliberately, I'd say," Hilton put in ironically. 
 
 " Oh, you're always kickin' ! " Webb protested. " I don't 
 see why you stay on if things don't satisfy you. You've 
 got to have sheets on your bed, you've got to have grub 
 cooked different, you've got to sleep late an' you've got to 
 have hot water to wash and shave always when th' kettle's 
 cold ! You've got into this deal an' you'd like to run it your 
 way. 
 
 " What the hell do you stay on for? " 
 
 Hepburn looked at Hilton's face as though he, too, won- 
 dered just why he stayed on, but, pursuing his usual tactics, 
 he said : 
 
 " Why, if Mr. Hilton can pay for it, why can't he have 
 his way? He has the money. He's willing to spend it. 
 I'm sure his willingness to stake Cole to fence and hired 
 help means a lot to all of us, Webb. That's goin' to drive 
 her out of the Hole entire this summer. 
 
 " The booze has made you irritable, Webb." 
 
 Webb sat forward, elbows on knees, chin in his hands and 
 grumbled : 
 
 ** I have to stand a lot, I do. Both of you eggin' me on 
 all the time, all the time! I do th' best I can, but nothin's 
 ever satisfactory. Nobody ever does anything for me ! " 
 
 " Sho, Webb, that ain't so. Didn't Mr. Hilton give you 
 a brand new automatic ? Ain't I been reasonable in turnin' 
 a chance to make good your way ? " 
 
 The other fidgeted, then looked up at Hilton. 
 
 " I don't see why yoiive got such an interest in this for, 
 anyhow. Course, it's none of my business, but I don't see 
 why you should always Q.gg me on about Beck." 
 
 " I am concerned to see the T H O prosper," said Hil- 
 ton mockingly. "That is why I bought fence; that is why 
 I want your friend, the H C foreman, out of the way." 
 
THE WARNING 159 
 
 He rose, placed the bottle on the table and stepped out 
 of the house. They heard him walk across the dooryard 
 and into the stable. 
 
 "You s'pose he's goin' to meet her again tonight?" 
 Webb growled. 
 
 " Likely. , . . It's likely." 
 
 ** I wish th' hell he'd clear out. I don't see what you 
 wanted to take him in for ! " 
 
 Hepburn chuckled. 
 
 ''How could you keep him out? The girl, she knows 
 everything, an' what she knows he knows. His money's 
 valuable to us an' besides . . . it'll keep her quiet if we 
 ever do get out on a limb." 
 
 Webb looked up in query. 
 
 " You're right when you say there's too many in it, 
 Webb, but there's just one too many. That's the girl ! I 
 can't figure her out; I can't trust her. If we was to try 
 to pass the buck to Cole, in a pinch, she'd raise the deuce. 
 . . . That is, she would if it wasn't for Hilton.'' 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "If she turned on the rest of us, it'd catch Hilton an' she's 
 gone on him. Never saw a girl who was so loyal to her 
 father but when you bring in another man that loyalty won't 
 stand up in a pinch; not if it's a choice between a father 
 and a lover." 
 
 " But he ain't on the level with her ! " 
 
 " Makes no difference. She's took to him like girls of 
 her sort do. He can handle her an' she's the only one that 
 knows our side who'll ever need any handlin'. He was 
 right when he said the rest of us'd have to hang together, 
 or separately." 
 
 Outside a horseman rode quietly to the gate and sat 
 looking through the open doorway and the one window of 
 the room. He counted the men carefully; counted again, 
 then rode back the way he had come and stopped and waited. 
 
 "But what about the other girl . . . Hunter?" Webb 
 asked after a silent interval. " Hilton zvas sweet on her." 
 
i6o THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Hepburn's eyes kindled. 
 
 " His jealousy is another asset. Hilton wanted her an' 
 couldn't get her, an' he knows the reason now : It's Beck. 
 You think he's been practicin' with a rifle and pistol for 
 the fun of it ? Not on your life ! " Leaning closer : ^' The 
 time may come, Webb, when Hilton'U clear Beck out of 
 our way. . . . That'd be easier. I don't want to try it in 
 the open; I don't guess you do. He's got a crimp in all 
 the boys. Look at Sam, for instance. He's itchin' to kill 
 Beck but he ain't got the sand I " 
 
 "If she ever found out he wasn't on the level with her," 
 — Webb's mind going back to Bobby Cole — *' she'd claw 
 him up fearful." 
 
 " Yup. But she's in love an' love plays hell with men and 
 women, Webb." 
 
 The other started to reply, then sat rigid, listening. 
 
 A horse came up the road at a slow trot and halted by 
 the gpcte. A saddle creaked, then the bars complained as 
 the were lowered. A man was whistling lightly as he 
 rode toward the house and dismounted, leaving his horse 
 standing. 
 
 " Must be one of the boys," he said, and settled back. 
 None who had other than friendly business there would 
 come uncautious. 
 
 *' I was going to say," went on Hepburn, " that they'll be 
 fooled about that Hole range. It's time for the cattle to 
 start comin' in from the desert. They'll get up there and 
 the creek'U be an ash bed with a couple more days of this 
 sun. They can't take 'em back through the Gap without a 
 big loss and if they leave 'em in the Hole without water long 
 enough they can't get 'em up the trail without loss so — " 
 
 "If you'll all rise up and put up your hands we won't have 
 any trouble . . . tonight ! " 
 
 Hepburn looked slowly over his shoulder, slightly be- 
 wildered. Webb, who had been stooped forward, raised 
 his eyes and breath slipped through his lips in a long hiss. 
 Sam McKee, who had reached out to take a trick, let his ace 
 
THE V7ARNING 161 
 
 drop from limp fingers. The other three started up like 
 guilty men sharply accused of their crime. 
 
 Tom Beck, a revolver in each hand, stood framed in the 
 doorway, bending forward from the hips, hat back, eyes 
 burning. His voice had been level and natural, with some- 
 thing akin to a laugh in it, but when he spoke again it was 
 a rasp: 
 
 " Get up on your rattles, you snakes, and put up your 
 hands ! " 
 
 With an oath Hepburn sprang to his feet, faced about 
 and raised his arms. Webb followed, with jerky move- 
 ments, his face pallid with fear. The four card players got 
 from their chairs. As McKee's hands went slowly above his 
 head they trembled like aspen branches in a breeze. 
 
 For a long moment there was no sound, save Hepburn's 
 heavy breathing. Then Tom Beck let a curious smile run 
 across his lips. 
 
 " This is a hell of a way to come to talk business/' he com- 
 mented. " I don't like it . . . but little more than you seem 
 to. It's the safest way for me. That's why I'm here, to 
 consider my safety." 
 
 He let his gaze run from face to face. Webb's eyes met 
 his squarely, a baleful challenge in them, but as he glared 
 at Hepburn, Hepburn's gaze wavered, flicking back twice, 
 only to drop again. McKee whimpered under his breath. 
 The other three stared back sullenly, alert for an opening. 
 
 Beck moved into the room just one step. 
 
 " I don't know who it is that's been tryin' to kill me, 
 but it wouldn't take many guesses," he said. Again his eyes 
 ran from face to face. " It might be you, Hepburn, and it 
 might be you, Webb. It's like both of you, to shoot from 
 cover . . . like you accused me of shootin'. It might be 
 McKee, but even that takes more nerve than he's got. I 
 wouldn't put it past any of the rest of you. 
 
 " I didn't come here to try to find out. I got more im- 
 portant things to do than to identify the party right now. 
 
 *' I rode over this evening to make a little call an' to drop 
 
i62 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 the word that if I see any of this outfit anywhere near the 
 H C ranch or on its range there's goin' to be shootin' 
 a-plenty and that if you want to be the first to shoot, you 
 want to draw almighty quick! If any of you see one of 
 my men anywhere, you hit the breeze. It's the best way out 
 of trouble. 
 
 " Hepburn, you an' Webb tried to frame me once. 
 That's suf^cient cause. I'd kill you like I'd kill a ... a 
 scorpion. McKee don't count. You other three probably 
 are in on the threat to drive me out of the country. Just 
 workin' here puts you beyond the law that protects honest 
 men. 
 
 " Now there's a little matter of trouble that's happened 
 around the H C. That's going to stop from now on. We've 
 got lots of men over there who are handy with their artil- 
 lery. They're pretty well worked up. There won't be a 
 finger lifted to prevent you workin' within your rights, but 
 the first crooked move one of you makes . . . there'll be 
 a new table boarder in th' devil's kitchen. 
 
 " That's all I come to say. That's all the conversation 
 that'll be necessary between us from now on. The H C 
 is goin' to keep doing business, and it's present owner is go- 
 ing to stay on the job. As for me . . . it's been talked 
 around that I was to be drove out an' all I've got to say is, 
 come on and do your driving ! " 
 
 His mouth set with an expression of finality and his eyes 
 bored into theirs. He was through, but even as he straight- 
 ened preparatory to backing through the doorway into the 
 night a flicker of cunning crossed Dad Hepburn's face, set 
 there by a faint, faint creaking of the stable door, unheard 
 by Beck whose own voice had been in his ears. 
 
 " Don't you think you're a little quick in passin' judg- 
 ment, Tom?" he asked. 
 
 Beck laughed shortly. 
 
 " Looking for me to handle you with gloves. Dad ? After 
 you tried to frame me? After you — " He cherked him- 
 self shortly as he was about to accuse Hepburn of one 
 
THE WARNING 163 
 
 specific art of treachery against the H. C. He might need 
 that later. " After you've tried to get me? 
 
 " No, somebody shot at my bed one night; somebody shot 
 at me while I was riding open country one day." At that 
 a glint of astonishment showed in Webb's face. " There's 
 just one way to handle men like that, and I'm doin' it now, 
 to-night. I'm — " 
 
 The crash of a shot from behind, the splintering of the 
 door panel at his shoulder, cut him short. Webb jumped as 
 though the bullet had been sent at him. Hepburn's face 
 contorted into a grimace of elation. 
 
 With a catch of his breath Beck wheeled, senses steeled to 
 this emergency, driving down the quick panic that wanted 
 to throttle his heart. 
 
 There in the shaft of yellow light, bareheaded, stepping 
 toward him, arm raised to fire again, was Dick Hilton. It 
 was a situation in which fractions of time were infinitely 
 precious. That first shot had gone wild because the East- 
 erner, unfamiliar with fire arms, unnerved by the rage 
 which swept up wnthin him, had let his eagerness have full 
 sway. But now he was stepping forward, coming closer. 
 At that range he could not miss ! 
 
 And Beck saw all that in the split second it required for 
 him to whirl, leaving his back exposed to those other men for 
 the instant. He squeezed the trigger as he flipped his left- 
 hand gun toward his assailant. The two reports sounded 
 almost as one, but the stream of fire from Hilton's weapon 
 instead of stabbing toward Beck streaked into the air and 
 the automatic, ripped from his hand by the same ball that 
 tore his fingers, spun clinking to earth. 
 
 But even as it struck, before Beck could turn again to 
 cover the room behind, a swinging palm sent the lamp crash- 
 ing to the floor. He sprang clear of the doorway. An 
 instant before he had dominated the situation, now he was 
 a fugitive. 
 
 Inside, darkness ; out in the dooryard, starlight. Inside, 
 ruthless enemies who had listened to a declaration that pre- 
 
i64 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 eluded quarter; outside, their target who could not hope to 
 live before the fusillade that must come. 
 
 " Put up your hands! " Beck gasped, jabbing a gun into 
 Hilton's stomach and springing behind the Easterner's body, 
 screening himself. 
 
 Crouched there, peering over the other's shoulder, one gun 
 against Hilton's trembling body, the other thrust past it to 
 cover the doorway, he paused. He heard quick, unsteady 
 footsteps, an oath, a hurried word and then the man before 
 him cried huskily: 
 
 " For God's sake don't shoot, boys ! You'll get me ! " 
 
 After that there passed a moment in which Hilton's breath 
 made the only sound that came to Beck's ears. 
 
 " I'm going to back up to my horse," he said lowly, 
 " you follow me." 
 
 It was unnecessary to add a threat. Enough threat in the 
 situation ! 
 
 Slowly he began to back, feeling his way, shoving the 
 one gun harder against Hilton's body, keeping the other 
 ready for instant use should those who watched choose to 
 shoot down the Easterner to be at him. The roan snorted 
 softly in query and Beck spoke. But the animal, startled by 
 the shooting, unsatisfied that this huddle creeping toward 
 him was wholly friendly, backed off. Tom spoke again; 
 then ceased all movement, for from inside had come a mut- 
 tering and stealthy footsteps crossed the floor. A door at 
 the rear of the house creaked. One or several had gone 
 out to stalk him ! The others, he knew, waited within to 
 take first opportunity to kill that might be offered. 
 
 " Stand still ! " he said sharply to the horse and turned 
 his head ever so quickly to see the animal, head to him, 
 back slowly. 
 
 He moved backward faster for a few steps, shoving the 
 revolver harder into Hilton's body to assure his obedience, 
 but the horse only progressed as rapidly, snuffing loudly at 
 this performance which no horse could be expected to un- 
 derstand ! 
 
THE WARNING 165 
 
 They moved in a circle, swinging in toward the house. 
 Beck ever keeping Hilton as a direct screen. He stopped 
 and the horse stopped. He listened. He heard soft move- 
 ments within the house. He thought he heard a faint 
 rustling behind a far corner of the building but a cow, 
 bawling at the moment, obscured the faint sound. 
 
 Beck felt a cold damp standing out on his body. From 
 the darkness, from any direction, disaster might strike at 
 anv second ! 
 
 He began to talk to the horse soothingly, moving toward 
 him slowly, but the roan would not understand. Once he 
 was within an arm's length of the bridle, but before he could 
 grasp it the animal had swung his head ever so slightly 
 and was moving off again, passing a corner of the house 
 from where that suggestion of a rustle had come. 
 
 And then, of a sudden, the horse leaped sideways, with a 
 startled grunt, as a horse will that comes upon a coiled 
 snake. He lunged toward Beck and Hilton, swinging about 
 on his hind feet, beginning to run for the gate, thoroughly 
 frightened and bent on escape from the thing that alarmed 
 him. 
 
 It was Beck's last chance ! As the horse leaped toward the 
 gate he sprang back a pace from Hilton, raised both guns 
 and fired, one at the window, one at the doorway. Glass 
 burst and tinkled and he heard the panel of the door again 
 sliver. As he opened fire the great roan swerved ; his hoofs 
 spurned the ground in the impatience of fright and Beck, 
 shooting again toward the house, turned and ran swiftly for 
 the fleeing horse. 
 
 Down in the shadows the thing which had frightened the 
 horse rose, stumbling into shape. Flame streamed from 
 Beck's guns toward it, but he shot as he ran and his lire was 
 inaccurate. He cried sharply as the animal swung even 
 wider in his circuit toward the gate, sprang forward in long 
 strides, dropped the gun from his right hand, leaped, fast- 
 ened his fingers about the horn, took two quick strides and 
 vaulted into the saddle. 
 
i66 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The animal leaped the half lowered bars and Beck fired 
 again, twice at the house, once at the figure outside, and 
 then flung himself far down over the roan's shoulder as the 
 window belched flame and stabs of it came from about the 
 building and bullets screeched overhead. He fanned the 
 roan's belly with his hat and twenty rods further swung 
 into an erect position again, leaning low as they ate the 
 road. 
 
 " A close one, old timer ! " he muttered to the horse. 
 " That was a chance ! " 
 
 And miles further on, when the roan had cooled from his 
 first desperate dash that had carried Tom to unquestionable 
 safety for the night, he said aloud : 
 
 " Now what was he doin' there? And how much will he 
 count?" 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 
 
 IX the days that followed you might have seen approach- 
 ing from a distance a rider for the H C. Watching, 
 you would have noticed that he stopped his horse, rode on, 
 stopped again, rode on and stopped the third time. Had you 
 not halted and repeated the performance he would not have 
 come toward you and, on coming within eyesight, you might 
 have seen him sitting with a hand on his holster, or rifle 
 scabbard — for the deadlier weapons appeared — carelessly 
 enough, outwardly, but latent with disaster. For war had 
 been declared. Jane Hunter's men were ready for trouble, 
 waiting for trouble, but it did not come at once for though 
 Hepburn and Webb and their following hated Tom Beck 
 for the man he was they respected him and gave heed to his 
 warning to stay away from H C property ... or at least 
 not to be seen thereabouts. 
 
 The war went on, but it was a silent, covert struggle, and 
 though Beck suspected happenings, he could not know all 
 that transpired. 
 
 For instance : 
 
 It was Webb who finally dropped the pliers and declared 
 the job finished, standing back to survey the stout cedars 
 which had been bound together with wire to form a gate for 
 one of the numerous little blind draws that stabbed back 
 into the parapet which surrounded Devil's Hole. In the 
 recesses of that draw was the smallest amount of seeping 
 water, enough, say, to keep young calves alive. From a 
 distance of a hundred yards this barricade of tough boughs 
 and steel strands would not be detected. 
 
 Again : 
 
 167 
 
i68 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 They came up from the mouth of the Hole after dusk had 
 fallen, Bobby Cole and her father, the old horses drawing 
 the wagon along the indistinct track which wound through 
 the sage. They were tired and silent and finally the girl's 
 head dropped to Cole's shoulder and she slept, with his 
 arm about her, holding her close, his Hds and mustache and 
 shoulders drooping. 
 
 The wagon halted, hours later, before the blocked draw 
 and, straddled upon their bodies, the girl liberated first one 
 calf, then another, until six had been shoved from the tail 
 gate into the hidden pen. Then they drove back toward 
 their cabin. 
 
 " Why don't I think it's wrong to steal ? " the girl asked 
 soberly. 
 
 Alf shook his head. " It ain't . . . for us. . . ." 
 
 " But I've read that it is," she protested, scowling into the 
 darkness. " I read it in a book, about a man that stole ; that 
 book said it was wrong. Why don't I think it's wrong?" 
 
 She turned her face to him and he looked down to see, 
 under the starlight, her mouth pathetically drooping, her 
 lips trembHng, and the big brown eyes filled with perplexed 
 tears. 
 
 " Why 'm I so different from other folks ? Maybe that's 
 why I never had no friends. . . ." 
 
 " It ain't wrong for you to steal from her," he said de- 
 fensively. 
 
 The girl looked ahead again. 
 
 " No, it can't be. I hate her ... I like to steal from 
 her. But why ain't it wrong for me if it's wrong for any- 
 body else ? " 
 
 " I've alius told you it was the thing to do. Ain't that 
 enough ? " he asked wearily. . . . 
 
 "Did you see him this mornin'?" — as if to change the 
 subject. 
 
 Bobby nodded her head. 
 
 " He was down. He hurt his hand ; got it shut under 
 Webb's window. He ... He stayed a long time." 
 
HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 169 
 
 Pier voice was quite changed ; rather soft and reverent. 
 " I'm glad he did. When he's there I feel like I ain't so 
 different . . . not so awful different from other folks. . . ." 
 
 Alf did not reply. The wagon chucked heavily on, the 
 brush scratched the wagon bed, the horses plodded listlessly. 
 Dawn came. ... 
 
 Another thing : 
 
 Far out to the north and west of the Gap in Devil's Hole 
 was a natural reservoir, Cathedral Tank. Winter floods 
 were stored there and long after surrounding miles of 
 quickly growing grasses had become useless as range be- 
 cause of the lack of drink, this tank afforded water for 
 the H C cattle. Late in the Spring, of course, it became 
 scum covered and fetid but until the caked silt commenced 
 to show on the boulder basin the cattle would cling there, 
 saving higher range for later use. Then, in other years, 
 they would drift up toward the Hole, graze through the 
 Gap and water in the creek until the round-up caught and 
 carried them into still higher country. 
 
 This spring the desert tank was of far greater importance 
 than ever before. The Hole was closed to the H C unless 
 rain fell, and the days were uniformly clear, so it was wis- 
 dom to delay the round-up until the tank was emptied, then 
 shove the cattle straight past the mouth of the Hole and 
 start them up country from the lower waters of Coyote 
 Creek. Beck rode to the tank himself and arranged his 
 plans in accordance with the water he found. 
 
 But after Beck had been there another horseman made 
 the ride, leaving the timber at dusk, shacking along across 
 the waste country in a straight line for the tank. Cattle, 
 bedded for the night about the water hole, stirred themselves 
 as he approached and dismounted, then stood nearby and 
 watched a strange proceeding. The man found a crevice 
 in the rock basin, scraped deeply into it with a clasp knife. 
 Then he wedged in five sticks of dynamite with stones and, 
 finally, rolled boulders over them. 
 
lyo THE LAST STRAW 
 
 He led his horse far back after the fuse had been spit, but 
 even where he stood, outside the circle of steers, rock fell. 
 After the explosion had died into the night he pulled at his 
 mustache and regained his saddle rather deliberately, chuck- 
 ling to himself. 
 
 The fact that a steer with a broken leg was bawling loudly 
 and that another, its life torn out of its side, moaned softly 
 in helplessness, did not im^^ress him. He rode back as he 
 had come. 
 
 There was little time for love making in the life of the H C 
 foreman. More riders were necessar}^ for the round-up 
 and he was particular about the men he hired. The country 
 had taken sides : rather, it was either openly behind Beck 
 in his handicapped fight, though skeptical of his chances for 
 winning or openly forecasting failure for him and Jane 
 Hunter; and of the latter Tom had his doubts. Many of 
 them were not neutral, he knew. 
 
 But he wias with Jane when he could be although, since 
 he had declared himself to Webb and Hepburn, he did not 
 permit her to ride far from the ranch, even when with escort. 
 He wanted her witness to no tragedy, and tragedy impended. 
 
 Of the motives of Webb, Hepburn, Cole and their follow- 
 ing he had no doubts but there was one whose reasons were 
 a mystery to him. He studied this long hours, when at 
 work, when lying sleepless on his bunk and even when with 
 Jane Hunter. Hilton was at Webb's and that was enough 
 to brand him . . . but how deeply? He hesitated to enlist 
 her aid in the solution but when he had spent days puzzling 
 to no result he said to her : 
 
 " Nothing about what you have been matters with me, 
 but there's one thing I want to ask you." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 He eyed her a speculative moment -as they sat beside 
 her desk, the yellow light on her yellow hair. 
 
 " What was this Hilton to you? " 
 
HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 171 
 
 She colored and dropped her gaze from his, picking at 
 a book in her lap. 
 
 " That belongs to the past," she said, " and you've just 
 said that the past doesn't matter. I had hoped you never 
 would want to know because it touches a spot that isn't 
 healed yet. . . . 
 
 " There was a time," lifting her eyes to his, " when I 
 had made up my mind to marry Dick Hilton." 
 
 He sat very quietly and his expression did not change. 
 
 " That would have been too bad, Jane," he said after a 
 moment. 
 
 She nodded slowly in affirmation. 
 
 '* Td rather he wasn't in the country just now," he went 
 on. " You wouldn't mind, would you, if I drove him out? " 
 
 She said quickly : 
 
 " You trust me, don't you? " 
 
 He smiled gently and looked at her with a light in 
 his eyes that was almost humble. 
 
 " I've trusted you with my love. I want to do things for 
 you. I'd like to drive this man out of your way." 
 
 He was reluctant to give his real reason because, by do- 
 ing so, he would necessarily make her aware of the strength 
 of the menace of which Hilton, he felt but could not prove, 
 was a part. He still wanted to shield her from full realiza- 
 tion of the force aligned against her. 
 
 She leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands folded. 
 
 " I wish he would go away, but I wouldn't want to see him 
 driven. You see, there are things about me which you will 
 never understand. Dick Hilton, for a man, was not far 
 different from what I used to be, as a woman. Our im- 
 pulses were quite similar. Since I feel that I have estab- 
 lished my right to exist by trying to do something, to be 
 somebody to . . . walk alone, I've come to an appreciation 
 of the thing that I used to be, and I pity the old Jane Hunter 
 and all her kind. In spite of all that he has been, I pity 
 Dick Hilton, Tom, and in that very fact I see an indication 
 of strength of which I'm proud. . . . 
 
172 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " You see, I like to think about myself now ; that didn't 
 used to be true. 
 
 " Last year I would have been deeply resentful toward 
 Dick for what he has done, but now, after my natural anger 
 has gone, I can only be sorry for him. That, I feel, is true 
 strength. 
 
 " I am not bitter. I don't wish him harm. His environ- 
 ment is to blame for what he is and perhaps this country, 
 the people he comes in contact with here, will do for him 
 what they have done for me." Beck thought that this was 
 an unconscious absurdity ! " I begrudge him nothing. I 
 only wish that he might come to see life as I have come to 
 see it. 
 
 *' If he could only see himself as he is! Why, he is in- 
 telligent, he has a good mind, he has been generous and 
 kindly, and if he could only get set straight in his outlook 
 I feel that I could call him my friend. 
 
 " Do you understand that?" 
 
 He shook his head, driving back the perplexity he felt. 
 
 '' No, I don't understand that. . . . There's lots of things 
 I'll never quite understand about you, I expect. That's one 
 thing that made me love you ; you interest me. 
 
 I just thought maybe you'd like him out of the country." 
 I can never be a dog in the manger," she replied. 
 What is good about this life I would share with my worst 
 enemy, and gladly, because at one time I was my own w^orst 
 enemy." 
 
 " You . . . you don't think you'd ever w^ant to see him 
 again, Jane?" With that evidence of natural jealousy was 
 a gentle reproach, a woe-begone expression which, being 
 so groundless in fact, set Jane Hunter laughing. 
 
 *' Silly ! " she cried, throwing her arms about him. 
 
 " Look at me and read the answer ! " 
 
 Beck laughed at himself then. 
 
 *' Who wouldn't want yoit all to himself ! " he whispered. 
 '' And who wouldn't believe in you ! " 
 
 
HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 17a 
 
 'Beck stood a long time under the stars that night, the feel 
 of her Hps still on his, but an uncomfortable doubt in his 
 heart. He was tolerant, as mountain men are tolerant, but 
 he had been bred in a hard school ; he had learned to weigh 
 men and to discard those who were found wanting. He was 
 not vindictive, but he took no chances. Placing his trust 
 in those who had showed repeatedly that they were unworthy 
 of trust was taking a chance and though Jane Hunter had 
 done her best to make her reasoning carry, he could not 
 comprehend. 
 
 Finally he said : " This ain't any compliment to her, 
 wonderin' like this. It's her way and she sure's got a right 
 to it ! " 
 
 But he went to sleep unsatisfied. 
 
 Out at Cathedral Tank that night the cattle stood snuffing 
 rather wonderingly. Two days before there had been water 
 which reached their knees at the deepest place ; today there 
 was none. It had trickled through the scars the blast had 
 torn in the basin. The bellies of some were a bit shrunken 
 from lack of it and bodies of the steers that had been killed 
 were bloated. One, even, had already furnished food to a 
 coyote and a pair of vultures. 
 
 Three or four licked the last of the damp silt and then 
 turned eastward and began the slow trek back toward Devil's 
 Hole, where at this season they had gone since they had 
 been calves. 
 
 The Reverend saw this scattered stringing of cattle and 
 reported it to Beck. Tom looked up from the wheel of the 
 chuck wagon which he was repairing and considered. 
 
 " They're early," he muttered. '' I hadn't figured they'd 
 leave before the end of the week. . . . That's bad. . . ." 
 
 The next morning he and Two-Bits, the latter riding his 
 beloved Nigger, with an extra horse carrying the tee-pee, 
 bed and grub, clattered down the trail into the Hole and 
 made through the brush for the Gap. They skirted the Cole 
 
174 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 ranch, eyeing the Mexicans who were at work clearing sage 
 brush, and a mile further on halted their horses . . . rode 
 forward, halted again, rode forward . . . stopped. 
 
 "It's McKee," Two-Bits said. "That's Webb's gray 
 horse." 
 
 The other rider came on and they rode forward again. 
 Beck's holster hitched a bit forward, thumb locked in his 
 belt. 
 
 Two-Bits had been right and when McKee recognized 
 them he averted his face as though he would ride past with- 
 out speaking. But this was not to be for Beck stopped di- 
 rectly in his way and said : 
 
 " Sam, if it was anybody else I'd been shootin' long ago. 
 I ain't got the heart to kill you. You recollect, don't you, 
 what I told you and your crowd about driftin' into our terri- 
 tory?" 
 
 " This ain't your range," McKee grumbled. " This is 
 Cole's." 
 
 His gray eyes met Beck's just once and fell of?, showing 
 helpless hate in their depths, the hate of the man who would 
 give battle but who dares not, who is outraged by forces 
 from without and by his own weakness. 
 
 " No need to argue," Beck replied, tolerance replaced by 
 a snap in his tone. " You drag it for your own range, Mc- 
 Kee, and don't you stop to look back." 
 
 Two-Bits was delighted at the hot flush which swept into 
 the other's face. He loathed McKee and to see him under 
 the dominion of a strong man like Beck appealed to him as 
 immensely funny. 
 
 " An' if my brother was here he'd tell you about a woman 
 that looked back an' turned to salt," he said. " But if you 
 turn an' look back I'll bet two-bits you turn to somethin' 
 worse ! " 
 
 The other flashed one look at him, a look of long-standing 
 hate, devoid of a measure of the fear which he evidenced for 
 Beck. He rode on without a word and Two-Bits laughed 
 aloud. McKee did not even look back. 
 
HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 175 
 
 At the Gap there was water, just enough for a man and 
 his horses for a few days. The seep had stopped and the 
 water was not fresh. 
 
 " I guess it'll do, though," Beck said. " It's mighty im- 
 portant we keep this stock out of the Hole, Two-Bits. 
 That's why I brought a trustworthy man. 
 
 " Lord, they're stringin' up fast," — staring out on the 
 desert where the steers slowly ate their way to the mouth 
 of the Hole. '' Funny they're out of water so soon. If 
 they get up in here," — gesturing back through the Gap, — 
 "there may be hell to pay." 
 
 He helped Two-Bits pitch his tee-pee and rode away. 
 
 Throughout that day the homely cow-boy met the drifting 
 steers and turned them eastward, past the Hole toward the 
 lower waters of Coyote Creek. They were reluctant to go 
 for they knew that beyond the Gap lay water but Two-Bits 
 slapped his chaps with rein ends and whooped and chased 
 them until the van of the procession moved on in the desired 
 direction. 
 
 He was up late at night and awoke early in the morning, 
 riding up the Gap to turn back those that had stolen past 
 in the night, then stationing himself in the shade of the 
 parapet to await the others that came in increasing numbers. 
 
 Two-Bits did not see the gray horse picking its way along 
 the heights above him. The gray's rider saw to it that he 
 was not exposed. Nor could he know that the animal was 
 picketed and that a man crawled over the rocks on his belly, 
 shoving a rifle before him until, from a point that screened 
 him well, he could look down into the Gap. 
 
 Steers strolled up and eyed the sentinel, lifting their noses 
 to snuff, flinging heads about now and then to dislodge flies 
 that their flicking tails could not reach. He would ride out 
 toward them, shoving them down around the shoulder of 
 the point toward the east, then return to head off others 
 that took advantage of his absence to make a steal for the 
 Gap. 
 
 As he worked, he sang: 
 
176 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Ho, I'm a jolly cozvhoy, from Texas now I hail! 
 
 Give me my quirt and po-o-ony, Vm ready for the trail; 
 I love the rolling prairies, they're free from care an' strife! 
 Behind a herd of longhovns I'll journey all my life!'' 
 
 His voice was unmusical, unlovely, but he sang with fer- 
 vor, sang as conscientiously as he worked. 
 
 As he came and went the man above watched him, his 
 gray eyes squinting in the glare of light, following now and 
 then the barrel of the rifle, bringing the ivory sight to bear 
 on the man's back, caressing the trigger with his finger. A 
 dozen times he stiffened and held his breath and the finger 
 twitched; and each time his body relaxed quickly and he 
 cursed softly, rolling over on his side, impatient at his inde- 
 cision. 
 
 A continued flush was on his -cheeks and the light in his 
 eyes was baleful, resolved, yet the lines of his mouth were 
 w^eak and indecisive. Once, when Two-Bits' raucous voice 
 reached him, he muttered aloud and stiffened again and 
 squeezed the stock with his trigger hand . . . then went 
 limp. 
 
 Noon came and shadows commenced to spill into the gap 
 from the westward. The steers that drifted up from the far 
 reaches of wash-ribbed desert came faster, were more in- 
 tent, more reluctant to be driven back. Two-Bits changed 
 to his Nigger horse and drank from the water hole and rode 
 yipping toward a big roan steer that advanced determinedly. 
 The animal doubled and dodged but, shoulder, against its 
 rump, nipping viciously at the critter's back. Nigger aided 
 his rider to success ; then swung back. 
 
 Two-Bits' voice floated up as he stroked his horse's neck : 
 
 i< 
 
 Oh, I'm a Texas cowboy, lightheated, brave an' free, 
 To roam the wide prairie is always joy to me. 
 
 My trusty little po-o-ony is my companion true 
 
 O'er creeks an' hills an' rivers he's sure to pull me 
 through ! " 
 
HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 177 
 
 From above a dull spat. In Two-Bits' ears an abrupt 
 crunching as he was knocked forward and down and a dull, 
 rending pain spread across his shoulders. He struck the 
 ground with his face first and instinctively his hand started 
 back toward his holster. The first movement was a whip, 
 then became jerky, faltering, and when the fingers found 
 the handle of his revolver they fumbled and could not close. 
 He half raised himself on the other elbow, dragging his 
 knees beneath his body slowly. 
 
 His mouth was filled with sand. His eyes were . . . 
 He did not know what ailed them, but he could not see. 
 He felt dizzy and sick. He hitched himself upward another 
 degree, striving to close those fingers on his revolver butt. 
 It was a Herculean task, but the only necessary action that 
 his grogg}^ mind could recall. He gritted the sand between 
 his teeth in the effort. He would draw ! He would fight 
 back! He wasn't gone . . . yet . . . wasn't . . . 
 
 And then he collapsed, limp and flat on the ground, as an 
 inert body will lie. 
 
 The fingers twitched convulsively ; then were still. A 
 stain seeped through his vest, dark in the sun. The breath 
 slipped through his teeth slowly. The horse stood looking 
 at him, nose low; then stepped closer and snuffed gently; 
 looked rather resentfully at a steer trailing through the Gap 
 unheeded, then snuffed again. . . . 
 
 Up above a man vi^s crawling back across the hot rocks 
 to where a gray horse waited in the sun. . . . 
 
 " I got him," he muttered feverishly as he covered the last 
 distance at a run. " Now, by God, I'll get — ..." 
 
 Nigger stood there, switching at the flies which alighted 
 on him. From time to time he snuffed and stamped; occa- 
 sionally he peered far up the Hole or out onto the desert 
 almost hopefully, watching distant objects with erect ears; 
 then the ears would droop quickly and he would chew his bit 
 and look back at his master with helpless eyes. 
 
 Cattle strayed back from the east where Two-Bits had 
 sent them and entered the Hole, those which had once been 
 
178 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 driven away passing the prone figure and the watching horse 
 on a trot, others with their noses in the air smelHng water, 
 heedless of else. 
 
 The shadows crept closer and deeper about Two-Bits. 
 Overhead a buzzard wheeled, banking sharply, coming down 
 lazily, then flapped upward and on. It was not yet his time ! 
 
 The horse dozed fitfully, one hip slumped, waking now 
 and then with a jerk, pricking his ears at the quiet figure as 
 though he detected movement ; then letting them droop again 
 rather forlornly. Once he walked completely about his 
 master, slowly, reins trailing and then stopped to nose the 
 body gently as if to say : 
 
 " What is this, my friend ? I'm only a horse and I don't 
 understand; if I knew how to help you I would. Won't 
 you tell me what to do? I'm waiting here just for that; to 
 help you. But I'm only a horse . . /' 
 
 He plucked grass aimlessly and returned to stand above 
 the man's body chewing abstractedly, stopping and holding 
 his breath while he gazed down at the inanimate lump ; then 
 chewing again. Once he sighed deeply and the saddle 
 creaked from the strain his inhalation put on the cinch. 
 
 For hours there had been no movement. Night stole 
 down from the east, shrouding the desert in purple, softening 
 the harsh distances, making them seem gentle and easy. 
 Then from the still man came a sound, like a sigh that was 
 choked off, and the hand which, hours before had groped 
 haltingly for the revolver, stirred ever so slightly. 
 
 Nigger's ears went forward. He stepped gingerly about 
 the body, keeping his fore feet close to it, swinging his hind 
 parts in a big circle. He nickered softly, almost entreat- 
 ingly, as if begging his master to speak, to make more move- 
 ment; he nuzzled the body rather roughly, then stamped in 
 impatience . . . sighed again and slumped a hip, chewing 
 on his bit. . . . 
 
 Two-Bits was wet with dew when daylight came, but he 
 had not stirred. The sun peered into the Gap and the drops 
 of moisture, blinking back a brief interval, seemed to draw 
 
HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 179 
 
 into his clothing and skin ; the rays Hcked up the damp that 
 had gathered in the hoof prints about the figure. 
 
 Nigger lifted his head high and whinnered shrilly at 
 nothing at all. This was another day ; there might be hope ! 
 
 The flies came and lighted on the crusted stain on the vest 
 and crawled down inside the shirt . . . and after an aeon 
 a sharp, white wire of consciousness commenced to glow in 
 Two-Bits' blank mind. The one hand — the gun hand — 
 twitched again and the fingers, puffed from their cramped 
 position, stretched stiffly, resuming their struggle for the 
 gun where it had left off yesterday. 
 
 One foot moved a trifle and a muffled cough sent a small 
 spurt of dust from beneath the face pressed into it. Slowly 
 the gun hand gave up its search and was still, gathering 
 strength. The arm drew up along the man's side, the hand 
 reached his face. Elbows pressed into the ground and with 
 a moan Two-Bits tried to lift his body . . . tried and failed 
 and sank back, with his face turned away from the dirt. 
 
 Nigger blew loudly and shook his whole body and stared. 
 The other horse came up and stared, too ; then moved to- 
 ward the water hole, the precious water, and drank deeply. 
 Nigger watched him as though he, too, would drink. But 
 he did not go ; remained there, with the reins dangling among 
 the flies. Now and then his nostrils twitched and fluttered ; 
 his ears quirked in constant query. 
 
 Noon, and another effort to rise. A muttered word this 
 time and a squinting of the eyes that was not wholly witless. 
 
 Two-Bits shifted his position. He could see his tee-pee, 
 his black kettle on the ashes, his water bucket . . . his 
 bucket . . . water bucket . . . water. . . . He worked his 
 lips heavily. They were burned and cracked and his mouth 
 was an insensate orifice. . . 
 
 After a time he commenced to crawl, moving an inch at a 
 time, settling back, moaning. The crusted stain on his vest 
 took on fresh life and the flies buzzed angrily when disturbed. 
 His arms were of little use and he progressed by slow undu- 
 lations of his limbs. Once he found a crack between two 
 
i8o THE LAST STRAW 
 
 rocks wiith a toe and shoved himself forward a foot. 
 
 " Damn . . ." he muttered in feeble triumph. 
 
 A fevered glow came into his eyes. His breath quickened 
 under the effort. He moaned more ; rested less. 
 
 And behind, beside or before him went the excited Nigger. 
 He muttered softly, as in encouragement, doing his best to 
 put his hope into sounds. His heavy mane and forelock 
 fell about his eyes, giving him a disheveled appearance, but 
 he seemed to be trying to say : 
 
 " You're alive ; you're alive ! You raw move after all ; 
 you can move ! Let me help ! Oh, pardner, let me help 
 you ! " 
 
 The horse pawed the earth desperately, sending stones and 
 dirt scattering, dust drifting. 
 
 " Keep on ! " he seemed to say. " Keep it up ! I'm here ; 
 we'll get there somehow ! " 
 
 Two-Bits gained shadows. The water was less than a 
 hundred feet away. He moved his head from side to side 
 in an agony of effort and threw one hand clumsily before 
 him. It touched sage brush and after moments of struggle 
 he clamped his fingers about the stalk and dragged himself 
 on, gritting his teeth against the pain. He reached a little 
 wash and tried to rise to his feet. He could not. He floun- 
 dered in effort and rolled into it, crying lowly as his torso 
 doubled limply and he sprawled on his back. 
 
 Nigger stood at the edge, snuffing, peering down. He 
 kicked at a fly irritably and stepped down into the wash 
 himself, nickering in tender query. 
 
 It took a long time for Two-Bits to roll over. He cried 
 hoarsely from the hurt of the effort and the fevered light 
 in his eyes mounted. His mouth was no longer without 
 sensation. It and his throat stung and smarted. Their 
 hurt was worse than the weight of suffering on his shoulders. 
 ... He wanted water as only a man whose life is in the 
 balance can want water ! 
 
 S-omehow he crawled out of the wash. It was fifty feet 
 to the hole now. ... He cut it to twenty and lay gasping, 
 
HIS FAITHFUL LITTLE PONY 181 
 
 trembling, burning, Nigger close beside him, first on one 
 side, then the other, sometimes at his feet. Never, though, 
 standing motionless in his path. . . . 
 
 It was ten feet. . . . Then five. Lifting eye lids was a 
 world of effort in itself. His mouth was open, breath suck- 
 ing in the dust, but he could not close it. He made a hand's 
 breadth and stopped. His limbs twitched spasmodically and 
 drew up. He made a straining, strangling sound, gathering 
 all the life that remained in his body. He rose on his elbows 
 and on one knee. He swayed forward, he scrambled drunk- 
 enly. He patched down and as he w^ent he made one last, 
 awkward attempt to push his own weight along. Then fell 
 . . . short. 
 
 The right hand half propped his body up. It slid slowly 
 forward, impelled by the weight upon it alone, shoving light 
 sand in its way. . . . Then went limp and extended. 
 
 The tip of his second finger just dented the surface of the 
 water in the pool ! 
 
 The horse switched his tail slowly, as if disconsolate at 
 a waning hope. 
 
 " Hang it all," he might have thought. " Here I thought 
 you were going to make it and you can't! I zifish 1 knew 
 how to help ! " 
 
 He sighed again, this time as if in despair. He waited 
 a long time before drinking himself 'as if hoping that his 
 master would move. But the body was motionless . . . 
 utterly. The shallow, quick come and go of breath was not 
 in evidence. Two-Bits had done all that he could do for 
 himself. . . . 
 
 Nigger moved to the lip of rock which held the water 
 against the cliff. He snuffed, as if to tantalize himself and 
 then plunged his nose into the place, guzzling greedily. 
 Great gulps ran down his long throat, little shoots of water 
 left his lips beside the bit and fell back. He breathed and 
 drank and made great sounds in satisfying his thirst. He 
 lifted his head and caught his breath and let it slip out in 
 a sigh of satisfaction . . . drank again. 
 
i82 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Finally he was through and stepped back, holding his lips 
 close, as horses will whose mouth contains one more swallow. 
 Then he stared at Two-Bits and moved close to him and 
 chewed instinctively on the bit, letting the water that he did 
 not need spill from his mouth. ... 
 
 It fell squarely on the back of the man's neck, spattering 
 on his hair, running down under his shirt, driving out the 
 flies. . . . 
 
 Two-Bits swam back again. A strength, a pleasing chill 
 ran through him. He moved the one arm and the fingers 
 slid on into the water. With a choking cry he wriggled for- 
 ward and thrust his face into the pool. . . . After a long 
 time he drew back and let his fevered forehead soak, breath- 
 ing more easily through his mouth. 
 
 It was nearly sunset when he rolled over, slowly, pain- 
 fully, weakly, but not as a man on the edge of death. He 
 looked up at Nigger standing beside him, nose fluttering 
 encouragement. Just above him , stirrup swung to and fro 
 in a short arc, 
 
 " After a while ... a week or so, I can . . . get hold 
 of that . . . mebby," the man said huskily. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AN INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL 
 
 THE love that grew In the hearts of Tom Beck and 
 Jane Hunter was not the only suit which approached 
 a climax in the hills. Another existed, quite different, un- 
 known to them, unsuspected, even, but it was not a secret 
 to one who rode from the H C ranch. 
 
 This was the Reverend Azariah Beal. He stayed on, 
 though assuring Beck that the call might come any hour 
 which would send him on his way. He was sent on many 
 errands of importance, because Beck had come to believe that 
 he could trust the clergyman as he could trust no other man 
 and it was this riding which gave Beal his knowledge of 
 that other love making. 
 
 Day after day he saw Dick Hilton in Devil's Hole. He 
 saw him joined by another rider, by Bobby Cole, and knew 
 that the Easterner spent many days at the ranch house down 
 there in the deep valley. 
 
 Hilton treated the girl as she never had been treated be- 
 fore. He told her tales of cities and men and women that 
 held her breathless and he wooed her with an artfulness 
 which kept her unaware of love making. When with him, 
 as when with her father, that ready defiance, her expectation 
 of trouble, became reduced to a wistfulness, an eager inquiry 
 which left her, not the self-sufficient bundle of passionate 
 strength, but a simple mountain child. 
 
 He would ride beside her or sit at night by the fire in her 
 father's cabin and talk for hours, giving of his experience 
 well, for he was a glib talker. He asked nothing in return 
 . . . openly, but while he talked his eyes were on her eyes, 
 
 183 
 
i84 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 prodding their depths, on her red mouth, hungering, on her 
 wonderful throat, fired by desire. He bided his time, for his 
 was a choice prize. 
 
 Now and then she talked to him of Jane Hunter and 
 though her allusions were scornful and her face assumed that 
 hostility, he knew that 'this only resulted from her envy, the 
 curiosity which she would not let come into being. He 
 played upon this, dropping hints of the reason for his com- 
 ing west, lying insinuations of his relationships with the 
 mistress of the big ranch, each hint a fertile seed planted in 
 the rich soil of her imagination. 
 
 One afternoon they dismounted in a clump of willows 
 where early in the season and in wet summers a spring 
 bubbled under a rim rock. Now it was dry, almost dust- 
 dry in places, and the girl sat on the grass while Hilton 
 stretched at her feet, smoking idly. 
 
 He talked to her for long and when he paused she said, 
 looking far away: 
 
 " I'd like to see somethin' else besides this. I'd like to 
 have some of the chances other gals have. I'd give anything 
 for a chance to be somebody ! " 
 
 He threw away his cigarette. 
 
 " I'd give anything to give you a chance, Bobby," he said. 
 
 " Yes, but you can't ! " she laughed hopelessly. " You're 
 a gentleman and I . . . Why, I'm just the daughter of a 
 nester." 
 
 " And maybe that very combination of circumstances gives 
 me my chance to give you yours. 
 
 " I should like very much to take you east, Bobby." 
 
 "Yes, but there's Alf. I couldn't leave him,"-— shaking 
 her head, still innocent of his intent. 
 
 Hilton was not unprepared. 
 
 " But if he had a comfortable ranch, with good buildings 
 and plenty of stock, and could come to visit you at times ? " 
 
 " But he ain't got any of them an* besides — 
 
 " You don't mean for me to stay! " she said suddenly, eyes 
 incredulous. 
 
AN INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL 185 
 
 " To stay, Bobby. To stay with me, forever and ever." 
 
 She started to laugh but checked herself and leaned 
 suddenly toward him, her lips parted. He lifted himself 
 to an elbow and reached out for her hand. 
 
 "Don't you understand, dear girl? Don't you see that 
 I love you ? " 
 
 She withdrew her hand from his clasp and looked away, 
 brows drawn toward one another a trifle. He watched her 
 craftily, timing his urging to her realization. 
 
 " Don't you see that I came west, guided by something 
 bigger than my own reason, directed by something that 
 regulates the loves of men to bring them to a good end? " 
 
 She looked back at him and shook her head slowlv. 
 
 *' I never thought I'd be loved. I never thought you 
 cared for me that-a way." 
 
 " Bless you ! That night when I went walking into your 
 cabin and you met me with a rifle ready I knew I would 
 love you and that you would love me. It's one of the things 
 neither of us can explain, but I was sure of it, sure of it. 
 Didn't you guess? Didn't you feel it deep down in your 
 heart ? " 
 
 " No, never. Nothin' good had ever happened to me. I 
 didn't calculate anything good ever would happen. The 
 only bein' I ever thought I'd love was Alf and I'd go 
 through fire for him. . . . 
 
 ''But this . . . it's different. It ain't like that. This 
 is somethin' ... I don't know ..." 
 
 She rose and pressed her hands to her breast as though 
 some bursting emotion hurt her. Hilton stood before her, 
 his breath a trifle quick, lips parted greedily. His particu- 
 lar hour, he felt, had struck ! 
 
 *' One of the reasons that has made me love you has been 
 your devotion to your father. Another was your distrust. 
 You never did trust me at first. I felt that you were keeping 
 me off, holding yourself away from me, Bobby. I wanted 
 to tell you all this long ago," — which was the truth — '* but 
 I wanted you to be sure of yourself ; I wanted you to recog- 
 
i86 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 nize love and know that this thing between us is the lasting 
 sort " — which was a lie. 
 
 " The lasting kind ? " she queried. " You love me ? For 
 good ? Honest ? " 
 
 " Honest ! " he promised, taking both her hands. " I love 
 you with all the love a man can give a woman ! I love you 
 enough to devote my whole life to making you happy. I 
 have money. We can go where we please, do what we 
 please. You will have friends and respect. You can see 
 cities and the ocean. You can live in grand hotels and eat 
 wonderful food that someone else has cooked ; you can hear 
 music and go to theaters ; you will have flowers and auto- 
 mobiles ; you'll see California and Florida and Europe. . . .'' 
 
 " And because you love ? " she demanded as he put his 
 arms about her. " It's because you love me, ain't it? If I 
 thought ... if I thought it was for anything else I'd kill 
 you." Her tone was even enough, her voice the soft, full 
 voice of a woman 'touched by love, but beneath its velvet was 
 a matter-of-fact certainty that caused the faintest tremor to 
 run through his limbs. 
 
 They looked into one another's eyes, felt each other's 
 breath upon their cheeks, the one consumed by passion, the 
 other swept upward into a new world, a new, incredible life, 
 as a beautiful hope touched her heart. They did not see 
 their horses standing with intent ears and, as they were 
 up wind they did not hear the slight sounds of another 
 approaching. 
 
 *' Because I love you, Bobby! Will )^ou come? " 
 
 '' And I'll be your wife and you won't be ashamed of me 
 . . . ever? " 
 
 '' Never ! " — in a tone that was too firm for conviction. 
 
 "An' Alf'U come to see us whenever he wants to?" 
 
 '' Whenever he wants to. I>on't you believe me ? Why 
 question?" — hurriedly. "Say you love me, now, today, 
 this hour," — straining her to him. " Say it to me, Bobby ; 
 say that you love me as I love you ! " 
 
 His eyes burned into hers and he closed his lips to press 
 
AN INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL 187 
 
 them on hers, to touch the woman of her into being, to ac- 
 complish the end he sought. 
 
 " Oh, Mister Hihon, I — " 
 
 Her voice had the quality of a sob and he waited for her 
 to go on before he sealed his tricky pact with a kiss, but as 
 she choked a crashing of the brush shocked him into a 
 realization of the outside world and a resounding voice 
 cried : 
 
 " One moment ! Just one moment ! " 
 
 The Reverend Azariah Beal advanced toward them 
 through the willows. 
 
 Bobby whirled to face him and Hilton, with an oath, re- 
 leased her. 
 
 For a moment, portentous silence. The Reverend halted^ 
 plainly confused. Before Hilton's glare and the girl's 
 breathless fury his eyes wavered. He opened his lips to 
 speak and closed them helplessly. Then a queer glimmer 
 crossed his face, half hope, half smile. 
 
 He reached into his pocket, brought forth a fountain pen, 
 held it up and said: 
 
 *' One moment of your time to bring to your attention this 
 article, known from coast to coast, indispensable to any 
 man, woman or child, which we are introducing for the 
 purposes of further advertising at a trifling price, which — " 
 
 " Who the devil sent you here ? " demanded Hilton, ad- 
 
 vancmg. 
 
 The Reverend lowered his hand and blinked through his 
 spectacles, 
 
 " I do not recall that I came from that black deity," he re- 
 plied mildly. " My feet are directed from Above," — ges- 
 turing. " I have been called upon — " 
 
 *' Now you're called upon to get out. Understand ? Get 
 out ! " 
 
 " Brother, is it possible that you are not interested in this 
 article? Made of pure India rubber — " 
 
 ** You heard me ! Get out ! " cried Hilton. 
 
 For a moment the Reverend stood, as though undecided. 
 
i88 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " I Am sorry," he said, *' that I can not interest you. If 
 not today, then another time, perhaps ? A splendid gift for 
 a lady^ my friend, a — '' 
 
 " Nobody here wants to Hsten to you. Be on your way ! " 
 
 Sorrowfully the Reverend replaced the pen in his pocket, 
 rattling it against the remainder of his stock. As he turned 
 away he drew them all out and stood for some time beside 
 his horse, counting them carefully, muttering to himself. 
 He looked about his feet, retraced his steps to where he 
 had stood in his attempt to make a sale, scanning the ground. 
 
 '' Can it be," he asked absently, " that I have miscounted? " 
 
 He gave no heed to the two who watched him but it was 
 a matter of ten minutes before he was finally satisfied that 
 there had been no loss — or that nothing else would be lost 
 that day — and rode away. 
 
 By that time Hilton's ill temper was implacable and in 
 Bobby's face was a half frightened, bewildered look. She 
 turned to the Easterner with a questioning little gesture but 
 he did not respond. 
 
 " He spoiled it for a while, Bobby," he said. " Let's ride 
 back." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 CONCERNING SAM MC KEE 
 
 WEBB was building biscuits and Hepburn was slicing 
 a steak from the hind quarter of a carcass that a 
 few days before had been an H C steer. McKee entered 
 with an armful of wood. He dropped it into the box beside 
 the stove with a clatter and went out again. He was 
 whistling a doleful little tune, as a preoccupied man will 
 whistle. His gray eyes were peculiarly grim and when he 
 stopped whistling, his mouth set into determined lines. 
 
 " What's got into him? " Webb asked. 
 
 The other shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " He's changed in the last day or two. Wouldn't think 
 he was the same man," Webb went on. " Do you think 
 there's a chance . . ." 
 
 It was unnecessary to finish the question for there was 
 only one subject that these men discussed which called for 
 the cautious tone which Webb had adopted. Hepburn 
 chuckled scornfully. 
 
 " Hell, no ! " he said. " Sam's the last one to double- 
 cross us, 'specially when Beck's on th' other side. 
 
 " Somethin's got into him all right, but it ain't anything 
 to hurt us. He's changed." 
 
 " You know how he used to be. Dad, kind of a bully, al- 
 ways lookin' for trouble. Well, it wasn't that he was quar- 
 relsome like most mean men are. It was because he was 
 afraid to be any other way. That was what made him abuse 
 his horse that time ; the pony had put a crimp in Sam an' 
 th' only way Sam could work up his nerve to get aboard was 
 to work him over unmerciful. 
 
 " That give Beck his chance, an' he sure did comb poor 
 
 189 
 
190 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Sam! It took all th' starch out of him, but that wasn't th' 
 worst. It give everybody that didn't like him a chance to 
 rub it in, an' they sure done it ! Sam's been a standin' joke 
 ever since. They seem to look for chances to ride him. 
 Two-Bits ain't let him alone a minute when they was near 
 together. 
 
 " Sam used to swear he'd get both Two-Bits an' Beck, but 
 he won't. He ain't that kind, I guess. 'Beck knocked what 
 little sand he had left all out of him. 
 
 '' Somethin's changed him again, though . . ." 
 
 " You've rubbed it into him pretty strong yourself, Webb,'' 
 Hepburn reminded. 
 
 *' Different reason." Webb waxed philosophical. 
 " Wlien a man's enemies bother him it only drives him down ; 
 that is, a man like Sam. But when his friends ride him it's 
 likely to put a little color in his liver. That's why I keep 
 after him. I never did figure he'd try to get Beck in an 
 open fight, but I used to think he might do it some other 
 way. That's what I'd like to see him do ! " — darkly. 
 
 " Maybe he will. Somethin's changed him again, Webb. 
 I tell you he's been goin' around today like a man whose 
 done somethin' big! It's a sort of ... of confidence, you'd 
 call it." 
 
 *' Mebby Hilton's got under his skin. He don't like Sam 
 but he talks a lot to him about Beck, quiet-like, as if it 
 wasn't of much importance. Still, he keeps dingin' away 
 at it." 
 
 " Like -he does to us about things, eh? Always sort of 
 suggestin' until you go do somethin' that seems like a good 
 play an' then, after a while, wake up to realize that he was 
 the one w^ho started you on your way ! " 
 
 Hilton came in and the four — the other riders were on 
 the range — ate their meal and talked lowly of the war they 
 waged. That is, Hepburn and Webb talked. McKee lis- 
 tened; neither of the others bothered to address him or even 
 consciously include him as an auditor. . . . And Hilton lis- 
 tened and watched McKee, his eyes speculative. 
 
CONCERNING SAM McKEE 191 
 
 " vVith th' tank gone that cuts down just so much on their 
 range," Webb said, " an' it's plain they don't figure on usin' 
 the Hole or they'd let their stuff drift in there as they've 
 always done." 
 
 '' You don't want to be too sure that their stuff won't get 
 into the Hole," put in McKee with a nodding of his head. 
 
 " I s'pose they put a man in the Gap to go to sleep, did 
 they?" Webb returned. ** It was a good move on Beck's 
 part. I wish to hell they would get by and perish of thirst. 
 We'd keep 'em out of Cole's water, you bet ! Beck's too 
 wise to give us a chance, though." 
 
 ** Mebby he ain't so wise as he thinks," McKee insisted 
 in that queer, lofty manner. " He put a man there all right, 
 all right, but everybody ain't been asleep." 
 
 Hepburn started to say something to Webb but was ar- 
 rested by this. 
 
 " What you got in your head, Sam? " he asked, with more 
 intent than he had used in questioning McKee in months. 
 
 Sam felt himself assuming a sudden importance at this; 
 his manner of mystery aad confidence had caught their in- 
 terest and it was the first time he had so succeeded for long, 
 the first time he had really been an insider in the game they 
 played. It was gratifying to know facts which they did not 
 know ; he cherished this superiority, so he said : 
 
 '' Never you mind what's in Sam's head. You've been 
 figurin' I'm a helpless sort of waddie for a long tim.e but I 
 guess you'll think different when you find out some things 
 I know ! " 
 
 Hepburn urged again but McKee was no more respon- 
 sive so the older man put McKee's secretiveness down as 
 pique, concealing nothing of value, and went on with the 
 talk. 
 
 Later in the evening Webb said : 
 
 ** Sure you didn't leave anything by the tank that'd give 
 us away ? " 
 
 ** Think I'm simple minded? " Hepburn countered. 
 
 " It's a damn good thing not to be. That's th' first place 
 
192 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 they'll ride when th' round-up starts an' as soon as Beck 
 hears the Tank's gone he'll go over that place himself with 
 a fine tooth comb. If he could hang that on us it'd be all 
 he'd need." 
 
 " He can go over it with a microscope but he'll find 
 nothin' i " 
 
 " You sure he will ? " McKee asked, rather breathlessly, 
 his eyes lighted with a peculiar glow. 
 
 "Will what?" 
 
 " Go there to look it over? " 
 
 Hepburn snorted. 
 
 " That's one thing you can be sure about Beck : he watches 
 details an' don't let nothin' get away from him. He's al- 
 ways pryin' into things himself; he ain't satisfied to get his 
 information second hand. A thing like this, which has 
 meant a lot to them . . . why, he'll investigate it until he's 
 found somethin' or hell freezes ! " 
 
 McKee sat back, staring at the floor, his hands limp in his 
 lap. Still that strange light showed in his eyes and occa- 
 sionally his lips moved as though he rehearsed a declaration 
 to himself. . . . And Hilton, stretched on his bed, watched 
 McKee. 
 
 After a time Sam roused and rolled a cigarette with fin- 
 gers that were not just steady and sat smoking as he planned, 
 already triumphing in anticipation. His eyes changed, and 
 the lines of his face were remoulded . . . and Hilton 
 w^atched. 
 
 Late that evening McKee went out into the dooryard to 
 be alone with the memory of the one stroke he had made 
 and to continue his plans for the master blow he was to 
 make. But he was not alone. Hilton followed and spoke 
 quietly over his shoulder, saying: 
 
 " Yes, Sam, the chances are that he'll go to the tank 
 alone." 
 
 Whereupon the other started and whispered savagely: 
 
 " How'd you know I was thinkin' thatf ** 
 
CONCERNING SAM McKEE 193 
 
 Hilton laughed lowl}^ and put an arm across Sam's shoul- 
 ders and they walked at length in the darkness, talking, 
 talking. . . . The Easterner looked close into McKee's face 
 and flattei *d and suggested and encouraged. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 " WORK AMONG THE HEATHEN " 
 
 THE chuck wagon had gone, followed by the bed wagon 
 and the cavet, the last made up of one hundred and 
 forty saddle horses, stringing along the road, a solid column 
 of horse flesh. In a day the round-up would be on. Camp 
 was to be made first far down on Coyote Creek and the 
 country from Cathedral Tank eastward would first be ridden. 
 
 Outwardly the departure was not so different from others 
 of its sort. There were rifles on saddles, to be sure, but 
 there was banter and fun. Still, a spirit prevailed which 
 told that the men were not wholly concerned with the nor- 
 mal business of the range. There were other things, more 
 grim, more serious, than gathering steers and branding 
 calves. 
 
 H C hands were not the only ones who rode heavily 
 armed. There were others, skulking on high ridges, watch- 
 ing, waiting. The whole country knew they were there. 
 The eyes of the whole country were on the factions. The 
 ears of the country were strained to catch what sounds of 
 clash might rise. For the coming of that clash was sensed 
 as an impending crash of thunder will be sensed under cloud 
 banked skies. 
 
 " I'll be joinin' them tonight or in the morning," Beck 
 told Jane as the cavalcade disappeared down creek. " I'm 
 glad there are things to hold me here a few hours longer 
 because I'll be gone a long time an' I'm jealous of the days 
 I have to be away from you." 
 
 " You'll come to say good-bye ? " 
 
 " If I have to crawl to you ! " — as he gave her one of his 
 lingering kisses. " When I come back from the ride there's 
 
 194 
 
*'WORK AMONG THE HEATHEN" 195 
 
 something I'd like to talk over with you . . . which we ain't 
 mentioned yet.'' 
 
 '* I'll be waiting to talk it over, dear," she whispered, for 
 she understood. 
 
 Not long after Beck had ridden away the Reverend 
 stumped down from the corral to the big ranch house and 
 rapped on the door. Jane was at her desk and looked up in 
 surprise for it was the first time the elder Beal had ever 
 come to her alone. 
 
 " I come to ask for aid, ma'am, in what might be termed 
 work among the heathen, though, it is in a sense the task 
 of a home missionary." 
 
 Jane put down her pen and sat back in her chair, trying to 
 hide her amusement. 
 
 '' Yes, Reverend," in her crisp manner — " I'm interested." 
 
 He blinked and rattled pens in a side pocket of the rusty 
 coat. 
 
 " I trust that you will bear with me, ma'am, until I have 
 finished. I have been moved to speak to you for long but 
 have hesitated because it is difficult to present the matter 
 without intruding on privacies. 
 
 " An unholy love is being hidden in the solitudes of these 
 hills, a man who is at heart a serpent seeks to corrupt the 
 white soul of a child. You possess a knowledge of this 
 man which may hold the only hope of salvation for the 
 innocent." 
 
 A feeling of apprehension swept through the girl ; with it 
 was suspicion, for though her mind easily fastened on Dick 
 Hilton as the man referred to, she could connect him with 
 no other woman. 
 
 " I trust, ma'am, that you will be charitable in your esti- 
 mate of my works. It is no more possible for Azariah Beal 
 to go through life with his eyes closed and his powers of 
 deduction dormant than it is for the birds to refrain from 
 flight or the fishes from swimming. I try to do good as I 
 go my way. I realize that it is not in the orthodox man- 
 ner, that my methods are strange; but my work is among 
 
196 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 unusual people and the old ways of accomplishment will not 
 produce results any more than the old standards of morality 
 will fit the lives of my people. 
 
 " I observed this man, a stranger to the country, in town 
 on my arrival. When I reached here to tarry with my 
 brother until I am called to move I observed you, also a 
 stranger to the frontier. I observed other things which you 
 will not consider prying curiosity, I hope. There was a 
 connection, a logical connection, between you two strangers : 
 were it not for subsequent events this observation would 
 have remained in my heart. So far it has, but now I must 
 reveal it to you. 
 
 *' You are the only individual who stands between Dick 
 Hilton and the ruin of Bobby Cole ! " 
 
 He stopped talking and rattled his pens again. The ap- 
 prehension which had possessed Jane passed and she ex- 
 perienced a sharp abhorrence. 
 
 " You mean that he . . ." she began and let the question 
 trail ofif. 
 
 The Reverend nodded. 
 
 " Exactly. He has charmed her. He speaks with the 
 cunning of a serpent and she, under his influence, is as guile- 
 less as a quail. 
 
 " He cannot be driven off by threats because he is not that 
 sort. The girl cannot be convinced of his wicked purpose 
 because she trusts no man but him. H the afifair proceeds 
 she will pay the price of a broken heart because, in spirit, 
 she is pure gold. 
 
 " He might protest his sincerity to m,en of this country 
 and force them into belief, but with you it is different. 
 There is in every man, no matter how far he may have 
 fallen, a sense of shame. He can bury it deeply from those 
 who do not know him but to his own kind it is ever near the 
 surface. 
 
 *' I beg of you, ma'am, to join me in this holy cause and 
 dissuade him from his black purpose, if not by an appeal to 
 honor, then by an appeal to his shame." 
 
"WORK AMONG THE HEATHEN" ly; 
 
 Jane rose. 
 
 " You mean that he has been making . . . making love 
 to this girl ? And that you think I can save her ? " 
 
 *' It's the only way. She will not listen to men, she will 
 not listen to you because she considers you her enemy. He 
 may be so far sunk in sin that he will not heed the advice 
 of one he has known and respected and, excuse me, loved 
 . . . after his manner of loving." Jane flushed but he gave 
 no notice. " But unless I attempt to bring your influence 
 to bear upon him I will feel that I have not answered the 
 call to duty." 
 
 He blinked again and looked at her with an appeal that 
 wiped out any impression of charlatanry, of preposterous- 
 ness that she might have had ; he was wholly sincere. 
 
 " Why ... I don't know what I could say . . . what I 
 could do." 
 
 "Nor I. But you know Hilton; you know the girl; I 
 have made you familiar with the situation. I rely on your 
 resourcefulness. May I bring him to you?" 
 
 '' Why, he wouldn't come here ! " 
 
 The Reverend rattled his pens and said : 
 
 " I think I might persuade him. Have I, as your em- 
 ployee, your permission, I might say, your order, to bring 
 him here ? " 
 
 "Of course. If there is anything I can do. . . . Ugh ! " 
 She shuddered and pressed a wrist against her eyes. " It's 
 beastly ! Beastly ! " 
 
 The Reverend departed and throughout the day Jane 
 Hunter could think of little other than the situation which 
 he had outlined to her. Her wrath was roused, replacing 
 the disgust she had felt at first, and her heart went out to 
 Bobby Cole with a tenderness that only woman can know 
 for woman. 
 
 She tried to think ahead, to consider what she could say 
 or do, to speculate on what the results of this next meeting 
 with Dick Hilton might be. 
 
 Evening was well into dusk with the first stars pricking 
 
ti 
 
 198 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 through the failing daylight when two riders came through 
 the H C gate. Dick Hilton rode first and behind him, one 
 hand in a deep pocket of his frock coat, rode the Reverend. 
 
 " You can get down and open the gate," the Reverend 
 said and Hilton, sulkily obeying, led his horse through. 
 Now what ? " he asked in surly submission. 
 Now I'll finish my errand by escorting you to the owner 
 of this establishment." 
 
 Hilton led his horse across to the dooryard. The Rever- 
 end dismounted and the two walked down the cottonwoods 
 to the big veranda, the Easterner still in the lead, the other 
 with his hand in his side pocket. 
 
 Jane saw them ; she was at the door. 
 Good evening ! " said Hilton with bitterness. 
 In accordance with your orders, ma'am, I persuaded 
 this gentleman to call," said Beal, almost humbly. " I'll 
 feed his horse and return later." 
 
 He turned and hurried up the path. 
 
 Hilton pulled down his coat sleeves irritably and looked 
 at Jane with a bitter smile. 
 
 " To what do I owe the . . . the honor of such a sum- 
 mons ? " 
 
 " Come in, Dick. I want to talk to you," — keeping her 
 voice and expression steady. She held the door open to him 
 and he entered, his mouth drawn down in a sardonic grimace. 
 A single shaded lamp was lighted and as she turned to him 
 she could see his eyes glittering balefully in the semi-dark- 
 
 
 ness 
 
 Rather different from our last meeting," he said testily. 
 " Then you were concerned with my going ; now you seem 
 determined to have me here." 
 
 " Let's not discuss the past, Dick. I called you here for 
 a definite purpose. Can you guess what it is ? " 
 
 He eyed her in hostile speculation. 
 
 " I don't see where anything that concerns me could con- 
 cern you now. That is, unless you've changed your mind." 
 
 She gave him a wry smile and a shake of her head. 
 
a 
 
 WORK AMONG THE HEATHEN" 199 
 
 << 
 
 " I shall never change, Dick. It was no interest in you 
 that made me send for you. It was interest in the well- 
 being of another woman." 
 
 " Oh, another woman ! And who, pray, may she be? " — 
 frigidly, face darkening. 
 
 Can't you guess ? Have there been so many out here ? " 
 You know there's only one woman for me," he said bit- 
 terly, " and she drove me off like a thief and has called me 
 back as though I were a thief ! " 
 
 " Perhaps you are." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 There was that about him which made her think of a man 
 cornered. 
 
 " I have called you here because I have reason to believe 
 that you are trying to steal the heart of a young girl — of 
 Bobby Cole." 
 
 He laughed unpleasantly, but there was in the laugh a 
 queer relief, as though he had anticipated other things. 
 
 " Now who's been tattling to you ? " 
 
 " My men have seen you come and go, they have seen 
 you with the girl. One of them came to me and begged 
 that I send for you and try to talk you out of this. They 
 know, Dick. These men understand men . . . like you." 
 
 '' Because they see me with her and because I'm not con- 
 sidered fit by you to stay beneath your roof, even when it 
 is night and storming, they think I'm damned beyond hope, 
 do they? They think I'm menacing her happiness, do 
 they ? " 
 
 " But aren't you? " she countered. " I know her. I have 
 talked to her and watched her. Dick, she is a lonely, pa- 
 thetic little creature with the world against her. There have 
 been just two things left in her life: her own splendid self 
 respect and her devotion to her father. Why, she hasn't 
 even had the respect of the people about her ! 
 
 " And now she is facing loss of the biggest thing she pos- 
 sesses: the loss of her belief in herself, for you will de- 
 stroy that just as surely as you force her to listen to your 
 

 200 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 . . . to what I suppose you still call your love-making." 
 
 He eyed her a moment before saying: 
 
 " You used, at least, to be fair, Jane ; you used to go 
 slowly in judging people and their motives and usually you 
 were more or less right. Have you put all that behind you ? 
 Does the fact that a man is charged with some irregularity 
 convince you of his guilt now?" 
 
 " Why no. But knowing you and knowing her . . ." 
 
 ** Don't you think it possible for a man, even, for the 
 sake of the argument, a blackguard like me," — bowing 
 slightly — "to change a trifle?" 
 
 He put the question with so much confidence, with so 
 much of his old certainty that it checked Jane. 
 
 " Why, we all may change," she said slowly. 
 I am glad you will grant that much," — ironically. 
 
 Think back, just a few weeks, and you may recall one 
 somewhat theatrical statement you made to me about finding 
 yourself among these people. I thought it preposterous 
 then but I have lived and learned; I know now that you 
 could mean what you said then. . . . Jane, I, too, have 
 found my people ... at least my woman." 
 
 She stared hard at him. 
 
 " Do you mean that, Dick Hilton ? " — very lowly. 
 
 ** As much as I have ever meant anything in my life ! " 
 
 " Sit down," she said, more to give her time to think than 
 in consideration of his comfort. Then, after a moment: 
 " It isn't much of a boast, to mean this as much as you have 
 ever meant anything." 
 
 "Then need we talk further? You ask questions; I an- 
 swer ; you do not believe. Why continue ? " 
 
 She sat down in a chair before him. 
 
 " This is the reason : That I think you have lied to me 
 again. I don't believe you are sincere. No, no, you must 
 listen to me, now ! " — as he started forward with an en- 
 raged exclamation. " I brought you here to make what is 
 left of the Dick Hilton I once liked see this thing as I 
 see it." 
 
"WORK AMONG THE HEATHEN'' 201 
 
 And try she did. She talked rapidly, almost hurriedly, 
 carried along by her own conviction, made dominant by it, 
 sweeping aside his early protests, forcing him to listen to 
 her. She put her best into that effort for as he sat there 
 with his cruel, cynical smile on her she realized that this 
 was a task worthy of her best mettle. 
 
 She sketched Bobby Cole's life as she knew it, she argued 
 in detail to show him how the girl had never had a chance 
 to taste the things which are sweetest to girlhood. She 
 touched on the incident in town where, in desperation, Bobby 
 had tried to force the respect of men and she told him of 
 the defiance with which her own advances of friendship had 
 been met. 
 
 Jane was eloquent. For the better part of an hour she 
 talked steadily, occasionally interrupted by a skeptical laugh 
 or a sneering retort, but she persisted. Hilton listened and 
 watched, eyes hard, mouth drawn into forbidding lines, a 
 manner of suspicious caution about him, as though there 
 were much that he wanted to conceal. 
 
 Finally her sincerity had an effect and she could see his 
 cold assurance melting. His gaze left hers and a flush crept 
 into his cheeks. She moved quickly to sit beside him. 
 
 " Dick ! Dick ! For the sake of what you once were, 
 for the sake of what you still can be, go away! H you 
 won't go for the sake of the girl, go for your own salva- 
 tion ! " 
 
 *' It's not what you think," he protested feebly, without 
 looking at her. *' I'm not philandering. I — '' 
 
 " No, Dick, not philandering, because that is too gentle a 
 word. It is something worse, something darker, which will 
 bring more shame to you and to all who once knew and 
 trusted you. 
 
 ** Don't you see that you're playing with something as 
 delicate as a mountain flower? Don't you see you will crush 
 it? Because this girl is strong of body and thoroughly able 
 to contend for her own position with muscles and weapons, 
 don't think that her heart can be treated roughly. It would 
 
202 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 wither if she gave it to you and found that you held it of 
 little value." 
 
 " I tell you I'm on the level with her." 
 
 *' Would you marry her? " — leaning closer to him as his 
 manner told of the effect her pleas were having. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " You'd take her east, to your friends ? " 
 
 " Why, why not? " — shifting uneasily. 
 
 " Dick, look at me ! " Tears in her eyes, she put her hands 
 on his shoulders and forced him to turn his face. " You 
 can't mean that? I can see you don't. Dick, oh, Dick! 
 For the sake of all that is good and fine in life, for the sake 
 of the manhood you can regain, don't do this thing! 
 
 '' I'm asking it of you. Perhaps I have little right to 
 make any requests of you but in the name of the love you 
 say you once bore for me try to look into my, a woman's 
 heart, and see what this thing means. I'm not trying to 
 make it difficult for you; I'm not trying to interfere and 
 be mean. I'm begging you, Dick, to give her up and if 
 nothing else will appeal to you, do it for my sake ! " 
 
 She shook him gently as he turned his head from her, 
 humiliated, shamed, beaten. He was convinced: she knew 
 that his sham was broken down, that his purpose was clear 
 to her and the conscience that remained in his soul tortured 
 him. 
 
 Jane held so a long moment, fingers gripping his shoulders, 
 appeal in every tense line of her body. 
 
 And close outside the window another figure held tense, 
 watching, holding breath in futile attempt to catch the low 
 words they spoke. It was a slender figure and had ridden 
 up on a soft-stepping horse, dismounted, slipped over the 
 fence, ran stealthily along the creek, halted in the shadow 
 of the cottonwoods and then crept slowly forward until it 
 stood close to the shaft of yellow light which streamed from 
 the window. There it stood spying. . . . 
 
 '' You have said that you loved me, Dick. Do this for me 
 in the name of that love ! I am asking it with a sincerity 
 
" WORK AMONG THE HEATHEN " 203 
 
 that was never in any other request I have made of you." 
 
 She shook him again and slowly he turned his face to hers, 
 showing an expression of weakness, of helplessness, as one 
 who turns to ask humbly, almost desperately for aid. 
 
 The figure out there started forward as though it would 
 leap through the window, making a sharp sound of breath 
 hissing through teeth, in fright or in hatred. The move- 
 ment was checked, for the gate creaked open, the scuffling 
 boots of a man were heard on the path. The figure skulked 
 swiftly along the house, ducking along the cottonwoods, out 
 toward the road where a horse stood waiting. 
 
 It was the Reverend coming and he whistled " Yield not 
 to Temptation/* as he neared the house, as if to give warn- 
 ing of his approach. Hilton heard and looked up sharply 
 and a glitter of rage appeared in his eyes. He shook Jane 
 Hunter off savagely and rose. 
 
 " I'd let you make an ass of me ! " he cried savagely. 
 " You won't believe when I tell you the truth. . . . 
 
 " But what the devil should I care ? " he broke oflf shortly. 
 *' Whatever I do and where and why is my own affair ; none 
 of yours, though you try to make it yours, try to judge me 
 as you judge your own, new friends, probably. 
 
 " You talk of the man I once was. Well, if I've changed 
 in your eyes, it is not my fault; it's yours, Jane Hunter, 
 yours ! You'd drive me on, lead me on, and when finally 
 cornered you'd be perfectly frank to tell me that you'd 
 only toyed with mc, that you tolerated me because you 
 thought you might have to use the things I owned ! " 
 Not that, Dick ! You're putting it all wrong. ..." 
 Listen to me ! " he shouted, quivering with rage. "If 
 I've changed it is you who have changed me ! If life means 
 nothing to me, it is you who have made it so ! " He was 
 towering in his anger and, seeking to shift responsibility for 
 his own rottenness to the shoulders of the woman before 
 him, he aroused a sense of injury and genuine indignation. 
 " You played me as your last straw as long as you dared 
 and now, by God, when I go my way, the only way op'"" t 
 
 
204 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 me, when I try to redeem a little happiness, you hound me, 
 try to shame me with your sham morals ! " 
 
 **Dick, that's not true." 
 
 " It is true. Why, you haven't a leg to stand on, you — " 
 
 His storming was interrupted by a rap on the door and 
 he turned to see the Reverend standing there, battered derby 
 in his hands. 
 
 " Excuse me," he said mildly, " but the gentleman's horse 
 is fed." 
 
 It was his way of letting Jane Hunter — and Dick Hilton 
 — know that she was not alone; but if the Reverend had 
 intended to stop the tirade which he had heard from outside 
 he did not succeed for the Easterner was further enraged 
 at sight of him. 
 
 *' I suppose this is part of your plan ! " he snapped. " You 
 found out that it's no use to wheedle me, so you've had your 
 gun-man come to drive me off as he brought me ! " 
 
 " Dick, don't be silly ! You're absurd. A gun. The 
 idea!" 
 
 Hilton laughed tauntingly and said: 
 
 " He's standing there now, covering me with a gun ! 
 Look at him." He pointed to the Reverend's pocket. A 
 hand was in it and the garment bulged sharply as though 
 a revolver, concealed there, was ready for instant use. 
 " That's how you treat me ; that's how you got me here. 
 God knows I wouldn't have come otherwise if your exist- 
 ence depended on it. 
 
 " This man met me on the trail. He said you wanted to 
 see me. I consigned him to the Hell from which he tries 
 to have sinners and he covered me from his pocket just as 
 he has me covered now and said it would be wise for me to 
 answer your summons. 
 
 *' How else do you think he brought me ? " he demanded, 
 w^heeling to face Jane again. 
 
 The girl looked quickly to Beal, lips parted in surprise. 
 
 " I sent Mr. Beal for you, yes, but I said nothing about 
 
" WORK AMONG THE HEATHEN " 205 
 
 using force to bring you. I wouldn't do that. I'm sure 
 there is some mistake." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, I'm sure there is," said the Reverend, bhnk- 
 ing and withdrawing his hand slowly. " I'm a man of peace. 
 I'm not a man of force." 
 
 He lifted his hand clear, the ominous bulge in his pocket 
 giving way, and held up one of his pens. 
 
 " One dollar," he said rather weakly ... as though 
 frightened, or vastly amused. 
 
 Standing there, looking rather blankly about, holding that 
 pen in his hand he was in ludicrous contrast to the furious 
 Hilton. It made the other man seem absurd, his raging 
 like the burlesque of some clowning actor. 
 
 With a helpless, choking oath Hilton turned, livid with 
 rage, and strode for the doorway. 
 
 " For the last time I've been made a fool of ! " he cried, 
 and hastened up the path. 
 
 They heard him mount his horse and ride away. 
 
 Jane was too busied with more somber thoughts to ap- 
 preciate the humor of the situation ; she did later. Even 
 had she been able to give attention to the contrast between 
 Hilton's rage and the chagrin which followed so closely, the 
 change in the Reverend would have diverted her attention. 
 He stood looking at her with grief in his eyes and when he 
 spoke his voice shook. 
 
 " I feel that I have done my duty, ma'am, but that is all 
 Azariah Beal has to say for himself. There has been no 
 result. I may have been too late in my attempt. Surely, 
 there is nothing more to be done. . . . 
 
 *' Nothing more, unless you may succeed in ridding your- 
 self of your enemies." 
 
 '* Do vou think that would have an effect on Bobby 
 Cole^ " ' 
 
 He nodded gravely. 
 
 " You and she have something in common : an enemy." 
 
 " He has been here tonight ? You mean that Hilton is 
 
2o6 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 my enemy in the sense that he may imperil the future of the 
 H C ? " 
 
 " The same, ma'am." 
 
 " Reverend, it is Ukely that you are right. I am beginning 
 to see a connection between factors which have seemed to be 
 vmrelated." 
 
 He started to speak but a shout checked him. They Hs- 
 tened to a confusion of voices. 
 
 " Something's wrong," Beal said and stepped to the ve- 
 randa. " Why . . . somebody's hurt ! " 
 
 Jane ran to the doorway but he had already started up 
 the path. She followed as she saw a close huddle of men 
 about the lighted doorway of the bunk house move slowly 
 in, carrying a burden gently and as she neared the building 
 a rather tragic quiet marked the group. 
 
 Nigger, Two-Bits' horse, was standing saddled in the path 
 of light. Inside a man was lying face down on the floor. 
 The Reverend knelt beside him, leaning forward, and others 
 stood close, silent and grave. 
 
 The prostrate man was Two-Bits and his shoulders 
 dripped blood. As Jane became a part of the group he 
 stirred and struggled to raise his head. 
 
 " What is it, brother ? " Azariah asked gently, turning 
 Two-Bits over and supporting his head. " Tell us. You're 
 not done for. It's ripped your back open, but that's all. 
 W^ho was it ? " 
 
 The other looked about slowly with bewildered eyes. 
 
 " From behind," he said weakly. " They got me from 
 behind. . . ." His gaze wavered from face to face and 
 finally rested on Jane's. He moved feebly. 
 
 " A big bunch of your cattle must be in th' Hole, ma'am," 
 he said. " There ain't . . . any water there. ... I was 
 keepin' 'em . . . out . . . an' somebody got me from be- 
 hind. . . . They must of waited ... to get me . . . from 
 behind. . . . And the only water's ... in fence. . . . 
 
 " It looks like ... a lot of trouble, ma'am. . . .' 
 
 He stopped talking, exhausted. 
 
 » 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 RENUNCIATION 
 
 IT looked like trouble and there was trouble. 
 Beck, with the Reverend, Curtis and two of the ranch 
 hands preceded Jane to the Hole at dawn and when she rode 
 down the trail she saw them on their horses, forming a little 
 group well away from the nester's cabin. 
 
 Her cattle were there and the fenced area was fringed 
 with them as they moved back and forth, snifhng at the water 
 they wanted, which they needed and which, though just 
 on the other side of the wire strands, might as well have 
 been days away. Inside the fence grazed Cole's herd with 
 plenty to eat and drink. 
 
 Tom's face was troubled as he rode to meet the girl. 
 
 " It's serious," he said. '' There's enough of your stock 
 down here to ruin you, ma'am, unless we get 'em out to 
 water." 
 
 '* Let's take them out, then ! " 
 
 He shook his head skeptically. 
 
 " They're in bad shape. They're crazy wild and we 
 haven't got enough men here to shove 'em up the trail. It's 
 an awful job with quiet cattle because they have to go in 
 single file and there's no drivin' 'em. I don't dare risk taking 
 these through the Gap and around to water the other way. 
 Why, Jane, that's forty miles! 
 
 " It'll be another day before we can get the boys back to 
 help get 'em out and it looks like a heavy loss at best unless 
 we get water. There's only one way to get it and that's to 
 persuade Cole or his daughter that we'd ought to have it." 
 
 " They must have water ! " she cried. " It's inhuman not 
 to give it to them ! " She watched a big steer going past at 
 a rapid walk, eyes bright and protruding as in fright; he 
 
 207 
 
2o8 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 bawled hoarsely for drink. " Why, Tom, people can't re- 
 fuse water to beasts that need it. 
 
 " See ! There's Cole and Bobby now," — pointing toward 
 the cabin. " Come. I'll buy water if necessary." 
 
 She spurred her horse and Beck followed at a gallop. 
 When he came abreast he looked curiously at her face. Her 
 jaw was tight and her eyes dark with determination. This 
 was her fight and she was thoroughly aroused to it. She 
 asked no advice, she showed no hesitation ; she went forward 
 with all confidence, certain that in this cause which involved 
 not only the loss of property but the suffering of dumb crea- 
 tures she could have her way. 
 
 A hundred yards from the cabin a steer thrust his head 
 through the wire strands and shoved, heedless of barbs, tan- 
 talized by the smell of water. Cole shouted with his weak 
 voice and picked up a stick and ran toward the animal, 
 brandishing his cudgel. 
 
 Bobby stood watching the riders approach. 
 I've come to see you again," Jane said in brief preface. 
 
 This time it is an urgent matter." She dismounted and 
 faced the other girl. *' My cattle are here and they need 
 drink very badly. You have all the water. Will you let 
 them through your fence? As soon as they can be moved 
 we will take them out and they will bother you no more." 
 
 Bobby eyed her with loathing but it was not as she had 
 been on their previous encounter, for about her manner was 
 something more concrete, as though she cherished a definite 
 grudge this time. 
 
 '* Is your memory so bad that you don't recollect what I 
 told you before?" she asked slowly. ^' 1 told you once to 
 keep away from us ; I tell you that again. This is our range 
 now ; your stock ain't got any rights here." 
 
 '* I'll grant you that I have no right to ask. I did what I 
 could to keep my cattle out of here. The man I set to 
 guard the Gap was shot down ; that is why they are here this 
 morning ; that is why I must have your water, because it is 
 the only water available. 
 
 it 
 
RENUNCIATION 209 
 
 <s 
 
 I am willing to pay. This means very much to me. 
 Won't you name a price, give me water? I am asking it as 
 a favor and will be willing to pay for that favor." 
 
 "Favor!" 
 
 The girl shot the word out harshly. 
 
 *' Favor ! You're a sweet one to come askin' me for a 
 favor ! " 
 
 A fever of rage rose in her face and her brows gathered 
 threateningly. 
 
 " Nothin' we've got is for sale to you ! I wouldn't help 
 you if I could save your outfit by liftin' my hand . . . an' 
 if I was starvin' for that you'd give me in pay! " 
 
 Jane was nonplussed. Bobby's breast rose and fell quickly 
 and her white teeth gleamed behind drawn lips. She was 
 the catamount, ready to fight ! 
 
 *' But think of these cattle! They're suffering — " 
 
 " Cattle ! You ask me to think of cattle because they're 
 suffering and you'd make human beings suffer from worse 
 things than thirst ! " 
 
 " I don't understand you. What have I done that would 
 make people suffer ? " 
 
 " I s'pose you don't know?" — jeeringly. " I s'pose you 
 don't zvant to know in front of him," — with a flirt of her 
 quirt to indicate Beck. " I wouldn't either if I was in your 
 place, you — sneak ! " 
 
 *' Sneak ? " Jane repeated, stung to open resentment. 
 "Sneak?" 
 
 *' Yes, sneak. You'd run us out of this country if you 
 could, but you can't. You'd lake my man if you could . . . 
 but you can't ! " — through shut teeth. 
 
 " Your man ? " — looking at the girl and then at Beck in 
 bewilderment. " Your — " 
 
 " Yes, my man ! Oh, don't think I don't know. I saw it 
 all. I saw one of your hands take him to your home last 
 night. I followed him, I watched through your window. 
 I seen you beg with him and plead with him. I know what 
 you want. ... ; 
 
210 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Why, he's told me everything, from th' first ! You got 
 him to follow you out here, you got mad at him and threw 
 him out of your house once. Now you want him back. 
 You want him back. I suppose while he," — tilting her 
 head toward Tom — " is away on round-up ! You want him 
 back when you've got everything you want and he's all I 
 got, all I ever had ! " 
 
 Tears sprang into her eyes and her voice came trembling 
 through trembling lips. Jane, swept by confusion, sought 
 words and found none. It was preposterous ! And yet the 
 very accusation degraded her. Drawn into a quarrel over a 
 man, and such a man ! 
 
 " You'd take this claim, if you could, when you've got 
 more land than anybody around here. You'd take my man 
 when you've got lots of others yourself. You must have 
 lots like you got lots of other things. Maybe you think that 
 by takin' him you can drive me out and get the claim that 
 way. Maybe that's your reason, you . . . you ..." She 
 seemed to search in vain for an expletive that would convey 
 her contempt. 
 
 '* But you misunderstand ! You're all wrong." 
 
 " Wrong, am I ? Wrong, when you put your arms around 
 his neck and put your face close to his an' make him look 
 at you an' beg him to do things for your sake. I watched 
 through your window last night. I heard those words, 
 ' For my sake.' You said 'em. I suppose that's wrong, is 
 it? I—" 
 
 " But it wasn't that ! It wasn't what you think it — " 
 
 " I s'pose you thought he wouldn't tell me, but he did. 
 He won't come back to you. You couldn't get him away 
 from me ! " — in triumph. 
 
 Her manner was so assured, she was so convinced of the 
 truth of Hilton's version of last night's encounter that Jane 
 Hunter was at a loss for argument. Impulsively she turned 
 to look at Beck, as for suggestion, and what she saw there 
 stripped her of ability to fight back. His face was as devoid 
 of expression as a countenance can be, but his eyes chal- 
 
RENUNCIATION 211 
 
 lenged, accused, bore down upon her, demanding that she 
 explain ! 
 
 He demanded that she explain ! 
 
 He suspected her ! He gave credence to Bobby's accusa- 
 tion. He could do that ! 
 
 A word, even a gesture, would have cleared the situation 
 but his look struck her inarticulate, immobile. She had been 
 so confident of herself, of his trust ; and now he had grasped 
 upon this monstrous charge and held her to answer. 
 
 " You with your fine notions, your money, your city 
 ways ! " the other taunted. *' You, with all you've got, 
 would take the only thing I've got, the only thing I've ever 
 had! 
 
 " An' now you come, askin' favors. Favors from me ! 
 Why, all I'll do for you is to run you out of this country. 
 I've heard what they call me here : the catamount. I'll show 
 you how the catamount can scratch and bite ! " 
 
 It swept over Jane that she must reply, that she must say 
 some word in her defense, that she must say it now . . . 
 now . . . that in this second of time her fate swung in bal- 
 ance, that bitter though explanation might be she must make 
 it, for Beck was listening. Beck was watching, Beck was 
 doubting ! 
 
 And, as she would have spoken, lamely, but with enough 
 clarity to absolve her from suspicion, Bobby stepped closer. 
 
 " You take your men an' light out ! '' she snapped. *' You 
 keep your men out of here an' your cattle away from this 
 fence. Th' first steer that breaks through '11 get shot down, 
 th' first man that tries to help 'em through will find that he 
 needs help himself. I hate you ! " she cried. " I hate you 
 worse 'n I hate a snake an' I'll treat you like a snake from 
 now on. 
 
 " You carry that idea home with you an' you carry this 
 ... as first payment, to bind the bargain ! " 
 
 With a quick, sharp swing of her arm, she whipped her 
 quirt through the air and it wrapped about Jane's soft throat 
 with a vicious snap. 
 
212 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 She stepped back with a choking cry, hiding her face. 
 She heard Beck's short, " That'll do ! " in a strange, un- 
 natural voice, as though his throat were dry. She heard the 
 Catamount's contemptuous sniff and her hard, " Clear out ! " 
 
 She found herself in her saddle again, riding beside Beck 
 as they moved toward the other H C riders, who, dismounted 
 and seated on the ground, had not witnessed the dramatic 
 parley and its humiliating climax. She was confronted by 
 a situation which clearly spelled disaster for her ranch un- 
 less solved and solved quickly but that did not matter now. 
 
 She had been whipped, as the man who had insulted 
 Bobby Cole had been whipped. Had been drawn into a 
 brawl ! And, far worse, she had found that the man toward 
 whom she had toiled from the Jane Hunter that had been 
 to the Jane Hunter she had one day dreamed she might be, 
 had doubted her ! 
 
 He was talking haltingly, something about bringing more 
 men to shove the cattle up into the Coyote Creek country, 
 but even through her confusion she realized that his thoughts 
 were not finding words, that he was forcing himself to talk 
 of those things. Her heart wanted to cry out, to tell him 
 that he had misunderstood, that her encounter with Hilton 
 was not occasioned by the motive Bobby Cole had suspected. 
 The old Jane Hunter would have done so, but with her new 
 strength had come another thing, until that hour hidden : it 
 was pride, a pride which was as noble as her love, which 
 would permit no cavail, which would not stoop to conquer ! 
 
 She fought it down, striving for clarified thought, feeling 
 for the word, the brief sentence which would explain away 
 Beck's suspicion and leave that pride uninjured, for there 
 must be such a v/ay. And while she fought, blinded by 
 tears and confused by humiliation, the moment of oppor- 
 tunity passed. Beck left her. 
 
 They were with the others, who grouped about her fore- 
 man, and he said : 
 
 " I was going to send one of you men to bring a dozen of 
 the boys from the wagon to help save this stufif, if we can, 
 
RENUNCIATION 213 
 
 but I've changed my mind," — with a bitter significance 
 which they did not catch. '' I'm goin' myself. Curtis, 
 you're in charge. Keep your head. Keep the cattle from 
 breakin' his fence because they'll shoot 'em down an' if they 
 start shooting cattle there'll be a lot of us get shot." 
 
 He started away at a gallop without so much as a look 
 at Jane. Impulsively she called his name and spurred her 
 sorrel after him. He set his horse on his haunches, wheeled 
 and waited for her, face white, those eyes so dark, so ac- 
 cusing. That look checked the words that were on her lips 
 as effectively as a blow on the mouth and he spoke first as 
 she halted beside him: 
 
 " You did send for him, I take it ? You didn't deny 
 that." 
 
 He was hard, cruel, brows gathered, and the storm within 
 him stung that pride of hers further, roused it to newer life. 
 
 ** Yes, I sent for him," she managed to say, " but Tom, 
 won't — " 
 
 " That's all that's necessary then," he said, and was gone. 
 
 She sat on her horse watching him ride across the flat for 
 the steep trail that led out of the Hole and she felt that all 
 the sweetness, all the worth-while quality of her life was 
 riding hard behind that straight figure. A bitterness rose 
 in her heart, a rebellion. He would not listen to her and she 
 had tried to speak ! 
 
 Jane did not consider that this was but one evidence of 
 the greatness of the love of such a man, of the sacredness 
 with which he treasured it ; all she saw was the distrust, un- 
 belief, and after a time she rode slowly on, watching him 
 become a fleck on the face of the mountain, seeing him finally 
 disappear over the rim, out of her life, it seemed. 
 
 With leaden heart she entered her house and sat heavily 
 in the chair before the desk. An envelope was there, ad- 
 dressed to her in Beck's coarse hand. She tore it open with 
 unsteady fingers. 
 
 The little gold locket which had been warmed first by 
 
214 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 her heart, then by Beck's, which had been her talisman for 
 months, sHpped into her pahii. With tear-dimmed eyes she 
 looked at it and then turned to the letter, reading: 
 
 " It is likely that you need your luck worse than I do so I 
 am returning your gift. I would go away from your outfit 
 now but if I did they would say that they drove me out as 
 they have said they would do. My reputation is all I have 
 left now and I would like to keep that because a man must 
 have something. 
 
 " I did not want to love you in the first place as you may 
 recall but I guess I was pretty weak for a man. I told you 
 once that there were things I did not understand about you 
 and I guess the way you think about men is one of them. 
 I wanted to drive him out of the country and you would not 
 let me. I waited a long time today for you to deny what 
 the Cole girl said and you did not do it. I was pretty mad 
 when I left you but I realize now it is all my fault. I took 
 a chance which is not the way to do and now I am paying 
 for it. Well, I am able to pay. 
 
 " I hope you will not answer this and will not try to talk 
 to me again unless on business. I do not blame you. I 
 blame myself but I do not want to talk about it. I will take 
 good care of your cattle and your men because that is my 
 job. I will run these men out of this country and then if I 
 am able to resign I will. 
 
 " Respectfully, 
 
 ^'ToM Beck." 
 
 She put down the letter, feeling queerly numb. She ex- 
 perienced no particular resentment because she could well 
 see how her failure to speak at the proper moment had con- 
 demned her in Beck's eyes ; her sensation was of one who 
 has failed in a crisis. Bobby Cole had dominated her, had 
 swept her off her feet, had given her that depressing feeling 
 of inferiority again and before her lover's eyes; it had 
 shaken her assurance, made her question the strength of 
 
RENUNCIATION 215 
 
 which she had been so certain in the last weeks ! It was 
 that which hurt her far more than the stinging welt about 
 her throat where the lash had bitten her flesh. 
 
 She inquired for Two-Bits, learning that the doctor had 
 left him with the assurance that his recovery would not be 
 unduly delayed. She ate her dinner abstractedly. In all 
 she did she moved as one who is only partly alive ; a portion 
 of her body, even, seemed insensate, while her mind was 
 dead. A dull ache pervaded her, an emptiness, for some- 
 thing vastly important was gone and she was without re- 
 source to call it back. 
 
 The Reverend came and went, taking beds on pack horses 
 and when Jane saw him departing she laughed rather weakly 
 to herself. 
 
 It was so simple ! There was the agency which could 
 bridge this chasm and while so doing could save the pride 
 which was creating the conflict within her. 
 
 The Reverend knew her motive in sending for Hilton. 
 He could and would make Beck aware of what had 
 transpired. She even thought of writing Tom a note, some- 
 thing as follows : 
 
 " I am terribly hurt but in a way it is of my own doing. 
 I have just one thing to request: Ask the Reverend how 
 Dick Hilton came to be here." 
 
 But she had no one to send with it and Beck would be 
 back on the morrow with the men to move the thirst tortured 
 cattle. Besides, there must be another way than the des- 
 patch of such a message. That was too cold and formal. 
 It would bring him humbly to her but she knew how he 
 would suffer when his pride was hurt; and such a thing 
 would do no less than hurt his pride. She would make it as 
 easy as possible. 
 
 A let-down came and she cried and when she slept that 
 night her dreams were not distressing. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE reverend's STRATEGY 
 
 THROUGHOUT the day the sun beat into the caiion, 
 its heat reHeved by rare breezes of brief duration. 
 What wind did come raised swirls of dust and rustled wilted 
 foliage, for the country had become ash dry. 
 
 The cattle, most of them on their fourth waterless day, 
 bawled dismally, a thirsty chorus rising as the day aged. 
 They did not eat; they wandered rapidly about seeking 
 moisture. Those spots of the creek bed which showed damp 
 above and below Cole's fence were tramped to powder by 
 uneasy hoofs and a narrow area outside the fence was cut 
 to fluff by the restless wanderings of the suffering steers. 
 
 As afternoon came on they abandoned their futile search 
 for unguarded drink and clung closer to the wire barrier, 
 snuffing loudly as their nostrils drank in the smell of water 
 as greedily as their throats would have swallowed the fluid 
 itself. Their eyes became wider, wilder, and the bawling 
 was without cessation. Flanks pumped the hot air into their 
 bodies in rapid tempo and slaver hung from loose chops. 
 The herd was in desperate condition. 
 
 Now and then a big beefer would rush the fence as if to 
 tear his way through but the new wire and solid posts al- 
 ways flung them back. Again, another would push his head 
 tentatively between the strands and attempt entrance by 
 gentler methods, but always they were driven back either 
 by one of the H C riders or by Cole himself. 
 
 By the time the sun was half way to the horizon the steers 
 were moving in a compact mass back and forth along the 
 fence, snuffing, crying, sobbing in dry throats, bodies grow- 
 ing more gaunt hourly as frenzy added its toll to physical 
 
 suffering. 
 
 216 
 
THE REVEREND'S STRATEGY 217 
 
 The bawling became a din. Big steers shook their heads 
 and hooked at one another groggily. The first one went 
 down and could not rise alone ; the men " tailed " him up 
 and worked him to shade, where he sank to his side again, 
 panting, drooling and silent. 
 
 ** Damn an outfit like that ! " growled Curtis, looking 
 across the bunch to Cole, who stood staring back. 
 
 " There's goin' to be hell a-poppin' here," commented one 
 of the men. '* They're waitin' for trouble an' you can't pre- 
 vent 'em havin' it — " 
 
 " Look at that ! " 
 
 A half dozen steers, surging against the fence, put their 
 combined weight on a panel and the post gave with a snap. 
 
 Bobby ran forward, brandishing a club, and drove them 
 back as they floundered in the sagging wire, heedless of 
 barbs, e3^es protruding with want of the drink that dilated 
 nostrils told them was near. 
 
 After he had propped the post up again the nester shook 
 his fist at Curtis and shouted : 
 
 " I'll protect my property ! You -can protect yourn if you 
 will. Th' next critter that breaks my fence gits lead in his 
 carcass ! " 
 
 He slouched back to the cabin and came out a moment 
 later with a rifle. Seating himself on a stump he crossed his 
 knees and with the weapon across his lap sat waiting. 
 
 " We'll bunch 'em so we can make a show at holdin' 'em 
 tonight," Curtis said. " That'll save time in th' mornin' 
 . . . an' we'll need all our time." 
 
 Forthwith he and the others began gathering the suffering 
 stragglers in a loose bunch. 
 
 The Reverend came riding across the flat before this was 
 completed. His face was serious and as he came close to the 
 herd and saw the condition of the cattle he shook his head 
 apprehensively. 
 
 " I fear, brother, that by another day there'll be little 
 strength in those bodies to get 'em up to open water," he 
 said to Curtis. 
 
2i8 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " It'll be the devil's own job for sure! It'll take twenty 
 men to move 'em and if we don't lose half we'll be Incky. 
 
 "If that old cuss 'uld let 'em water once it'd be a cinch, 
 but he's a bad Piordbre; he won't. There's something back 
 of this, Reverend/' 
 
 Beal scratched his chin and blinked and looked across to 
 where Cole sat. One of his Mexicans also was armed and 
 had taken up his position further down the fence. 
 
 " So it would appear," he replied. " As Joshua said to 
 Moses, ' There's a noise of war in the camp.' 
 
 '* I see a relationship between the smiting of my beloved 
 brother and the refusal of this outfit to grant water. 
 
 *' Oh, another watcher ! " 
 
 He indicated Pat Webb who evidently had gained the 
 Cole ranch by a circuitous route and had taken up his posi- 
 tion within the fence, armed with a rifle. 
 
 Night came on with a dry wind in the trees on the heights. 
 Its draft did not reach the Hole but the sound did and that 
 uneasy, distant roar served to intensify the distress of the 
 cattle. 
 
 Beds were made on a knoll not far from the bunched 
 steers and the Reverend was the first to rest, while the others, 
 singing, whistling, slapping chaps with quirts rode round 
 and round the herd keeping them away from the fence to 
 give the riflemen no opportunity to shoot. Azariah did not 
 sleep but rolled uneasily on his tarp watching the bright, 
 dry stars, muttering to himself now and then. 
 
 Once he got up and fussed about his blankets and Curtis, 
 riding by, stopped. 
 
 " No, I can't rest," the Reverend replied to his query. 
 *' I believe I have lost one pen. . . . 
 
 *' By the way, brother, if these were your cattle how many 
 head would you give just to get them to water tonight?" 
 
 " I'd give several," Curtis answered bitterly. " Yes, 
 I'd give a good many and look at it as a good investment. 
 Without water we're goin' to make lots of feed for buz- 
 zards an' coyotes, tryin' to make up that trail tomorrow ! " 
 
THE REVEREND'S STRATEGY 219 
 
 " A good many. ... A good many," the clergyman mut- 
 tered as Curtis rode on. " She is for peace, but when she 
 speaks, they are for war," he paraphrased the Psalm. 
 
 " 'They that war against thee shall be as nothing.' . . . An 
 investment ... a good investment. . . ." 
 
 He sat hunched on his bed for some time, whispering over 
 and over. . . . '* A good investment . . . investment. ..." 
 
 Then suddenly he rose and pawed about him for a dried 
 bough of cedar which he had cast aside to make his bed. 
 With trembling fingers he sought a match, struck and ap- 
 plied it. • 
 
 The flame licked up the tinder and burst into a brilliant 
 torch. The bawling of the cattle cut off sharply. Whites 
 of terrified eyes showed for an instant and then vanished as 
 heads were quickly turned away. 
 
 The herd stirred, like a concentrated mass, body crowding 
 body; it swayed forward, a rumbling of hoofs arose. And 
 from the far side came the shrill yipping of horsemen as 
 they broke into a gallop and sought to set the cattle milling. 
 
 Futile effort! Driven mad by thirst it would have re- 
 quired a much less conspicuous disturbance than that flare 
 of fire to start the wild rush. With a roll of hoofs, a sicken- 
 ing, overwhelming sound, heads down, crowded together into 
 a knitted body of frightened strength the bunch was in full 
 stampede ! 
 
 Down the far side rode Curtis, high in his stirrups, his re- 
 volver spitting fire into the air. A big white steer charged 
 straight at his horse like a blinded thing and the animal car- 
 ried his rider to momentary safety with a hand's breath to 
 spare. 
 
 On another flank of the herd another rider charged in and 
 shouted and shot and swung off. There was no time ; there 
 was no room ! It was less than a hundred yards to the 
 fence and to be caught between its stout strands and those 
 charging heads meant terrible death. Curtis' warning cry 
 cut in above the fury of the flight as he doubled back 
 toward safety. 
 
220 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Within the fence were shouts. Figures sprang to out- 
 line in the darkness. The first steer's shoulders struck the 
 wire, the fence held, threw him back and then, driven 
 forward again by oncoming numbers the creature went 
 through, torn and raw, through a torn and tangled barrier. 
 There was a creaking strain of wire for rods, a snapping 
 of stout posts and then orange stabs out of the night. . . . 
 Two . . . four . . . five, and the sound of rifle shots 
 pricked through the background of heavier sounds. 
 
 A steer bawled once, its voice pitched high, and went 
 down. Another dropped beneath mincing hoofs without a 
 sound. From their path ran the riflemen, desperate in their 
 fright, heedless of damage done property or rights. Over, 
 under and through the fence went the cattle, pouring across 
 the cleared land, crowding, snorting, gaining momentum with 
 each stride. On across the flat, on down the steep bank 
 of the creek, on into the water that sloshed about their 
 knees. . . . 
 
 And there, as quickly as it had come, their panic de- 
 parted, for the need of that water dissipated their fright. 
 Noise of the flight subsided and into the night rose the 
 greedy sound of their guzzling as the water which Cole 
 had fenced and sought to hold was gulped down the parched 
 throats of H C cattle. 
 
 Curtis rode up at, a gallop, drawing his horse to such a 
 quick stop that his hoofs scattered dirt over Azariah. 
 
 "What th' hell?" he began. 
 
 " I found it ! " cried the Reverend in exultation, holding 
 up a fountain pen. " Must have dropped out when I took 
 oflF my coat — " 
 
 '' But look what youVe done ! " cried the other. " They 
 knocked four steers dead as the Populist party ! " 
 
 Azariah looked up at him, the shrewdness in his face cov- 
 ered by darkness, but his voice was guile itself. 
 
 *' A small investment, brother, a good investment. Per- 
 haps a parable is writ this night. ... A pillar of fire, a 
 smiting of the rock?" 
 
THE REVEREND'S STRATEGY 221 
 
 Curtis whistled lowly. 
 
 "Reverend, you planned it all out?" 
 
 " It is not given to me to plan ; I am guided by the spirit 
 of righteousness ! Besides, those who lack wisdom are the 
 only ones who divulge their innermost thoughts, brother. 
 I found a way out of Egypt for the cattle, as 't were. Re- 
 member, brother, the way of the Lord is strength ! " 
 
 They had not heard Bobby Cole running through the 
 brush toward them but as the Reverend stopped she stepped 
 between him and Oliver's horse. 
 
 " So that's it ! " she hissed. " So you're th' one to blame 1 
 I'll tell you what I told your boss this mornin', that I'll run 
 you out of the country if it's th' last thing I do, you Bible 
 talkin' rat! 
 
 " This ain't th' first thing I've got against you," — darkly. 
 " I might 've forgot th' other because she was to blame 
 for it, but I've heard what you just said an' I won't 
 forget this ! And don't think I'm th' only one who'll keep 
 it in mind ! 
 
 " Why, you'll be run out of this country like a snake 
 'uld be chased out of a cabin ! Remember that ! " 
 
 For a moment she stood confronting him in the darkness 
 and though features were not clearly distinguishable they 
 could see by the poise of her figure that those were no idle 
 threats. Then she went as quickly as she had come, leaving 
 the Reverend scratching his chin and Curtis whistling softly 
 to himself. 
 
 A woman possessed of the devil ! " said Beal softly. 
 Yeah. Or three or four," commented the other. 
 
 " Yesterday I sought to save her soul and tomorrow I 
 must seek to save my own skin ! " 
 
 There was no more shooting because H C cattle were 
 mingled with Cole's. Curtis parlayed vnth the nester who 
 made whining threats of a suit for damages. When Curtis 
 returned to the beds for the remainder of the night the 
 Reverend was not there. 
 
 " Dragged it for the ranch ! " he chuckled. 
 
 
222 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 So he thought. The Reverend had dragged it, but not 
 for the H C or any other nearby stopping place. Though 
 Beal did not know all that transpired to bring about the 
 ruin of Jane Hunter he knew enough to realize that he had 
 made one determined enemy that night, that to make one 
 was to make many and that Bobby Cole's inference that he 
 had plunged himself into disfavor with others was no 
 empty warning. Azariah Beal was not a coward but he 
 was discreet. The risk of remaining was not justified by 
 the end he might serve and now he sought sanctuary in 
 distance. 
 
 Tom Beck led the riders from the wagon into the Hole 
 at dawn. Gathering and moving the refreshed cattle up the 
 trail was a difficult task but it was accomplished without 
 further loss, a fact which satisfied the men. They reached 
 the ranch on their way back to the round-up camp in late 
 afternoon. 
 
 News of the saving stampede had been carried ahead and 
 Jane realized that one difficulty had been surmounted and 
 that the financial ruin which confronted her yesterday was 
 no more. However, removal of that distraction allowed 
 her mind to concentrate on the greater difficulty : the breach 
 which separated her from Tom Beck. Only one way 
 seemed open: to prevail upon the Reverend to explain mat- 
 ters, and that way was closed when a passing cow-boy de- 
 livered her a note, written hastily on rough paper. She 
 read: 
 
 " The call has come and my feet are turned toward a far 
 country. 
 
 " My arm has been lifted for you ; though I am no longer 
 in your presence my prayers will continue to be lifted in 
 your behalf. 
 
 " Respy., 
 
 "A. Beal." 
 
 Azariah had served the H C well. But for his strategy 
 
THE REVEREND'S STRATEGY 223 
 
 she might even then be suffering from a loss which would 
 doom the ranch. And yet he could have served her in- 
 finitely better by staying on, by untangling the snarl which 
 circumstances had made in her affairs. 
 
 There was just one remaining course to follow, she told 
 herself. This was to go to Tom and explain everything. 
 Then up rose her pride and made denial. She could 
 not do that! If his love would not bear up under doubt, 
 then she must keep her pride intact, for that was all she 
 possessed. Torn between desire to fling herself upon him 
 and sob out the w^hole story and to maintain her stand 
 until he should be proven wrong and come to her con- 
 trite, she dallied with the decision until the riders had 
 come and gone. 
 
 She watched Beck, riding at a trot down the road, looking 
 neither to the right nor left. She could not know that a 
 similar struggle tortured him. '' Turn back ! " one voice in 
 his heart commanded. ** Seek her out and question and 
 question until you know w-hy ; if it is the worst, if she has 
 been hiding a secret affection from you, beg her to turn from 
 it, to come to you ; offer her your all, your pride, your life, 
 if need be. She is all that living holds for you ! " 
 
 And then that other, sterner self, which said over and 
 over: "That cannot be! If there is that in her heart 
 which must be hidden from you, draw back now and 
 save all that is left to you : your pride ! " 
 
 So pride held the one in her house and it led the other 
 down Coyote Creek, and each mile, each hour put be- 
 tween them multiplied the difficulties, wore down the chance 
 of reconciliation. For by such simple, basic conflicts are 
 loves ruined ! 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 beck's departure 
 
 NIGHT had come upon the round-up camp, fires near 
 the cook wagon were dying. On the rise to the 
 southward the night-hawk sat with an eye on the saddle 
 stock which grazed over a wide area and in their tee-pees 
 the men were sleeping, preparatory to the first day's riding. 
 
 Tom Beck sat alone by the glowing remnants of the 
 cook's fire, staring stolidly into the coals, mouth set, strug- 
 gling with his pride. That quiet, inner voice continued 
 its insistence that he yield a trifle, give Jane Hunter one 
 more chance. " What ? " it asked, " will you gain by deny- 
 ing her this? What, indeed, will be left for you if you 
 persist?" 
 
 But the voice was weaker than it had been early that 
 day. The alternative it raised in his consciousness less 
 appealing, and a determination to smother it grew steadily. 
 He had been crossed ; he had been duped ! 
 
 Oh, he had been a fool ! he told himself. He had thrown 
 to the winds his caution and his reserve ; he had taken the 
 biggest chance that life, the trickster, dangles before men. 
 He had taken it blindly, against his better judgment; it left 
 him embittered, with nothing beyond except the position 
 which he held among men. That was a mawkish attain- 
 ment now ; it was so cheap and inconsequential compared 
 to the sense of accomplishment which had been his when 
 Jane Hunter had thrown herself into his arms and begged 
 that he carry her into his life! Deluded though he may 
 have been, that moment had opened to him sensations, vistas, 
 that he had never before imagined existed. 
 
 And now! All else that remained was gray and dead. 
 
 224 
 
BECK'S DLPARTURE 225 
 
 He had been lifted up to see what might be, only to find 
 that it was denied him; more, those moments of glory- 
 had taken the zest from the life that had been his before and 
 that now remained. 
 
 For long he sat there and gradually the inner voice 
 died entirely, slowly a cold, heartless desire to cling to 
 a dead thing like his standing in the country took its 
 place as his chief interest in life. He had written Jane 
 that such was all that remained to him. He had not real- 
 ized as he scrawled those words what a pitiful bauble it 
 was but now it was necessary to endow it with values that 
 he could not truly feel. But he forced himself to believe 
 it of consequence, for men like Tom Beck must have some 
 one valuable thing to live for. 
 
 The tee-pees were quiet when he arose, dropped his 
 dead cigarette into the expiring embers and sought his 
 bed. But in one tee-pee a man looked out at the faint 
 jingle of spurs. It was Riley who, with others from the 
 lower country, was riding with the H C wagon to help the 
 larger outfit and, in turn, to be helped in his branding. He 
 was bunked with Jimmy Oliver and Oliver said: 
 
 ** What's he doin' ? " 
 
 " Turnin' in." 
 
 Riley settled back in his blankets and muttered: 
 
 " It's funny . . . damned funny, Jim." 
 
 " He's like a man that's through. Didn't appear to have 
 any real interest in the work today, seems like he don't give 
 a damn. I don't understand it." 
 
 " If it wasn't Tom Beck I'd say that they'd got his goat. 
 It's hard to believe of him." 
 
 "It can't be that." Oliver was loyal. "It's somethin' 
 else, but it seems like somethin' worse than a man bein' 
 sick of his job. Still, he said twice today that he wouldn't 
 be here long an' the way he said long made me think it'd 
 be a mighty short time." 
 
 Silence for a time. 
 
 " Mebby," said Riley, " it's her." 
 
226 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Mebby you're right," the other rephed. " Tom didn't 
 used to give a damn whether school kept or not. Then, 
 after she come he changed, got to takin' things seriously 
 and anybody could see he was gone on her. Now. . . . 
 
 " Well, he ain't afraid of men. There ain't bad men 
 enough in this country to drive Tom Beck out. . . . But 
 w^omen. . . . They'll put a crimp in th' best of us ! " 
 
 It was the foliow^ing evening that news of the destruction 
 of Cathedral Tank was brought to Tom Beck. Riley had 
 ridden the far circle himself and had found no cattle at 
 the waterhole which the H C foreman had visited only a 
 few days before. That is, no live cattle. He found four 
 steer carcasses, already ravaged by coyotes and buzzards, 
 found the fresh gash in the rock basin and had ridden back 
 to help those cowboys who were no shorter circles, holding 
 explanation of the fact that he returned empty handed until 
 he could give it first to Beck. 
 
 Tom received the news silently. 
 
 " I expect you can fix up the basin with some concrete 
 so it'll hold next winter," Riley said. 
 
 " It's likely," the other responded, *' but next winter's 
 plans for this outfit ain't worryin' me, Riley. '* 
 
 He meant, of course, that there were matters of greater 
 importance just then. The dynamiting had been accom- 
 plished after his warning to Webb and Hepburn, which 
 was clear evidence that the war went on as desperately as 
 before and that these other men were not cowed, their 
 determinatior to run him from the country had not been 
 shaken. A hot rage swept through him. Next winter's 
 plans were remote indeed ! Fate had taken his woman from 
 him ; these renegades would take away the last hold on 
 life! 
 
 But Riley did not construe his meaning as such and 
 when, the following morning, Tom called Jimmy Oliver 
 aside and talked to him the misunderstanding of what went 
 on in his mind was more complicated for he said : 
 
BECK'S DEPARTURE 227 
 
 *' Jimmy, you're goin* to lead this round-up for a while 
 . . . mebby for good." 
 
 " So, Tom? " — in surprise, and in hope that an explana- 
 tion would be forthcoming. 
 
 " I'm leavin' here an' mebby I won't be back." 
 
 Beck was thinking that he would inspect that tank and 
 track down the men responsible for its destruction and 
 make them pay. He said that he might not be back because 
 he had warned them away from H C property and could 
 expect no leniency if he invaded their stronghold. Invade 
 it he would, for this had gone past the point where he could 
 play a waiting game. So long as it had been his safety 
 which mattered most he could assume and retain the de- 
 fensive, but now Two-Bits had all but lost his life while 
 executing his orders and H C cattle had been driven by 
 hundreds into high country before he had planned they 
 should come. It was time to counter-attack. 
 
 Rapidly the word ran through the camp : Beck was 
 leaving ! As it passed from man to man it grew, as rumors 
 all will, and took more definite shape : Beck was quitting. 
 
 He ate silently with the others and his very silence was 
 so marked that it quieted the rest, warded off the questions 
 which under other circumstances might have been put to 
 him. 
 
 The wrangler brought in the horses and Beck was the 
 first to approach the cavet with rope ready. He selected 
 his big roan, looked the animal over carefully and slinging 
 a canteen over the horn, climbed rather heavily to the 
 saddle. 
 
 Other men were catching up their horses. One was 
 pitching and fighting the rope; two others were trying 
 desperately to break out of the cavet. There was running 
 about and confusion, but as Beck rode away to the west- 
 way, head down, so obviously absorbed in himself, men 
 stopped to watch and to wonder. 
 
 The H C foreman was not the only individual in that 
 
228 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 country who, as the sun shoved over the far rim of the 
 world, thought so intensely of his own, wholly personal 
 interests that consciousness of what transpired about him 
 was lost. 
 
 Jane Hunter sat suddenly up in her bed, golden hair in 
 a shower about her shoulders, blue eyes that had been 
 waking and painful until dawn, filled with tears. She stared 
 about her as one will who rouses abruptly from a startling 
 dream, lips parted, a hand to her flushed throat, breath 
 quick and irregular. She held so a moment, then sank 
 back into the pillows, calling softly: 
 
 "Tom; Tom!" 
 
 Her slender body quivered spasmodically and her sob- 
 bing became like that of a child. One hand, flung across 
 the cover, clenched feebly and feebly beat the bedding, as 
 though it hammered hopelessly at walls which held her in, 
 making her a prisoner ... as she was, a prisoner to her 
 pride. 
 
 And high up on the point which formed the western 
 flank of the Gap to Devil's Hole, Sam McKee dropped 
 down from his gray horse and stood looking far out across 
 the level country beneath him. In the clear air he could 
 see the smoke of the round-up camp fire. 
 
 Yesterday he had watched from there, with Hilton's words 
 still in his ears, Hilton's hope in his heart, and had known 
 that Riley rode to the tank. Last night he had talked and 
 walked in the darkness with the Easterner again, had heard 
 Hilton's crafty questioning of Hepburn and Webb which 
 caused them to repeat again and again their belief that Tom 
 Beck would take it upon himself to inspect the damage done 
 by dynamite. He had slept fitfully, in a fever of anticipa- 
 tion. 
 
 And yet he had kept secret his achievement in shooting 
 down Two-Bits. There was a time for all things and the 
 time to divulge that minor accomplishment was not yet. 
 For long he had been belittled, and had no standing among 
 his associaties; now they were banded in common cause, 
 
BECK'S DEPARTURE 229 
 
 he had made one step toward triumph and that move had re- 
 estabHshed the confidence that had lain dormant for long. 
 It had enabled Hilton's suggestions to take hold, enabled 
 him to whet his own hate, to v/ork himself into a paroxysm 
 of rage, and today he was to emerge a figure of conse- 
 quence, for he was to remove the obstacle which was in the 
 path of all. 
 
 Webb's battered field glasses were slung over his shoul- 
 der and as he picked out the lone dot of moving life, com- 
 ing slowly in his direction, he unstrapped the case with 
 hands that trembled. It required but one moment to iden- 
 tify that horse for none but Beck's roan swung along with 
 the same distance-eating shack; but McKee stared for a 
 long interval, his body tense, his breath slow and audible, 
 as if tantalizing himself by sight of that isolated rider, 
 teasing his hatred, teasing it. . . . 
 
 Then he mounted the gray and swung down the treacher- 
 ous point, seeking a big wash that made a wrinkle on in the 
 floor of the desert where storm vv^aters had rushed toward 
 the tank for countless decades. In this he could ride unseen 
 and he went forward at a trot, eyes straight ahead, moisten- 
 ing his lips from time to time. . . . 
 
T 
 
 % 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IN THE SHADOW 
 
 HE outcropping which formed Cathedral Tank stood 
 stark and saffron in the lap of the desert under the i 
 morning sun, flinging out slow waves of heat even at that j 
 early hour, as Sam McKee rode from the wash into the basin j 
 and stopped his horse. | 
 
 Since the mountains themselves were made that group '; 
 of pinnacles and ledges had jutted up from the seamed \ 
 desert, a landmark for miles around, catching the flood | 
 waters that rushed toward it from far hills. :;5 
 
 The name of the tank was result of no far-fetched im- 
 aginings for the granite rose in long, slender spires, as 
 though the thirsty desert reached great fingers toward the 
 sky in stiff appeal. Narrow defiles struck back into the 
 granite and sharp crevices cut deeply down between the 
 natural minarets, and at one place a larger opening led 
 backward into the rocks, widened and narrowed again, 
 forming the rough outlines of transept and nave. More, 
 the wind which always blew there often sounded deep notes 
 as of an organ when it wandered through narrow spaces. 
 
 On three sides this abrupt, ragged rise of rock shut in 
 the basin and the other was open to the waters that swept 
 down from the south and eastward. When McKee neared 
 this entrance he stopped his horse and reconnoitered. The 
 other rider was not in sight, lost in some of the many de- 
 pressions of the valley and many miles yonder, for the gray 
 horse had traveled a shorter distance and that at a trot. 
 The roan could not arrive for some time. ... So he rea- 
 soned. . . . 
 
 The man stopped his horse at the edge of the fresh, deep 
 
 230 
 
IN THE SHADOW 231 
 
 scar which Hepburn's explosive had made. Other tracks 
 were there, made by Riley yesterday. Across the way lay 
 the dead steers and overhead a buzzard wheeled slowly, 
 waiting to return to the feast from which he had been 
 frightened by Sam's approach. 
 
 " Bone dry ! " the man said aloud, and laughed. 
 
 Then he drank from his canteen and wiped his lips with 
 a long sigh, either in satisfaction or anticipation, and then 
 looked about; not absently, but with plan and craft. 
 
 To that point Beck would come, there he would stand, and 
 behind was a ledge on the face of the towering rock, higher 
 than a mounted man's head, deep and with enough backward 
 pitch to conceal thoroughly a man's body. It would be a 
 hard scramble, but he could gain it by aid of a tough stub 
 which grew on the wall. Once there he would be protected. 
 
 McKee rode close under this ledge and stood in his 
 saddle, lips parted and eyes alight. He could hold off a 
 regiment there ; what chance would one unsuspecting man 
 have ? As he stood so he unstrapped his gun and lay it with 
 its belt on the shelf. 
 
 He dropped down and rode into a nearby, narrow crevice, 
 where his horse could remain concealed, dismounted, and 
 took down his rope, preparatory to tieing the animal. 
 
 He believed his growing haste was only anticipation, but 
 perhaps there was a quality of premonition there. He had 
 been unable to follow Beck's progress and remain concealed 
 himself ; therefore he had not seen the roan pick up his 
 swinging trot as Tom's concentrated thought reached fer- 
 m.ent and he sought relief in speed. 
 
 McKee reached for the reins to lead his horse further 
 into the crevice. Then his heart leaped and he went quickly 
 cold as he looked at the animal. 
 
 The gray's head was up, ears stiff, eyes alert as a horse 
 will pose on sensing the approach of another animal. Even 
 as Sam's hands flashed out for his nose the nostrils flut- 
 tered and had he been an instant later a betraying whinner 
 would have gone echoing through the rocks to warn Beck. 
 
232 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 He drove his fingers into the soft muzzle and choked back 
 the sound. The gray stepped quickly and shook his head 
 whereat McKee relaxed his grasp somewhat. They then 
 stood quiet, both listening, the horse alert, the man weak 
 and white, breathing in fluttering gasps. 
 
 He was trapped ! Outside on the ledge where he had 
 planned to wait and shoot Beck down without giving or 
 taking a chance, lay his gun. On either side the walls rose 
 sheer, without so much as a hand-hold for yards above 
 his head ; before was a blank wall ; outside was Tom Beck. 
 And fear of a degree such as the man had never known 
 shook his body. 
 
 It was that fear which is as dangerous to an enemy as 
 the most absurd courage. Discovery would mean catas- 
 trophe; he had nothing to gain by shirking now! 
 
 Slowly he released his grip on the gray's nostrils, holding 
 ready to clamp down again should the horse attempt to 
 greet the other. He heard hoofs clatter on the rock basin, 
 knew that Beck had stopped. Then the wind soughed 
 through the rocks with its prolonged organ tone and for 
 the moment McKee could only guess what happened out 
 there. 
 
 The gray, with head turned, stared toward the opening 
 of the crevice and then as no other sounds came, swung his 
 head back to its normal position and switched rather lan- 
 guidly at flies. 
 
 Carefully McKee stole toward the entrance of the crevice 
 where he might see the other man. He went with a hand 
 against the granite, putting down his boots very carefully, 
 hoping against hope that Beck would be far enough away so 
 that he might either recover his gun or devise some means of 
 escape. Perspiration ran from beneath his hat band and 
 his hands were clammy cold. His breath continued in that 
 fluttering gasp. 
 
 Beck had dismounted and was squatted beside the scar 
 in the rocks. His roan stood a dozen feet behind him. 
 McKee peered out, measuring the distance quickly. The 
 
IN THE SHADOW 233 
 
 other's back was to him but there was no chance that he 
 could regain his gun without being detected. Beck's re- 
 volver swung from his hip, and McKee had nothing with 
 which to fight but the rope in his hands. . . . 
 
 The rope! He stared down at it and drew, back behind 
 the boulder of rock. The rope ! 
 
 An absurd, impotent device, but it had served purposes as 
 desperate as this ! Besides . . . there was a hope in it and, 
 for McKee, there was no other hope beneath that blue 
 dome of sky. . . . 
 
 He looked out again as he built his loop. Beck was on 
 hands and knees, peering down into the crack through which 
 stored waters had trickled away. Sam made the loop 
 quickly, steeled to caution. He moved out from his hiding 
 place a step . . . then another. The roan looked up, « . ith 
 a little whiff of breath and Beck, attracted by the movement, 
 the slight noise, turned his head sharply toward the horse. 
 
 It was then that the loop swirled and that McKee sped 
 forward a dozen paces as quickly, as quietly as a cat, 
 balanced, sure of himself in that crisis. From the tail 
 of his eye Beck saw the first loop cut the corner of his 
 range of vision and his body made the first lunge toward an 
 erect position as the lithe writhing thing sped through the 
 air. . . . 
 
 McKee had never thrown as true. The loop settled about 
 Tom's arms and beneath his knees. It came taut with an 
 angry rip through the hondou even as the snared man m.ade 
 the first move to throw it off. He was pitched violently for- 
 ward on his face, arms pinned to his sides, legs doubled 
 against his stomach. 
 
 The breath went from him in an angry oath of surprise 
 as McKee's breath shot from his lips in another oath . . . 
 of triumph. Hand over hand he went down the rope, 
 keeping it taut, yet hastening to reach the doubled body be- 
 fore Beck could wriggle free. He fell upon the other just 
 as one arm worked slack enough to permit the hand to 
 strain for the revolver at his hip. 
 
234 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Snarling, gibbering with a mingling of terror and rage, 
 McKee's one hand fastened on the gun. He clung to the 
 rope with the other, battering Beck, who struggled to rise, 
 back to earth v/ith his knees. His fingers clamped on 
 the grip of the Colt ; he pulled free : it flashed in the air 
 as his thumb sought the hammer and then, as he drove the 
 muzzle downward against its living target the man beneath 
 him bowed and writhed and he went over with a cry. A 
 fist struck his wTist, the revolver exploded in the air and 
 fell clattering, a dozen feet away. 
 
 Then it was man to man, a fight of bone and muscle . . . 
 bone, muscle and rope. Blindly McKee clung to the strand 
 with one hand. It passed about his body as they rolled 
 over. Beck's own weight, struggling to tear from it, tight- 
 ener its hold. Tom struck savagely at the face beside him 
 with his one free fist but McKee's knees, jamming into his 
 stomach, crushed breath from him. 
 
 For one vibrant instant their strength was matched, the 
 one's physical advantage offset by the handicap of the lariat 
 about him. And then the rope told. Slowly Tom's re- 
 sistence became less, gradually McKee wound the hemp 
 about his own hand and wrist, shutting down its sinuous 
 grasp, drawing Beck's body into a more compact knot. 
 With a desperate shift he was on top, winding the hard- 
 twist about Tom's hands, trussing them tightly behind his 
 back, licking his lips as he made his victim secure. 
 
 In that time neither had spoken nor did McKee utter 
 a sound as he rose, wiped the dust and sweat from his 
 eyes and surveyed the figure at his feet. Beck looked back 
 at him, the rage in his eyes giving way to a sane calcula- 
 tion. At the cost of great effort he rolled over and 
 propped himself on one elbow. A scratch on his forehead 
 sent a trickle of blood into one eye and he shook his head 
 to be rid of it, coughing slightly as he did so. 
 
 Now," he said, his panting becoming less noticeable, 
 
 what do you think you're goin' to do ? " 
 
 McKee laughed sharply and looked away. He walked 
 
 it 
 
IN THE SHADOW 235 
 
 to where the revolver lay in the sharp sunHght, picked it 
 up, broke it, examined the cartridges and closed it again. 
 
 " I come out here to kill you, Beck ; that's what I'm goin' 
 to do next." 
 
 He did not lift his voice but about his manner was a de- 
 fined swagger, the boasting of the craven who, for once, is 
 beyond fear of retribution. A slow shadow crossed between 
 them as the buzzard wheeled, waiting, lazily impatient. . . . 
 
 Beck delayed a brief interval before asking: 
 
 " Right here, Sam ? You going to kill me right here ? " 
 
 " Right here, you — ! " He spat out the unf orgiveable 
 epithet with a curl to his lip. For once he had this man 
 where he wanted him; Beck's life was in his hands . . . 
 right in his palm. ..." I'm goin' to kill you like I'd kill 
 a snake ! I've took a lot off you ; I've stood for a lot from 
 you, but you've gone too fur, you've played your hand too 
 high ! " 
 
 He began to feel a greater sense of his importance. He 
 was dominating and it was sweet. 
 
 " I've waited a long time, Beck ; I ain't forgot a thing 
 you've done to me; I've been waitin' for just this chance! 
 
 "Now I'm goin' to kill you, you — !" 
 
 Again the word, with even great conviction. The man's 
 lips trembled with rage, but as he glared down at the 
 other he saw the level, mocking eyes studying his. He 
 had not yet impressed Tom Beck, had not made him fear ! 
 It was disconcerting. 
 
 " What you goin' to kill me with, Sam ? " 
 
 *' With your own gun, by God ! " — spinning the cylinder. 
 
 A moment of silence while Sam looked at the dull barrel, 
 a queer, quick hesitancy coming over him, something he 
 did not understand, something he did not will. When, a 
 moment before, he felt that the situation would take a course 
 exactly as he willed ! 
 
 " With my own gun ! " Beck repeated. 
 
 McKee cocked the weapon and looked about. 
 
 " When you goin' to do this killing, Sam ? " 
 
236 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The level, mocking tone infuriated the other. 
 
 " Now ! " he cried, shaken by hate. " Now, by God ! " 
 
 He screamed the curse, threw the gun up to position and 
 glared into Beck's face, moving forward a step, standing 
 poised as though he would shoot and then fling himself upon 
 his victim to vent his festering rage with his fists. 
 
 But he had failed to reckon throughout on one fact: 
 The human eye is a stronger weapon than the inventive 
 genius of man has ever devised, and he was meeting the 
 gaze from an eye that was as steady, as fearless, as col- 
 lected as any he had ever seen. His courage was the 
 courage bred of cowardly impulses and it could not stand 
 before fearlessness. ... 
 
 "Right now, Sam?" 
 
 The question was low, gentle, and with another shade 
 of inflection might have been a plea. But it was no plea. 
 It was subtle, stinging mockery which penetrated McKee's 
 luider standing and gave full life to that desire to hesitate 
 which had shaken him a moment before. 
 
 " You ain't goin' to kill me right off, are you Sam? " 
 
 And at that McKee's irresolution became full blown. 
 His body sv/ung backward from its menacing poise, the gun 
 hand dropped just a degree ; his gaze, an instant before fixed 
 and red with hate, now wavered. 
 
 " No, you ain't going to kill me now, Sam. You ain't got 
 the guts!" 
 
 P^o^trate, bound, wholly helpless, miles from aid, Beck 
 
 -Ising those words from his lips. They pelted on McKee's 
 
   ears like hard flung stones and he looked back to see the 
 
 «Yes that a moment ago had been amused, blazing righteous 
 
 wrath. 
 
 " You wouldn't kill anybody, McKee," Beck said, after a 
 breathless pause. In that pause McKee's gun hand had 
 gone to his side and as it went down so did the flare of rage 
 in Beck's face. His eyes grew calm and steady again with 
 that covert amusement in them. 
 
 " You ain't just that kind of a man. If you'd been goin' 
 
IN THE SHADOW 237 
 
 to kill me you'd have done it right off. You wouldn't have 
 waited, like you're waitin' now. . . . You missed out on 
 your intentions, Sam, when you didn't do it pronto." 
 
 Across McKee's face swept a wave of helpless rage, 
 humiliation, shame, self revulsion. . . . He stood there un- 
 able to move. He wanted to kill with a lust that men seldom 
 feel, but he could not for he knew that he was a coward, 
 knew that Beck knew, and the assurance that it was within 
 his physical power to take a life without risk to his own 
 mattered not at all. The moral force was lacking. 
 
 He tried to meet Beck's gaze and hold it but he could 
 not. That man, even now, did not fear him, and to a man 
 who had been impelled to every strong act by fear, fearless- 
 ness is of itself an overwhelming force. 
 
 Tom talked on, lowly, confidently. He chided, he made 
 fun of his captor; he belittled himself, discussed his in- 
 ability to defend himself, but time after time he said with 
 emphasis : 
 
 " You're afraid of me, Sam." 
 
 Afraid of him ! Yes, McKee was fear-filled. He could 
 not kill and yet thought of the retribution that might come 
 for going even this far put him in a panic. There were 
 others who would kill. Webb would have done it, Hep- 
 burn might have . . . there was one other who would have 
 killed . . . Hilton, but he could not and the others were far 
 off. They would know, they would ridicule him and thought 
 of that, coming so close on that high expectation of triumph 
 that had sent him out onto the desert, made his position 
 hopeless. 
 
 He turned and walked slowly toward the ledge which was 
 to have been his assassin's hiding place. 
 
 ** Goin' to leave me, Sam ? " Beck asked. 
 
 '' You'll see what I'm goin' to do ? " McKee raved, wheel- 
 ing, suddenly articulate. " You'll see what'll happen to 
 you, you — ! What's already happened is only a starter. 
 I didn't intend to kill you myself. I only come here to hog- 
 tie you. I guess I done that, didn't I ? " 
 
238 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Ain't you just sure, Sam? " 
 
 The tone was stinging and where McKee might have 
 raved on he simply grasped the stub on the rock and 
 scrambled up until he could reach his revolver. 
 
 Beck asked if that was McKee's arsenal; wanted to know 
 more about Sam's plans ; wanted to know who sent him ; 
 wanted to know if any one else was coming or if they 
 were going out to meet others. . . . He talked gently, slowly, 
 tauntingly until McKee fidgetted like an embarrassed school 
 
 After a time Beck struggled to a sitting position, back 
 against a rock. The searing sun beat down on his bared 
 head, his wrists were puffing, fingers numb and swollen 
 from the ropes cutting into his flesh. His body ached 
 miserably, but he would not betray that. His throat burned 
 for water and there was water on his saddle, but he would 
 not mention thirst. There yet was danger ! He must keep 
 the other impressed with his inferiority. . . . 
 
 "That your pet buzzard, Sam?" he asked once, squint- 
 ing upward at the wheeling scavanger. " Somebody said 
 you kept one ... to pick up after you. . . ." 
 
 " You wait ! You'll have less to say after a while," Mc- 
 Kee growled and stared ofif toward the heights to the east- 
 ward, feigning expectancy. 
 
 And then, as McKee paced back and forth, covering his 
 helplessness and his fear to make another move, by the 
 sham of watching for other arrivals. Beck's mind began 
 working on a theory. Two-Bits had been shot down the 
 day he had driven McKee ofif H C range. He had been 
 shot from behind. McKee was the only one in the country 
 who had a personal quarrel with the homely cowboy. 
 
 It was clear enough to him but he feared that an accusa- 
 tion, bringing some demonstration of guilt, might bring 
 other things that he dared not risk. He played a game 
 that was desperate enough. He lived by the grace of Mc- 
 Kee's cowardice and that cowardice had permitted this 
 triumph by the scantest possible margin. To provoke the 
 
IN THE SHADOW 239 
 
 desperation that he knew was latent in Sam's heart would 
 be the rankest folly. 
 
 Noon, with blistering heat. McKee drank greedily, 
 water running down his chin and spattering over his boots. 
 It was agony for Beck but he fought against betraying 
 evidence of it, holding his eyes on the other and smiling a 
 trifle and wondering how long he could keep back the 
 groans. 
 
 McKee squatted in the shade of a rock for a time. Once 
 he looked at Beck while Tom was staring across the desert 
 and that hate flickered up in his eyes again ; then Tom looked 
 back and he got up and walked, licking his lips. 
 
 Two o'clock : " I don't guess they're comin' today, Sam. 
 Maybe you misunderstood 'em." 
 
 Three : " Sure is too bad to have your plans all go to 
 hell, isn't it, Sam ? " 
 
 The sensation had entirely gone from hands and lower 
 arms. His b>ceps and shoulders ached as though they had 
 been mauled ; his back was shot with hot stabs of pain. 
 
 But at four o'clock he said: '* You'd ought to have killed 
 me, Sam. That'd surprised 'em for sure ! " 
 
 He bit his lips to hold back the moan and for a time things 
 swam. He hoped that he would not lose consciousness 
 . . . hoped this rather vaguely, for vaguely he felt that 
 McKee would kill him should he be unable to realize what 
 transpired. He had a confused notion that Jane Hunter 
 was there and this disturbed him. He felt a poorly defined 
 sinking sensation. . . . Jane . . . and this. Why, then 
 this really mattered very little ! That his life was in dan- 
 ger, that his body hurt, were inconsequential details com- 
 pared to the love that had died yesterday, to the hurt of 
 his heart ! 
 
 A draft of cooler air, sucking through the rocks, roused 
 him and he looked up to find that the tank was entirely in 
 shadows. The rocks were still hot but the air which moved 
 above them was heavier, cooler. AIcKee paced nervously 
 back and forth. He wore two guns. 
 
240 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " You reckon somebody's goin' to steal me ? " Beck asked, 
 forcing his voice to be steady. '^ I didn't realize I was val- 
 uable enough to be close herded by a two-gun man." 
 
 With the moderation of temperature Tom's alertness re- 
 vived. 
 
 " I'm goin' to sleep right here, Sam ; where are you go- 
 ing to turn in ? " he asked. " I sleep pretty well in th' open ; 
 how about you ? " 
 
 He leaned forward slightly and his eye had a brighter 
 glint. Question after question he flung at the other. Now 
 and then McKee growled ; twice he cursed Beck, in vile ex- 
 plosions of oaths. At these Beck nodded in assent. 
 
 *' I sure am an undesirable," he said. 
 
 Back and forth, bewildered, McKee walked. He dared 
 not face the future with Beck alive ; he dared not take 
 Beck's life. He feared the punishment that might be his 
 for this much he had done ; he feared the relentless ridicule 
 of Webb and Hepburn and of Hilton ; he feared to go, he 
 feared to stay. And gradually this last fear grew. 
 
 " I think you ought to start out an' ride after 'em, Sam," 
 Beck advised. "Do they sabe this country? You better 
 go ; they might get strayed. I'll be here. I figure on stayin' 
 quite a time. I . . . Honest, Sam, I've had a hell of a 
 good time today. ..." 
 
 McKee wheeled in his walking. 
 
 " You'll stay all right ! " he screamed. " You damned 
 bet your dirty skin you won't go far ! You've been talkin' a 
 lot wiser than you know, you — ! You'll stay ! " 
 
 He dropped to his knees beside Tom and with a wrench 
 pulled off the man's boots. 
 
 The movement sent exquisite pains through Tom's body, 
 but he shut his teeth against them. He smiled, demonstrat- 
 ing more of the Spartan by that smile than he had at any 
 time during the day. 
 
 " You ain't figuring on walkin' your boots out, are you ? '* 
 he asked in mock solicitation. 
 
 " Never you mind, you — ! " McKee snarled. 
 
IN THE SHADOW 241 
 
 He brought out his horse, tightened -the cinch and led him 
 toward the roan. He tied Tom's boots to his own saddle 
 and then without looking at the man he had come to kill 
 and who he was leaving bound, waterless, without boots or a 
 horse, twenty miles from the first help, he lashed the roan 
 with his quirt, sharply about the head and, when the big 
 creature wheeled in surprise, about the hocks. 
 
 Kicking, frightened, stepping on the reins and breaking 
 them oflf. Beck's horse ran away. Ran scot free, head up, 
 out to the eastward, abused and headed for home. He 
 began to buck, pitching desperately. The saddle worked 
 back and under and down. He kicked it free. Somewhere 
 between the tank and that fallen saddle. Beck knew was his 
 canteen. But McKee did not know. He mounted and 
 stuck into the wash through which he had ridden hours 
 before, lashing the gray to a gallop, putting distance between 
 his menace, his shame. . . . 
 
 And back in the tank as night came on a man for whom 
 every move was torment rolled and wriggled from place to 
 place, searching doggedly for a ragged rock, among those 
 that were water-worn and smooth. 
 
 The buzzard had ceased his wheeling, the stars came out. 
 Beck talked aloud rather crazily. Everything seemed 
 smooth ; even the pain became less harsh ; everything was 
 soft and easy . . . remarkably so. . . . Until his cheek felt 
 a ragged, narrow edge of rock, close in against the base 
 of the tallest spire. Moaning feebly he wriggled against 
 it until the ropes touched the edge. Then, with great labor, 
 he began to writhe and twist. It took hours to fray out 
 a single strand, and his arms were bound by many . . . 
 hours. . . . 
 
 And when finally his arms fell apart, sensations, fiendish, 
 killing sensations, began to stab through them, he laughed 
 lightly and ended shortly. He was free ! . . . 
 
 Free? 
 
 Just at that time back in the H C ranch house a woman 
 
242 THE LAST STRAW ' 
 
 i 
 
 rose from her tumbled bed and dressed. Her eyes were dry i 
 
 though her breath came unevenly. | 
 
 She looked into her mirror as she put on her hat. \ 
 
 " You're a fool ! " she cried lowly. " A fool ! . . . False j 
 
 pride has taken two days out of your life . . . two precious j 
 
 days ! " { 
 
 She ran down the stairs, out to the corral and saddled j 
 
 her sorrel horse. A 
 
 S\ 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 
 
 IT was a long ride from the H C to the round-up camp 
 but the sorrel was not spared. The impulse that sent 
 Jane Hunter through the last hours of darkness had only 
 accumulated strength before the resistance which had held 
 it back through those dragging days. She was on her 
 way to her lover, to explain in a word the situation that 
 had caused the breach between them ; she had fought down 
 the pride of which that resistence was made and now her 
 every thought, her every want was to make Beck know 
 that it was humiliation and injured pride rather than in- 
 fidelity which had sent him away. 
 
 Thought that she had failed to stand self possessed be- 
 fore Bobby Cole — a burning, shaming thought yesterday 
 — was relegated to an obscure place in her consciousness. 
 She had fallen short of the poise her lover would have her 
 retain, but that did not matter . . . not now. 
 
 Without Beck's love there was nothing for her, she had 
 come to believe and she experienced a strange, little-girl 
 feeling, fleeing toward the protecting arms that could com- 
 fort and hold her safe from the blackness that was else- 
 where. 
 
 She leaned low on the sorrel's neck and called to him and 
 he ran through the dying night breathing excitedly as her 
 impatience was communicated to him. Dawn yawned in 
 the east and the mountains took shape. The road became 
 discernable before her. She drew the excited horse down 
 to a trot and forced herself to force him to conserve some 
 of his splendid energy. . . . Then urged him forward, a 
 moment later, at a stretching run. . . . 
 
 243 
 
244 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The round-up camp was moving that day. The riders 
 were up and the first had swung oft" for the work of the 
 morning before she pulled her horse to a stop beside the 
 chuck wagon. 
 
 " He ain't here, ma'am," Oliver replied to her query for 
 Beck. 
 
 " Not here ? " — sharply, for she sensed from him that 
 something was wrong. 
 
 " No. He left yesterday. He told me to head this 
 ride. He — " 
 
 "And where did he go?" she broke in, voice not just 
 steady. 
 
 '' I don't know, ma'am." The man studied her face in- 
 tently, seeing the confusion there, adding it to the evidence 
 he had collected to piece out a theory. '' I thought maybe 
 he said something to you about quitting." 
 
 '' Quitting! You don't mean that ! " 
 
 " It looks like it, ma'am. I didn't know just how to take 
 vv'hat he said. It seems like somethin' 's got him worried. 
 He wasn't like himself. You wouldn't know him. 
 
 " He said that future plans for this outfit didn't interest 
 him. He said he was leavin' and it wasn't likely he'd be 
 back but it wasn't so much what he said as it was th' way 
 he said it that made me think he was goin' to drift. We 
 all know he's got some pretty active enemies but it wasn't 
 like Beck to run away from 'em. Still. . . . 
 
 " He left me in charge an' said I was to take orders from 
 you. He ain't showed up since and Lord knows where he'd 
 go except out of the country." 
 
 Out of the country ! The words made her hear but 
 vaguely the story of the ruined Tank and the questions 
 about the work that Oliver put to her. Out of the coun- 
 try ! He had gone, then, thinking that her love had not 
 been a fast love, that she was wholly unworthy. He had 
 taken his chance and had lost and that loss had taken from 
 him even the desire to stay and face the men who would 
 drive him out of the countrv because he had defended her ! 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 245 
 
 Later Jane found herself riding homeward, the sorrel 
 at a walk, her mind numb and heavy. Last night it had been 
 a question of love against her pride ; she had sacrificed the 
 latter only to find that that sacrifice had been made too 
 late. 
 
 She wanted, suddenly, to quit ... to quit trying . . . 
 thinking. . . . 
 
 She canvased the situation : she was alone, without an un- 
 derstanding individual upon whom to lean. She was the tar- 
 get for great forces of evil which sought to undermine her 
 very determination to exist in that country. A faint wave 
 of resentment made itself felt at that. They would continue 
 their war and upon a lone woman ! She realized her posi- 
 tion more keenly than she had before, when Beck had been 
 shielding her. Now she stood unprotected. If she were to 
 exist she must stand alone! 
 
 Her mind went back to that time when Dick Hilton had 
 told her that she could not stand alone and her resentment 
 became a degree more pronounced. 
 
 The lethargy, the hopelessness clung but behind it was 
 something else, a realization that she had not lost utterly. 
 She had lost the love she had found, but had she failed to 
 gain anything? Yesterday it seemed that the ripest fruits 
 of experience were hers ; she had position — menaced, but 
 still hers — she had love. Months before she had aban- 
 doned the quest of love, seeking only to stand alone. She 
 might go back to her outlook of those days, put aside the 
 call of her heart and seek only for place; she could make 
 that search intelligently now ! 
 
 She sat at her desk, a spirit of resignation coming as a 
 sort of comfort. If she had lost love, had she lost all that 
 there was in life ? No, not that ! There was something else 
 she had found in these months: She had found herself! 
 
 Tom Beck was gone, his love for her was dead, miles 
 were between them, and she believed she knew him well 
 enough to understand that he had put her forever behind 
 him. She had lost the true fulfillment of life, perhaps, but 
 
246 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 something remained. And the question came : Why not 
 make the best of it? Why not keep what remains? Why 
 not fight for it? Why not stand alone f 
 
 Oh, she had not known the strength that had been born 
 of Beck's resistance to her wooing! That morning she be- 
 Heved that she could quit, that she could drift aimlessly, 
 bufifeted by vagrant influences, but now she knew that she 
 could not. A compelling force had been started within her 
 which would not down, a driving impulse to keep on, to 
 salvage her self respect, to wrest from life what remained. 
 
 And in this she recognized that quality which Beck had 
 planted in her, which he had nourished and coaxed and 
 made to grow. To keep on would be rite offered at the 
 shrine of her love for him . . . though he was gone. . . . 
 
 For a moment she cried and after that hope was born. 
 He might return; she might even follow and make him un- 
 derstand. She set that back, resolutely. Tom Beck was 
 gone from her life, she told herself, but his influence re- 
 mained. That could never go ; by error she had lost final 
 achievement : love. By error she had been thrown back 
 upon herself, her own resources, her own will. 
 
 The war that was waged upon her had been a terrifying 
 thing yesterday; now it was even more horrible for it 
 sought to take from her the last thing that remained to be 
 desired, and that could not be ! 
 
 She wiped her eyes angrily and repeated aloud: 
 
 '' That cannot be ! " 
 
 She must fight on alone; fight harder than she ever had 
 fought in her life before. It was up to her, now, to re- 
 main fast in the face of efforts to dislodge her. 
 
 Jane paced the floor nervously, in quick, swinging strides. 
 There was the burning of hay, the breaking of ditches ; there 
 was the shooting down of Two-Bits, the destruction of 
 Cathedral Tank, there was the presence in the Hole of the 
 nester and his daughter. At thought of Bobby a sharp 
 pang shot through her. There was a woman who could 
 dominate! There, perhaps, was the key to the puzzle. 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 247 
 
 Beck had intimated that her enemies found a nucleus in the 
 nester's outfit; the Reverend had been outspoken in his 
 suspicion ; she had confided in Riley that she suspected some- 
 thing of the sort. Cole himself was a negligible quantity 
 but the girl was not. The catamount might hold Jane Hun- 
 ter's fate in her hand ... the hand that had struck her! 
 
 On her desk lay the envelope in which had been Beck's 
 note; beside it the locket. She paused, picked up the 
 trinket and studied it as it lay on her small palm. Slowly 
 she lifted it to her lips, clutched it tightly and then with a 
 catch of breath fastened it about her neck, where it nestled 
 as though coming home again. 
 
 She needed her luck, he had written ! Oh yes, she needed 
 her luck ! 
 
 And even then a rider was speeding across the hills to- 
 ward her, lashing his horse, crashing through brush, leap- 
 ing down timber, clattering ove/ treacherous ledges to save 
 time : and other men were riding on Jimmy Oliver's orders, 
 bringing the cow-boys in off their circles, assembling them in 
 Devil's Hole where a group of men stood silent and sul- 
 len. . . . 
 
 Oh, she would fight on, desperate in her determination to 
 crowd thought of a lost love from her life ! She welcomed 
 combat for it would be as a balm to that gaping wound of 
 loss. 
 
 Later she saw the rider come into the ranch on his lathered 
 horse. He flung off at the bunk house and, a moment later, 
 came running toward her with Curtis at his side. 
 
 Alarmed, Jane met them at the door with a query on her 
 lips. 
 
 '* They want you in the Hole, ma'am," Curtis said. 
 
 " What's the trouble ? " — for it could be nothing but 
 trouble which would bring men in such haste and she had a 
 crisp fear that it pertained to Beck. 
 
 " They've got Cole down there with a lot of your calves 
 an' he's put his brand on 'em. Webb's there, too, an' Hep- 
 burn. They're holdin' 'em all for you to come," the mes- 
 
248 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 senger said. He was excited, he breathed rapidly and 
 added : " Ohver an' Riley agreed you ought to come. It's 
 your property . . . an' it's your fight." 
 
 Her fight ! Her fight, indeed ! Perhaps this was a draw- 
 ing to a head of the forces that had been arrayed against 
 her. The man had mentioned Webb and Hepburn as though 
 he considered their presence of significance. 
 
 A pinto, this time, bore her away from the ranch, the 
 man, tense and silent, riding beside her. She did not speak 
 as they scrambled up the point and gained high country 
 nor did she look at him as they set into a gallop again. 
 An indistinct haze was coming in the west with a looming 
 thunder head protruding from it here and there. The 
 wind in their faces was hot and fitful. The scarf about 
 her neck fluttered erratically. 
 
 Jane had little attention for the detail of that ride. This 
 was her fight and she raced to meet it w^ith an eagerness 
 born of necessity to retain what she might of the happiness 
 she had made hers. And as she rode Tom Beck, pieces 
 cut from his chaps bound about his feet to protect them 
 on the long journey by foot, his retrieved canteen over his 
 shoulder, limped into the camp, heard the cook's vague, dis- 
 connected story of the discovery that had been made in the 
 Hole, borrowed boots, saddled a horse and rode swiftly 
 across the hills. 
 
 The pinto took Jane down the trail in great lunges, for 
 she had no thought for dangers of the descent. At the foot 
 was one of her men, Baldy Bowen, sitting ominously on his 
 horse with a rifle across the horn. He watched her come 
 and before she could speak jerked his head and said: 
 
 " They're waitin' for you, straight across there, ma'am." 
 
 She glanced in his direction and set ofif with renewed 
 speed, winding through the cedars. 
 
 Against the far wall of the Hole was formed a curious 
 group before a fence of brush and wire that blocked the 
 entrance to a box gulch. H C riders were there, dis- 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 249 
 
 mounted, in a silent, unsmiling cluster. Under a cedar tree 
 sat Cole, the nester, knees drawn up, arms falling limply 
 over them; more than ever he seemed to be drooping, in 
 spirit as well as body. He did not glance up; just sat, 
 staring from beneath drooping lids at the ground. Nearby 
 lounged one of Jane's cowboys, his holster hitched sig- 
 nificantly forward. 
 
 Apart from these others stood Hepburn, Webb and Bobby 
 Cole and one other, curiously out of place in his smart 
 clothes : Dick Hilton. Now and then one of the four spoke 
 and the others would eye the speaker closely; then look 
 away, absorbed in a situation that was evidently beyond 
 words. Sitting grouped on the ground were Webb's riders 
 and Cole's Mexicans. They talked and laughed lowly 
 among themselves and from time to time turned rather 
 taunting grins at Jane Hunter's men. 
 
 At a short distance stood horses, grazing or dozing; list- 
 less, all. But there was no listlessness among the men. 
 The atmosphere was tense ... to the breaking point. 
 
 A rider came through the brush -and stopped his horse. It 
 was Sam McKee. He looked with widening eyes at the 
 gathering, hesitated, as though to turn and leave, then ap- 
 proached. 
 
 " I seen two men in th' Gap," he said to Webb. '' They 
 said. . . ." 
 
 He looked about again. 
 
 " Well, get down an' set," Webb said cynically. 
 
 McKee stared from face to face. 
 
 '' I guess I'll go on." 
 
 " I guess you'll stay here," said Jimmy Oliver firmly. 
 '*W^e've got a little matter to talk over an' nobody leaves. 
 I guess the boys in th' Gap probably thought you'd like to 
 hear what was goin' on." 
 
 Hilton stepped toward Oliver. 
 
 " Look here," he said, " I'm a disinterested party to all 
 this. There's no use in my staying here." 
 
 " What I said to Sam goes for everybody else, Mister. 
 
2^0 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 When we put riders In the Gap an' at the trails we intended 
 for everybody to hang around. That goes. Everybody ! " 
 
 Then he added: "If anybody wants to get out it'll be 
 pretty good evidence that he's got somethin' to hide. This 
 's a matter that the whole country's interested in. You ain't 
 got nothin' to hide, have you ? " 
 
 The Easterner did not reply; turned back to Bobby with 
 a grimace. 
 
 Sound of running hoofs and a quick silence shut down 
 upon the gathering. The clouds were coming up more 
 rapidly from the west; day was drawing down into them; 
 the wind on the heights soughed restlessly. 
 
 Jane Hunter brought her pinto to an abrupt stop and 
 sat, flushed and wind-blown, looking about. 
 
 "Well?" she said to Jimmy Oliver as he stepped for- 
 ward. 
 
 " We sent for you, ma'am, because we stumbled onto 
 somethin' that looks bad . . . for somebody." 
 
 Her eyes ran from face to face. In the expression of her 
 men she read a curious loyalty, mingled with speculation. 
 They watched her closely as Oliver spoke, as men look upon 
 a leader, as though waiting for her to speak that they 
 might act. Still, about them was a reservation, as though 
 their acceptance of her was conditional, as though they won- 
 dered what she would say or do. 
 
 She saw Webb and Hepburn eyeing her craftily ; she saw 
 Bobby Cole's gaze on her, filled with hate and scorn . . . 
 and a strange brand of fear. And she saw Dick Hilton, eye- 
 ing her with helpless rage and offended dignity. The entire 
 assemblage was grimly in earnest. 
 
 '' Go on," she said lowly and dismounted, standing erect 
 on a rise of rock that put her head and shoulders above the 
 others. 
 
 " Jim Black here," — indicating a cowboy in white angora 
 chaps — " took down the trail after a renegade steer this 
 forenoon. He came on this place and a hot fire and a 
 yearlin* steer of yours whose brand had been tampered with. 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 251 
 
 " There's been enough goin' on recent, ma'am, to let 
 everybody know that something was pretty wrong. Mebby 
 we've run onto the answer today. That's why we sent for 
 you." 
 
 She looked about again and old Riley, moving out from 
 the group slowly, as a man who feels that the welfare of 
 others may be in his hands might move, said: 
 
 ** For twenty years we've lived quite peaceable here, Miss 
 Hunter. Since spring we've had anything but peace. It 
 ain't a question that concerns any one of us alone ; it ef- 
 fects the whole country. We've got evidence here of 
 stealin'; we've got a man who, in our minds, ought to be 
 tried for that crime. . . . 
 
 " We sent for you because it happened to be your prop- 
 erty. There's plenty of law in the mountains, but things 
 have happened here that have put men beyond that law. 
 Parties have resorted to the law of strength, and not honest 
 strength at that. It's time it was stopped or some of us 
 ain't goin' to exist. . . . 
 
 " I know this ain't a pleasant task for a woman, but it 
 seems like somethin' you've got to face ... if you're goin' 
 to stay here. I guess you understand that, ma'am." 
 
 Jane's heart leaped in apprehension, she was short of 
 breath, blood roared in her ears, but she fought to retain 
 at least a show of composure. 
 
 " It seemed there wasn't any way out of it, but to turn 
 the matter over to you. We'll all tell what we know ; 
 we'll see that there's order here. We agreed you ought to 
 sit as judge on the evidence against this man." 
 
 Again a consciousness of those faces upon her; faces 
 of her men, honest, rugged, brave fellows, looking to her 
 to stand alone ! She knew, then, what that alloy in their 
 loyalty had been. They would follow if she would lead; 
 there was doubt in their hearts that she could lead, for she 
 was a woman, she was a stranger and not their kind ! For 
 months they had watched her, refusing to judge, but now 
 the time had come. Now, if she ever was to stand alone. 
 
252 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 she must rise in her own strength and be worthy to lead 
 such men ! 
 
 Then there were those others : Hepburn and Webb and 
 their outlaw following ; perhaps, among them, the man who 
 had shot Two-Bits down when he was serving her ; perhaps 
 the man who had burned her hay, broken her ditches, run 
 off her horses. The men who would drive her out. 
 
 She felt suddenly weak. They were all watching her. 
 This was the hour in which she must win or lose. It was 
 she, not Alf Cole, who was on trial ! 
 
 Jane began to speak, rather slowly, but evenly and clearly. 
 
 *' I want the story from the beginning. Jim Black, will 
 you tell what you know ? " 
 
 Thus simply she accepted her responsibility to the coun- 
 try, took up her final fight for position there. 
 
 Black stepped forward, serious, quiet, showing no self 
 consciousness whatever as the eyes swung upon him. 
 Webb's riders had risen and were grouped behind their 
 leader. 
 
 " Jimmy told you how I happened here. This steer, 
 ma'am, cut across the flat an' I followed. I heard bawlin' 
 over this way an', naturally, was surprised. Pulled up 
 my boss an' rode over. There was a fire in that gulch, an' 
 it'd just been scattered. A man had been kneelin' down 
 by it, an' there was one of your yearlin's hog-tied there. 
 Your ear mark was still on him but your brand had been 
 made from an H C into a T H O by crossin' the H an' 
 closin' the C." 
 
 He stooped and with his quirt demonstrated thusly: 
 
 hC TO 
 
 " There was other calves in there. I counted sixteen. 
 They was all T H O stuff an' they was all mighty young." 
 
 " Did you see any men? " she asked. 
 
 He shook his head. " I dragged it for high country, got 
 Jimmy an' told him." 
 
A MOUNIAIN PORTIA 253 
 
 ** Oliver, have someone bring out this yearhng," Jane said. 
 
 Two men mounted their horses, opened the brush gate, 
 roped the steer and dragged him, bawhng, into the assem- 
 blage. Jane stepped down from her rock and, with a dozen 
 others crowding about, examined the brand. 
 
 '* That's unmistakable," she said lowly as she straight- 
 ened. " Part of that brand healed months ago ; the rest is 
 fresh.'' 
 
 She moved back to the rock on which she had stood and 
 rested a hand on the pinto's withers. 
 
 " Oliver, what did you do ? " she asked. 
 
 " I gathered the boys an' come down here as fast as I 
 could. I saw this pen an' the calves. I sent men to both 
 trails an' two to the Gap with orders to shoot to kill any- 
 body that tried to get out. Then I went to Cole's house. 
 
 *' Cole swore up an' down that he didn't know anything 
 about it. His gal was there an' this here party from the 
 east," — with a rather contemptuous jerk of his head to- 
 ward Hilton. " I brought Cole back here an' the others 
 followed. 
 
 " Seems Webb and Hepburn an' their men was in th' Hole. 
 I didn't know it. Th' gal . . . she went to get 'em. 
 
 " It's just as well," — dryly. *' This ain't a matter that af- 
 fects any one of us. It's for everybody in th' country to 
 consider." 
 
 Hepburn stirred uneasily as Jane looked from Oliver to 
 him. 
 
 " I think all that's necessary is to talk to Mr. Cole," she 
 said. 
 
 The nester looked up slowly and laboriously gained his 
 feet. He slouched toward the girl. 
 
 *' I don't know nothin' about it," he said in his whining 
 voice. 
 
 Bobby Cole took a quick step forward as he spoke, but 
 Hepburn put out a detaining hand and muttered a word. 
 She stopped. Her face was colorless ; eyes hard and bright; 
 
254 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 she breathed quickly and seemed almost on the verge of 
 tears. 
 
 " Who built this pen ? '* Jane asked. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 "Did you ever see it before?" 
 
 " No, I — well, I did see it, but I don't know nothin' about 
 it." 
 
 *' You've been here all the Spring and didn't know any- 
 thing about it ? " 
 
 Her tone was sharp, decisive and the color had mounted 
 in her face. She leaned slightly forward from the hips. 
 
 " No, I don't know nothin' about it," he protested, lifting 
 his characterless eyes to her's. 
 
 " Who brands your cattle ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " No one else ? " 
 
 " Not another,"- — with a slow shaking of the head. 
 
 " Can you think of anybody who would put your brand 
 on my cattle ? " 
 
 " No. Nobody would hev done that." 
 
 " But have you looked at this steer ? " — indicating the 
 yearling with the indisputable evidence on his side. 
 
 Cole lifted an unsteady hand to scratch his mustache, 
 eyed the animal furtively and glanced at Hepburn. As 
 their eyes .met Hepburn's head moved in slight, quick nega- 
 tion. Ever so slight, ever so quick, but Jane Hunter saw 
 and Hepburn saw that she saw and a guilty flush whipped 
 into his face, spreading clear to the eyes. 
 
 " Hasn't someone been working over my brand ? " she 
 demanded, forcing Cole to look at her again. 
 
 '* I don't know ... I dunno nothin' about it. . . ." 
 
 She breathed deeply and moved a step backward. 
 
 " How do you suppose these calves come to be here ? 
 My calves, with your brand on them ? " 
 
 " Them is my calves, ma'am," he protested, weakly. 
 " Them is old brands." 
 
 " Oh, all but this yearling belong to you ? " 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 255 
 
 (t 
 (I 
 
 Yes," — nodding* his head as his confidence rallied. 
 Them's all mine. I branded 'em myself." 
 And why do you keep them here ? " 
 Well, there's water an' feed an' I wanted to wean 
 
 'em — " 
 
 " And a moment ago you said you knew nothing about 
 this pen ? " 
 
 A flicker of confusion crossed the man's face and again 
 he looked away toward Hepburn in mute appeal. Hep- 
 burn's face reflected a contempt, a wrath, and for a frac- 
 tion of time Jane studied it intently, a quick hope forming 
 in her breast. She lifted a hand to touch, in unconscious 
 caress, the locket which was at her throat. 
 
 " Look at me, Cole ! " she cried and her body trembled. 
 Her tone was compelling, she experienced a sensation of 
 mounting power, felt that she was dominating and without 
 looking she knew that the men before her stirred, impressed 
 by her rising confidence. *' Look at me and answer my ques- 
 tions ! " 
 
 Hesitatingly the man looked back and then dropped his 
 eyes. 
 
 *' \Vell, I said I knew it w^as here." 
 
 '' You knew more than that. You have been using it. 
 How long ago was it built ? " 
 
 " A month — Oh, I dunno — " 
 
 " What about a month ? " she insisted, gesturing bruskly. 
 ** What about a month ? " 
 
 " I dunno." 
 
 She relaxed a trifle again and eyed the confused, visibly 
 agitated man. For a breath the place was in utter silence. 
 The gloom deepened; the wind held off. It was as though 
 the crisis were at hand. . . . And just then the man at the 
 foot of the trail across the flat put down his rifle and said 
 with a short laugh : 
 
 " I didn't make you out, Tom." 
 
 When Jane spoke again it was in an easier tone. 
 
256 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 *' How did you happen to come to this country, Cole ? " 
 
 He looked up, relief showing in his face as she aban- 
 doned the other line of questioning. Hepburn stirred and 
 Webb lifted a hand to hook his thumb in his belt. 
 
 " Why, I heered about this place. Good feed an' water 
 an' a place to settle. So I just come ; that's all." 
 
 " How did you hear about it? " 
 
 " A feller told me." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 *' I dunno his name. I — " 
 
 " How many cows have you ? " 
 
 Her voice was suddenly sharp and hard as she cut in 
 on his impotent evasion and shifted her subject again. 
 
 '' Why, 'bout twenty." 
 
 " And how many calves are with them ? " 
 
 He seemed to calculate, but she insisted, leaning closer 
 to him : 
 
 " How many calves ? " 
 
 " Why, not more'n half of 'em got calves." 
 
 "Sure? Not more than half?" 
 
 " Why ... I guess — " 
 
 " And you've got sixteen young calves in this pen ! How 
 do you account for that ? " 
 
 •A murmur ran among her men and Cole looked at her 
 with fright in his eyes. 
 
 *' I dunno ! " he suddenly burst out, voice trembling. " I 
 dunno nothin' about it. You've all got me here an' are 
 pickin' on me. I didn't steal anything. I thought they 
 was all mine." And then, in a broken, repressedly frantic 
 appeal : " I don't want to go to jail again. I don't know 
 nothin' . . ." 
 
 " Again ? " she said, quite gently. 
 
 He looked at her and nodded slowly. The little resist- 
 ance he had offered her was gone ; his limbs trembled and 
 his eyes had that whipped, abject look that a broken spirited 
 dog will show. 
 
 "You've been in jail once? For stealing cattle? 
 
 M 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 257 
 
 " I didn't steal. . . . They said I did. They didn't want 
 me around. They're Hke all you big outfits ; they don't want 
 me . . , they don't want me. ..." 
 
 He lifted one hand in a gesture of hopeless appeal and 
 tears showed in his eyes. They didn't want him, as she 
 didn't want him ! And suddenly an overwhelming pity 
 surged upward in the girl for this man. It was like her, 
 like all the .Jane Hunters, like all men and women in whose 
 hearts great strength and great pity is combined. There 
 was no question of his guilt, but he was helpless before her; 
 his fate was in her hands . . . and back in her mind that 
 other theory was forming; that other hope was coming to 
 stronger life. . . . 
 
 " Cole, did you steal my calves ? " 
 
 She leaned low and spoke intently; her voice was a 
 mingling of resolution and warmth that created confidence 
 in his heart. For a- moment he evaded her look ; then an- 
 swered it and a sob came up into his thin throat and shook 
 it. He looked from her to Hepburn and then to Webb and 
 read there something that Jane, whose eyes followed his, 
 could not read ; all she could read was threat . . . threat, 
 threat ! 
 
 "Did you steal my calves?" she repeated in a tone even 
 lower. 
 
 She saw her men strain forward. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want to go to jail!" he said and tears 
 streamed down his seamed cheeks. " I took 'em . . . but 
 I'm a poor man ... a poor man. . . ." 
 
 From Bobby came a stifled cry. She started forward 
 again, but this time it was Hilton who grasped her arm, 
 rather roughly. He drew her back, hissing a word between 
 his teeth. His eyes glittered. 
 
 Riley stepped forward quickly beside Cole. His face was 
 strained ; mouth very grim. Oliver was beside him ; breath- 
 ing quickly. 
 
 " What's your verdict, Miss Hunter? " Riley asked. His 
 voice was hoarse. 
 
258 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 '< '\r. 
 
 'ou have heard it," she said gently. " You heard it 
 from his Hps." 
 
 She was not looking at them, but at Bobby Cole, who 
 stood with knuckles pressed against her lips, fright, misery 
 in her staring eyes. The strength, the vindictiveness was 
 gone. She was a little girl, then, a little girl in trouble ! 
 
 '' Then I guess there's nothin' to do, but to go through with 
 this ourselves." The old cattle man spoke slowly and rather 
 heavily. '' Cole, there's a way of treatin' thieves in this 
 country that's gone out of fashion in recent years ; we ain't 
 had to hang nobody for a long time, but — " 
 
 " Stop ! " 
 
 It was a clear, ringing cry from Jane that checked Riley, 
 that caused the man who had grimly picked up his rope to 
 stand holding it motionless in his hand. 
 
 " This is a matter for all of us, but by common consent 
 I was selected to judge this man. He has admitted his 
 guilt after an opportunity to protest his innocence. Now 
 you must let me pass sentence. ..." 
 
 " Sentence, ma'am ? " Riley asked. " There's only one 
 way. This has been war: they've warred you, they've 
 threatened to drive you out. It's you or . . . your enemies. 
 This man is your proven enemy. Make an example of him. 
 He's guilty; nothin' else should be considered!" 
 
 " One thing," she said, smiling for the first time that 
 afternoon, a slow, serious, grave smile, withal a tender smile, 
 as she looked at Cole, the trembling craven. 
 
 ''One thing: The quality of mercy! 
 
 "Men, do you know that line? 'The quahty of mercy 
 is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from 
 heaven ' ? 
 
 " Mercy is the most holy thing in human relations. It is 
 a blessing not only to the man who receives it, but to the 
 man that gives ! " 
 
 The first, dissenting stir died. This was no dodging, no 
 evading the issue. This was something new and her manner 
 caught their interest as she stood with one outstretched 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 259 
 
 hand appealing frankly for their attention and understand- 
 ing. 
 
 " This man has stolen from me. You have seen him 
 here. He has shown himself to be a weakling, a poor, 
 wretched man, who has neither friends nor respect for 
 himself. He has known trouble before." She looked from 
 the man before her to Bobby whose strained face was on 
 her's with amazement, whose breast rose and fell irregularly, 
 in whose eyes stood tears. " I think that he has known 
 little but trouble; he has been unfortunate perhaps because 
 he tried to help himself by troubling others. There is only 
 one thing left in life for him and that is his liberty. 
 
 ** He cannot hurt me. He cannot hurt any of us from 
 now on. He knows what we know of this thing today. 
 He will stand before us all as a man who has not played 
 the game fairly. 
 
 " Do you fear him ? Do you young, strong men fear 
 this man? . . . No, you don't! No more than I. We have 
 seen him humbled; we have heard him plead. Giving him 
 his liberty will cost us nothing, I will go so far as to 
 promise you that he will never steal from us again ... if 
 we do this for him. . . . Don't you agree with me ? " 
 
 She looked from face to face, but as her eyes traveled 
 they were not for an instant unconscious of other faces . . . 
 back there ; faces to which had come relief, relaxation, color, 
 after tensity and pallor; faces which the next instant were 
 dark and apprehensive, for she said: 
 
 " I don't want you to think that I am through . . . not 
 now. There has been stealing, but that has been only a part 
 of the trouble. There have been other things, things which 
 this man who we know has stolen would not do. Let us not 
 be satisfied with cutting off the top of this weed w^hich has 
 poisoned the range; let us try to get to the roots and tear 
 them out ! " 
 
 She stood, beautiful in the confidence which, with a sen- 
 tence, wath a gesture, had checked these men in their de- 
 termination to administer justice as it once had been admin- 
 
26o THE LAST STRAW 
 
 istered in those hills, which had stilled dissent on their lips, 
 which had switched their reasoning into a new path. Alone 
 among them she could dominate ! Her strength, doubted an 
 hour ago, over-rode Riley's influence, created by years of 
 prestige on the range, even made that old cattleman stand 
 back and wait respectfully, wondering what she had to say. 
 Her color was high, eyes bright, lips parted slightly in a 
 grave, assured smile, and he one extended hand, small, 
 white, delicate held them ! 
 
 '' This thievery was only a symptom, only an indication 
 of what has transpired," she went on. " Just the outward 
 evidence of those desires and impulses which have turned 
 into chaos the peace of this beautiful country. Into that 
 we must inquire and there is one more witness I v/ant to 
 call." 
 
 She hesitated, then said gently : 
 
 " Bobby Cole." 
 
 A low murmur again ran through the group and from 
 the clouds above them came a muttering of thunder. 
 
 All turned to look at the girl and so intent were they that 
 they did not see a horseman ride through the trees and 
 stop and look ; and dismount. Tom Beck walked slowly to- 
 ward the group, until he could lay a hand on the hip of Jane 
 Hunter's pinto. Then he stood behind her, eyes curious. 
 
 " Will you come up here and talk to me ? " Jane asked. 
 
 The other girl remained motionless. 
 
 " Well now. Miss Hunter, don't you think — " Hepburn 
 began in mild protest. 
 
 " I think many things, Mr. Hepburn. My purpose is 
 either to justify or to convince myself that I think wrongly. 
 Will you come . . . Bobby?" 
 
 Almost mechanically the girl moved forward. Hilton 
 muttered a quick word to Webb and Webb glanced back 
 nervously. Two oi his men moved closer. 
 
 " But we've found out about your calves, Miss Hunter. 
 What else do you want to know ? " 
 
A MOUNT.^IN PORTIA 261 
 
 Hepburn's voice was breath-choked though outwardly he 
 maintained composure. 
 
 *' It makes damned Httle difference." It was Riley speak- 
 ing and his hand was on his holster. " Hepburn, you and 
 everybody else stand pat until you're called for." 
 
 Hepburn's eyes flared malevolently. He started to speak 
 again, but closed his lips, as in forebearance. Sam McKee 
 coughed with a dry, forced sound. 
 
 " What is it you want with me ? " 
 
 Bobby stopped before Jane and eyed her up and down, 
 gaze settling on the girl's face finally. There was hostility 
 in it ; there was hate ... a degree ; but these were soft- 
 ened, subdued, leavened by an outstanding appreciation. 
 Her lips trembled and, almost thoughtlessly, she put out 
 a hand to touch her father's, fingers squeezing his in a 
 movement of affection . . . and relief. 
 
 For a moment Jane did not speak. Then she began, 
 lowly, rapidly, flushed but resolute and with a light of 
 friendliness in her eyes. 
 
 *' I want you to understand me . . . without any more 
 delay. You and I came into this country at about the same 
 time. Where we should have been friends from the first 
 we have been enemies ; it even came to such a pass that 
 you promised to drive me from the country." 
 
 Her voice shook a bit and on the words that old hostility 
 leaped back into Bobby's face. 
 
 " I think that was because you did not understand me. 
 You have thought that I wished you bad luck from the first 
 and that is not so. Had I wanted to have vengeance on 
 you, had I wanted to drive you out, I could have done so 
 this afternoon . . . only a moment ago. I am not trying 
 to impress you with my generosity because I don't feel that 
 I have been generous. I have tried to be just; that is all. 
 I have tried to do the thing that would mean the most to 
 all of us. . . . 
 
 '* But there are things with which you can help me, I 
 
262 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 am sure. There are so many things that we have in com- 
 mon. You see, you and I are very much aHke." 
 
 That touched the other's curiosity. She was all intent, 
 lips parted, eyes wondering. 
 
 ''Alike?" She was incredulous. 
 
 Jane nodded. 
 
 " The thing that you want most of all is the thing that I 
 want more than anything else : That is the respect of men.*' 
 
 She paused and Bobby's brows drew together in perplex- 
 ity. 
 
 " The first time I saw you, you were trying to win the re- 
 spect of the men in this country with your quirt. Perhaps 
 that helped you. Perhaps it would have helped me had I 
 been able or inclined to take it that way. 
 
 " That doesn't matter. The thing that matters, which 
 gives us something in common is this : You found that 
 men did not respect you and so did L Men showed their 
 disrespect for you by . . . well, by saying unpardonable 
 things. Men have shown their disrespect for me by trying 
 to drive me out of the country, by burning and stealing and 
 shooting at my men. . . . 
 
 " You and I are the only women here. These men," — 
 with a gesture — " can not understand what their respect 
 means to us. It is the only thing worth while in our lives. 
 Isn't that so? No woman can be happy or satisfied unless 
 she has the respect of men. That is because our mothers 
 for generations back have been mothers because men re- 
 spected them. . . . 
 
 " I don't believe from what I know of you that you have 
 ever had much respect from men. I can appreciate what 
 that means to you, because it appears that the man who 
 should have respected me the most in the country where I 
 came from, did not respect me. 
 
 " There was one man I used to know who was supposed 
 to give me all the respect that a man could give a woman : 
 he said that he loved me. That man," — there was a quick 
 movement in the group which she ignored — " followed me 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 263 
 
 west to tell me that he loved me again and when he found 
 that I could not love him, he showed that he did anything 
 but respect me. Do you understand how that could hurt? 
 When a man who had sworn for years that he loved me 
 proved that ... it was something quite different ? " 
 
 She paused and Bobby, wide-eyed, said : 
 
 " He f ollered you out here to . . . try to get you to marry 
 him ? " 
 
 Jane nodded. 
 
 The other girl turned and her eyes sought out Hilton's 
 face, which was contorted with raging humiliation. 
 
 *' Is that so ? " she asked. 
 
 " That's a lie ! " he snarled, but looked away. 
 
 "Is that JO .^" 
 
 Her tone was lowered, but she hissed the question at him. 
 She strained forward, glaring at him, and averting his face 
 he said again : 
 
 " It's a lie." 
 
 But the assertion was without conviction, without strength. 
 
 Bobby turned back. Her lips were tight and trembling. 
 
 " Well ? " she said, tears in her eyes again, and her man- 
 ner proved that Hilton's denial had fallen far short of being 
 convincing. 
 
 " Then there were other factors : As soon as I arrived 
 here things commenced to go wrong. Because I was a 
 woman, people thought they could usurp my rights. My 
 horses were stolen ; my hay was burned ; my ditches broken. 
 My men were shot at. A note was sent to me, telling me 
 that I'd better leave the country while I had something left. 
 
 '' You see, don't you, that that meant that men — it must 
 have been men who did it — had no respect for me ? 
 
 " This water down here was fenced. That was your 
 right, but I thought I could persuade you to help me a little. 
 I think yet that I could have done so but for your misunder- 
 standing. . . . 
 
 " I knew that you wanted the respect of men. I knew 
 that about all you had in life was your self respect. I knew 
 
264 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 that the same man who had made love to me and who had 
 not meant it, was making love to you and not meaning it. I 
 called him to see me and tried to talk him out of it, begged 
 him to go away from you before . . . before you had 
 stopped respecting yourself. You must have mistaken my 
 motive in — " 
 
 " You didn't send for him to ask him to take you back? 
 You didn't do that?" 
 
 " I have told you my motive once ; that was the truth . . . 
 whole truth." 
 
 Again Bobby turned and again her accusing, flaring eyes 
 sought Hilton's distraught face. 
 
 *' So you lied to me again, did you? That was a lie, was 
 it?" She waited. "Well, why don't you answer?" she 
 flung at him and stood, directing on him the hate that she 
 had once shown for Jane Hunter. 
 
 But when she wheeled sharply back to confront the mis- 
 tress of the H C her eyes were bathed in tears, her head was 
 thrown back, and she threw her arms wide. 
 
 " He did lie to me ! " she panted. *' He did. ... I hated 
 you because I thought you had friends an' folks that re- 
 spected you. He lied an' it made me hate you worse. . . ." 
 She choked with sobs and Jane stepped down from the rock 
 to put hands on her shoulders. 
 
 *' Oh, miss, I've acted so bad to you!" Bobby moaned 
 lowly. " I ... I didn't know, didn't understand. I 
 thought you didn't want anything but harm to come to us. 
 I stole from you because I hated you. . . . I . . ." 
 
 She threw back her head again and the weakness of spir- 
 itual distress dropped from her. Her voice grew full and 
 firm. 
 
 " You've treated us like nobody else ever treated us be- 
 fore. You had Alf tied down to a calf stealin' an' you 
 let him go. You. . . . You've been tryin' to do me good 
 all the while I've been tryin' to do you harm. They've been 
 warrin' on you an' I ... I could have stopped it ! " 
 
 She wheeled, facing the men, her back to Jane. Her 
 
A MOUN'l AIN PORTIA 265 
 
 shoulders were drawn up and she leaned backward. Her 
 face was white, voice shrill. Her eyes burned. 
 
 " Well . . . you, Webb, an' Hepburn an' your whole 
 filthy crew . . . I'm done with you at last ! " 
 
 Thunder boomed sharply. The gloom was so deep that 
 the features of the men she addressed could scarcely be 
 made out. 
 
 " You've tried to double-cross us from the first. You 
 was as guilty as Alf today but you had it on us. I couldn't 
 make a move without gettin' in worse. . . . You, Hilton, 
 if it hadn't been for you, I'd have sent the bunch of you to 
 hell by tellin' th' straight story when they came for Alf to- 
 day ! I ... I thought you loved me," — gaspingly. " Ah ! 
 I thought you loved me, an' I'd have let Alf go to jail alone 
 because of it. . . . 
 
 '' Well, it ain't too late ! Listen, all of you ! You H C 
 riders, don't let a man move until I get through ! " 
 
 Her eyes, quick, alert, intent, ran from face to face before 
 her and her whole body trembled as though the things that 
 she would tell clamoured to be out and were held back by 
 great effort until she could make them coherent. 
 
 *' Hepburn, you're first ! " 
 
 The man made one movement aside as if he would evade 
 and Tom Beck's voice rang out sharply : 
 
 " Not a move ! " 
 
 Jane Hunter wheeled, a stifled word in her throat and 
 watched him slowly advance. His face was drawn as by 
 great suffering, his eyes burned as though his heart was 
 wrenched with every beat. His mouth was set and his jaw 
 thrust forward and the revolver he held close against his 
 hip was as steady as rock. He moved slowly forward. 
 
 *' Swing back there, you men," — and at his gesture the 
 H C riders deployed, swinging to either side. He stood 
 beside the two girls at the point of a V, the sides of which 
 were formed by cowboys and beyond the opening of which 
 the other group drew together as for protection in the face 
 of this coming storm. Hepburn was foremost and the true 
 
(I 
 
 266 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 scoundrel now glared through the mask of his benevolence. 
 Go on/' Beck said quietly. 
 
 You're first," the girl repeated, as though there had been 
 no interruption. 
 
 " You planned to steal the H C blind, as soon as th' old 
 owner died. You didn't have th' nerve to do it like I'd 've 
 done it. You sent for us, because you knowed Alf had this 
 brand which 'uld make stealin' easy ! " 
 
 "You're lying!" 
 
 The man's voice was the merest croak, weak and unim- 
 pressive. 
 
 " You wrote us, sayin' it would be easy pickin'. You 
 said you would likely be foreman an' that anyhow you'd be 
 workin' for the H C an' was goin' to help us from the 
 inside. 
 
 " When Miss Hunter come an' you saw what she was like 
 you was mighty glad of it. You thought you could ruin her 
 an' pretend you was trying to protect her. You was goin' to 
 get half what we got for your share. 
 
 " You had Webb run off them eight horses. Th' cat got 
 out of the bag an' you had to bring 'em back to make good 
 with Beck. I heard you tell Alf about it the night you 
 started out an' stayed with us. Beck suspected you, so you 
 shot your own saddle horn to make your story good. 
 
 " Beck wasn't satisfied. He was in your way, so you an' 
 Webb framed up a lie about him an' fixed his gun so it 
 would look bad for him ... an' it didn't work because Miss 
 Hunter here beat you to it. 
 
 *' Then you threw in with Webb an' we was all goin' to 
 work together and drive the H C out in a rush. 
 
 " You dynamited Cathedral Tank to spoil that range. 
 Then somebody shot Two-Bits an' you planned with us not 
 to let her have water, knowin' her cattle would perish. I 
 was glad enough to keep 'em from water then because I 
 thought ... I thought she wasn't . . . what she is." 
 
 She paused, panting, and brushed a quick hand at her 
 tears. 
 
A xMOUNTAIN PORTIA 267 
 
 " Webb, you've been stealin' off th' H C for years." 
 
 The man took a quick step forward and halted as gun 
 hands jerked rigid. 
 
 " You've been waitin' your chance. When Beck made 
 you swallow your words about Miss Hunter you went hog- 
 wild to get him. You got carin' more about that than you 
 did about gettin' rich. 
 
 " You shot at Beck's bed to kill him when he slept. You 
 broke her ditches an* fired her hay with your own hands. 
 You wrote that note, warnin' her to get out. You helped 
 build this pen here an' you helped steal these calves an' every 
 one of 'em was took away from an H C cow. You stole 
 twenty head of horses than nobody knows about. 
 
 " You an' Hepburn thought I didn't know a lot of this. 
 Well, I did know ! I knowed you was goin' to double-cross 
 us if the pinch come an' Alf, he was afraid of it, too! 
 
 ** I heard you talkin' nights in our place. I watched you 
 ridin' when you didn't know I was around. I listened an' 
 remembered. I was one of you, but I didn't trust you. 
 I wanted to steal from Miss Hunter. I wanted to drive her 
 out because . . . because I didn't know anybody could be 
 kind to me like she's been. I never thought anybcdy'd do 
 anythin' for me ! " 
 
 She stopped again to regain control of her surging emo- 
 tions. 
 
 " An' their riders. Miss Hunter " — half turning to look 
 at the other woman. " They're a bunch of cut-throats. So 
 are our greasers. They ain't been in on the stealin'. The}^ 
 didn't care about bein' inside, but they was ready to murder 
 if they had a chance. They — Hepburn an' Webb — they 
 thought that they was safe because every one of the rest had 
 enough over him to hang. H one squealed they'd all get 
 caught. . . . 
 
 '* Even us ! Why, we never had any right on this claim. 
 Alf's used his homestead rights before, under another name. 
 This water don't belong to us. Not by rights. It's all open 
 
268 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 range ! That's what we was : t' worst nest of outlaws that 
 ever got together in these hills ! " 
 
 She choked and Jane, her hands on the other's arms, could 
 feel the tremors shooting through her lithe frame. 
 
 Riley moved a step forward as thunder rolled heavily over- 
 head, as if this much of the story was enough, but the girl 
 cried out: 
 
 *' That ain't all ! I've got to go through with it ! I've 
 finished with the rest an' now it's you. . . . Hilton ! " 
 
 Into the word she put bitter contempt and biting scorn. 
 
 " Bah ! You liar ! " she drawled. " You liar, you sneak, 
 you coward! You thought none of us could follow your 
 game an' none of us could . . . until now. 
 
 " Why, you've been behind this whole thing. It was you 
 called Hepburn to town an' ofifered him money to use in his 
 dirty work. You paid for this fence of ours. You listened 
 an' used your head. You saw things quicker 'n Hepburn 
 an' Webb did, an' you set them two thinkin' an' they never 
 knew you was doin' it. . . . 
 
 " He was th' brains, I tell you ! " — with an inclusive ges- 
 ture to the men who listened so attentively. ** He wanted 
 to drive Miss Hunter out worse 'n anybody. He wanted to 
 kill Tom Beck. He didn't have the nerve to do it himself 
 ... in a fair fight. He shot at him one day with a rifle 
 but just as he shot Beck stopped his horse to look at some- 
 thin' in his hands, that locket he always wears an' is always 
 lookin' at, I guess. . . . He didn't know I saw that but I 
 did. ... 
 
 " He was always talkin' Sam McKee, there, up to kill 
 Beck. It's likely McKee shot Two-Bits — " 
 
 " He didn't ! I didn't do it ! " 
 
 McKee's voice, an excited cackle, broke in on her but the 
 girl, ignoring, went on : 
 
 ". . . It was just like he tried to talk Webb an' Hepburn 
 into killin'. That was his way: makin' other folks do th' 
 things he was scared to do ! 
 
 " An' he was as slick with me as he was with them, with 
 
A MOUNTAIN PORTIA 269 
 
 his lies about being called here to help Miss Hunter on busi- 
 ness ! That's why I didn't think all this out before, that's 
 why I didn't think he was a sneak until now. He ... he 
 said he wanted to marry ... to marry me. . . ." 
 
 She put a palm against her lips, tears spilled over her 
 cheeks as she turned. For a brief, heartbroken moment she 
 stood looking into Jane Hunter's face, then bowed her head 
 to the other's shoulder and cried stormily. 
 
 Beside the girls was a quick movement, a man uttering 
 one explosive word as though it gave vent to an emotion 
 that had been pent deep in his heart for long and while the 
 black storm clouds seemed to shut down and muffle every 
 sound, even Bobby Cole's excited sobbing, Tom Beck cried 
 twice : 
 
 " Jane ! . . . Jane ! " 
 
 Bobby, at that, turned from Jane to her father and the 
 mistress of the H C faced her foreman. When she had first 
 seen him she betra3^ed little except surprise; now she made 
 one movement as though she would throw herself upon him 
 but again the look in his face checked her. 
 
 " You came back to me, Tom," she said. 
 
 " Back," he answered. . . . '' But I can't ever come back 
 to . . . you. . . ." 
 
 It was the miserable self loathing, the shame in his heart, 
 which spoke, and it was that which made her see him, not 
 as the strong man he had been but as a broken, penitent^ 
 self denying individual . . . denying himself the love that 
 was in her eyes, mingled with the relief at his return and 
 the joy of triumph which still thrilled her . . . that love 
 which he felt unworthy to claim because he had doubted it ! 
 
 And then he changed. A movement sharp, decided, in the 
 group, stiffened him. 
 
 " Hold up 1 " he cried. " Don't one of you move ! 
 Jimmy, take two men to the Gap. Hold everybody in this 
 Hole until we can get the sheriff, this'U be a clean-up 
 for — " 
 
 A blinding flare, a crash of thunder that tore sky and 
 
270 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 shook earth, broke in on him. There was a rending of 
 tough timber as the bolt ripped down a cedar, a snorting of 
 horses. And in that stunning instant Dick Hilton leaped 
 from the group, vaulted to his saddle and lashing the horse 
 frantically, made off. 
 
 A revolver cracked, a rifle crashed. Hilton disappeared 
 into a deluge of huge drops that came from the low, scud- 
 ding clouds. Others got to their horses and a fusillade of 
 shots sounded like the ripping of strong cloth. And above 
 it rang Jane Hunter's voice : 
 
 " Tom ! Oliver ! Hold these men. I'll bring the sheriff ! 
 You can spare me and only me ! " 
 
 With a hoarse cry Riley dropped his revolver and clutched 
 at his wounded shoulder. Horses with riders and horses 
 running wild circled the place where a moment before had 
 been a compact group of men, but now Jane Hunter and 
 Tom Beck stood there alone while from all about stabs of 
 fire pricked the darkness or were lost as the sky blazed, 
 while those who shot scarcely knew whether they were de- 
 fending themselves from friend or foe. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 BATTLE ! 
 
 JANE found herself on the pinto racing through the night, 
 ducking under cedars until she was clear of the timber, 
 crashing through brush, leaping washes and at her side, 
 silent, close, protecting her, an arm ready to grasp her body 
 should her horse fall, rode Tom Beck. 
 
 They made straight across the flat toward the foot of the 
 trail. To their right was shooting and behind them a sharp 
 volley rattled. A stray bullet zinged angrily, close over 
 their heads. 
 
 '' You've got to get out of this, ma'am," Beck cried. 
 *' There'll be hell to pay before mornin'. There's nothing 
 they won't do now." 
 
 *' Tom ! You came ! " 
 
 Her eyes were blinded by tears as she turned her face to 
 him, trying to put into words the forgiveness which she 
 deemed unnecessary and which she knew was the one essen- 
 tial to Tom Beck, which she knew would be almost impos- 
 sible to convey convincingly. But through the tears she saw 
 the flash of a gun before them and an answering flash. A 
 lengthy flicker of lightning showed two figures. One, Dick 
 Hilton, horse drawn back on his hocks, revolver lifted. 
 Tliey saw him shoot again and they saw that other figure, 
 Baldy Bowen, who was there to block the trail, crumple in 
 his saddle and sag forward, struggle heavily to regain his 
 position and then, as his frightened horse moved quickly, 
 plunge in an ungainly mass to the ground. 
 
 Beck raised his gun as Hilton's horse leaped for the trail. 
 He shot but the instant of light had passed, making the 
 world darker by contrast. They saw fire shoot from scram- 
 bling hoofs. 
 
 271 
 
272 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 The burst of rain had ceased, the interval of fury broken ; 
 the storm still swirled, roaring, above them, but it was dry 
 and black, threatening, holding in reserve its strength. . . . 
 
 The sound of another horse, cutting in before them, run- 
 ning frantically, and Beck's gun hand went up only to poise 
 arrested as a voice came to them with the singing of a rope 
 end that flayed the animal's flanks. 
 
 *' Go ; go ! Take me after him ! " 
 
 It was Bobby Cole's cry. She had seen. She was riding 
 on the trail of the man who would have been her betrayer. 
 
 They dismounted hastily and stooped over the figure that 
 lay quiet on the rocks. Jane stilled her sobbing as Beck 
 rolled the body over and felt and listened. 
 
 " Dead," he said huskily. 
 
 " Dead ! " echoed Jane. " Dick killed him ! Oh . . . 
 beastly ! " 
 
 Fresh firing behind them. The shout of a man and an 
 answer. More shots, coming closer. 
 
 " You've got to get out," Beck said lowly, lifting her from 
 her knees beside the dead rider. '' There'll be hell here to- 
 night and it's no place for you. You bring the law ! " 
 
 " I feel as though I should stay. There'll be others killed 
 and it's my fight ! " 
 
 Her's was a cry of anguish^but he replied : 
 
 " You'll save lives by bringin' help. And hurry, ma'am, 
 liurry ! " 
 
 His only thought was to get her to safety. 
 
 A rifle crashed twice not a hundred yards from them and 
 they heard a running horse grunt as spurs raked his sides. 
 
 ** Get up and get out ! " he cried hoarsely, fearful that she 
 might insist on lingering in this place which, this night, was 
 well named Devil's Hole. 
 
 " There's only one of 'em ahead of you. He's bound only 
 to make his get-away. . . . An' the Catamount, she'll clear 
 your way if he does turn back ! " 
 
 He lifted her bodily to her horse. 
 
BATTLE I 273 
 
 *' It seems my place to stay ! " she cried as shots peppered 
 the storm. " To stay with you, Tc n ! " 
 
 " It's your place to get out ! Ride ! " 
 
 He swung his hat across the pinto's hind quarters and the 
 animal leaped into the trail. He heard Jane cry out to him 
 to stop. 
 
 ** Go on! " he shouted. " Go on! It's your job to bring 
 help!" 
 
 And he heard her go on, the horse floundering up the 
 steep rise, and knew that she obeyed. Then he turned and 
 looked out across the flat. 
 
 Far down toward Cole's cabin was a shot. A riderless 
 horse went past him, blowing with excitement. He 
 crouched behind a boulder, gun in his hands, peering into 
 the darkness. Others would not travel that trail that night 
 so long as he was on guard. . . . 
 
 The fight had been carried in both directions, further up 
 into the Hole, on down toward the Gap. H C riders, par- 
 tially assembled and identified, had closed on the outlaws, 
 cut them ofif from the trail and for the space of many min- 
 utes there was no revealed action, each waiting for the 
 others to show themselves. 
 
 Again in the distance was the mutter of thunder and a 
 brilliant, prolonged flash of lightning. The wind had sub- 
 sided to breathless silence as if the heavens marshaled their 
 forces for fresh outbursts. Beck started up as the clouds 
 flared, looking quickly about. He saw a horse with an empty 
 saddle. He saw a man standing waist deep in brush, a rifle 
 at his hip, ready to fire. He could not recognize the man. 
 Darkness ; again, a silent lighting of the skies, and with that 
 the stillness was broken. There was the sharp crack of a 
 rifle far to his left, up toward the head of the Hole. None 
 replied to the shot. A moment later the clouds sent out 
 their flare again . . . and this time two shots echoed. 
 
 Beck 'started up with a low cry. Above on the trail he 
 had seen Jane Hunter's pinto, making for the high country, 
 and those two stabs of yellow flame had been aimed upward 
 and toward the wall to which her path clung. 
 
274 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 It seemed to the man an age until lightning again revealed 
 the earth. He had an i ipression of a horseman far toward 
 the top of the trail and behind him another, riding hard; 
 and lastly, Jane's pinto toiling bravely up the sharp climb. 
 
 And as darkness cut in again two more fangs of flame 
 darted toward her! 
 
 Jane Hunter, without protection, wholly revealed by the 
 lightning, was a target for merciless men, for men who had 
 nothing to lose and at least a fighting chance to gain by 
 stopping her ! 
 
 He had believed that she was going to safety ; he had un- 
 derestimated the maliciousness of those men she had driven 
 into the open that afternoon. He had neglected to con- 
 sider the fact that on the trail she was without protection of 
 any sort and that lightning would make her stand out like 
 a cameo ! He forgot his mental stress, he relegated his duty 
 as sentinel to inconsequence, for she was in great danger 
 and needed help ! It was a joy to know that the life in his 
 body, the blood in his flesh, might be the one thing she 
 needed, for only by offering those possessions could he atone 
 for his faithlessness. He had no idea that he could regain 
 that desire to possess her. He only wanted her to know 
 that what he had to give was hers ; that was all ! 
 
 Then another rider was on the trail : Tom Beck, roweling 
 his horse, fanning his shoulders with the rein ends, crying 
 aloud to him for speed, his gun in his holster, a useless thing. 
 
 He rode with abandon in the darkness, urging the horse 
 to a speed that mocked safety. Stones were scattered by 
 the animal's spurning feet and he heard them strike below, 
 the sounds becoming fainter as he mounted the steep rise. 
 Lightning again and the viper spits down there in the flat 
 licked out for the woman ahead. Beck swore aloud and beat 
 his horse's flanks with his hat. 
 
 The darkness, though it handicapped speed and enhanced 
 the danger of his race, was relief. When it was dark they 
 could not fire. . . . 
 
BA'i TLE ! 275 
 
 And he knew they were waiting down there, rifles ready, 
 straining to see in the next burst of hght. . . . 
 
 He begged of the Almighty to send rain, to hold back the 
 lightning, but no rain came ; the flares continued. He heard 
 another shot, closer, from behind, and knew it was the rifle- 
 man he had seen standing in the brush firing at those who 
 menaced Jane Hunter's safety. 
 
 He was gaining on the pinto, slowly, with agonizing slow- 
 ness. His big brown horse drove on, but, when in darkness 
 and without perspective, it seemed as though his hoofs beat 
 upon a treadmill. The animal's eycited breathing became 
 more clearly defined. . . . The pinto ahead crawled slowly 
 and awkwardly like a dying animal, many minutes from 
 shelter. . . . 
 
 One of those spurts of flame stung toward Beck. He 
 heard, almost as he saw it, the spatter of a bullet on the rock 
 behind him. He lay low on his horse's mane. 
 
 The glimmer of lightning, unaccompanied now by thun- 
 der, became almost continuous. Against the white face of 
 the mountain the riders were like silhouette targets. Below 
 there were stabs of fire from a dozen places, like fire-flies 
 on a summer night, but carrying death. 
 
 Two bullets, close together, snarled past him, one above, 
 the other just ahead, perhaps in a line behind his horse's 
 ears. He hoped wildly that they were directing all their fire 
 at him, that he was drawing it from the girl above but even 
 as this hope mounted the skies coruscated again and he saw 
 that the pinto was stopped, saw that Jane was slipping to the 
 narrow trail, her body wedged between the clifif and the body 
 of the horse. 
 
 For an interminable tim.e blackness seemed to hold. The 
 big brown, whose breath was now laboring with exhaustion 
 as well as with excitement, gasped scarcely a dozen breaths 
 before the greeny light came again but to his rider it was 
 an aeon of time. Tom Beck passed through the veriest 
 depths of torment in that interval and unconsciously he 
 
276 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 shouted into the night incoherent cries of suffering. He 
 had been too late ! He had sent her to physical suffering, to 
 her death, perhaps, and before he could make her under- 
 stand that he blamed himself as only a just man who has 
 been unjust can crush himself with execration ! 
 
 But light came and he saw her, still alive, still safe ! 
 
 The pinto was down, hind feet over the trail. Wounded, 
 he had tried to turn back, tail to the abyss as a mountain 
 bred animal will turn. He had moved on unsteady limbs, 
 his hind feet slipped over the edge and moaning, head back, 
 eyes bulging, he clawed wih his fore hoofs to stay his fall. 
 Clinging to the reins, calling aloud her encouragement, the 
 girl helped with voice and limbs. 
 
 For an interval she balanced the pull of the animal's own 
 weight. . . . 
 
 And when Tom Beck could see again she was alone on the 
 trail, one arm raised to her face as she cringed from the bul- 
 lets that spattered all about! 
 
 He cursed his horse, lashing furiously, spurring in the 
 shoulders without mercy. He came up to her and she faced 
 him, lips tight and in the dance of cloud fire he saw her 
 eyes wide, nostrils distended. 
 
 " Get up here! " he muttered and lifted her to his saddle 
 horn, winding his arms about her, bowing his head and 
 shoulders over hers to take the missiles in his own body first. 
 
 She clutched him frantically, her warm arms around his 
 neck, her trembling limbs across his thigh with his hand 
 hooked beneath the knees, her soft breast cleaving to his 
 and, slipping through his opened shirt the little gold locket 
 that was at her throat pressed against his heart. ... It was 
 cold from the night and he felt it send a tingle through his 
 body. Even then he wondered, with the strange sharpness 
 which stressed thought will give to irrelevant matters, what 
 it contained ! 
 
 " Tom ! It's good to have you ! " 
 
 Good to have him ! With death singing all about her it 
 was good to have him ; it was her first thought ! 
 

 BATTLE I 277 
 
 *' It would be good to die for you ! " he said. 
 
 " No, no ! " — sharply. " Not that, Tom ! Live for me 
 . . . live for me ! " 
 
 She felt him start and shudder and sway and a moan broke 
 from his lips as a scorching, tearing thing ripped at the small 
 of his back, burrowing devilishly into his very vitals. She 
 clutched him closer, not understanding. 
 
 It's all I've got to give you," he muttered unnaturally. 
 
 My life's all I've got, ma'am. I'd be proud to give it. . . . 
 It's a little thing to give to pay ... a debt like I owe 
 you. ... 
 
 " You keep your body behind mine . . . always . , . un- 
 til we get to the top. ..." 
 
 " Tom ! "— in alarm. " You're hit. ... Oh, Tom ! '' 
 She shook him, hitching herself about that she might see his 
 face. " Tom ! " 
 
 '' A scratch,'' he said. " Just a — " 
 
 The horse threw up his head and recoiled as a bullet sang 
 past. 
 
 ''A — scratch," he finished. 
 
 The girl looked about wildly. She knew there was no 
 shelter there, not a ledge behind which they could hide, not 
 a tree that would screen them. The wall rose straight on 
 one side, fell sheer on the other. There was no place to go 
 but up ; they could not turn there and go down for there 
 was no room . . . the pinto, shot through the belly, had 
 tried that ! 
 
 The firing below grew more rapid. It did not wait for 
 the lightning flashes now. Those spats of yellow fire struck 
 upward continuously; in darkness, blindly; in light search- 
 ing intelligently as the riders moved upward, nearer safety. 
 H C men closed in on those who shot at the figures on the 
 trail, aiming at the flurries of viper light, meeting counter 
 fire as they drew nearer the murderous group of men. 
 
 " Fireflies ! " Beck muttered as he looked down again. 
 ** Lightnin' bugs let loose from hell ! " 
 
 When there was no fire in the clouds those light points 
 
278 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 looked so harmless, down there in the soft, velvet darkness ! 
 Well they might have been insects, bedecking a summer 
 night . . . but from them came the whining, droning, search- 
 ing projectiles that flew to find his life and Jane Hunter's 
 hfe! 
 
 Fifty yards further was the first rise of rock that would 
 protect them from below. Fifty yards, and the horse, under 
 this added burden, was sobbing as he staggered. 
 
 Beck swayed forward and regained his balance with an 
 effort that cost him a groan, but his arms, tight about Jane 
 Hunter's body did not relax a trifle ; they held like tough, 
 green wood. The girl cried out to him again, that he was 
 hurt. . . . 
 
 *' It's nothin', ... my Hfe," he replied. '' It's all I could 
 do . . . for doubtin' you. I couldn't ask you to . . . love 
 me. ... I could die for you . . . that's all, ma'am. . . ." 
 
 *' Tom, Tom ! Keep your head ; keep your head one min- 
 ute longer ; we'll be safe. . . . Safe, then. . . ." 
 
 Thirty yards to the place where the trail ran between up- 
 rising walls of rock; thirty yards to that shelter; thirty yards 
 to safety. . . . 
 
 But she looked down at those deadly fireflies playing on 
 the flat, and did not see a hatless man, crouched forward, 
 run down the trail toward them, pistol in his hand. . . . 
 
 Dick Hilton, who had escaped the Hole only to realize 
 that there was no escape, was waiting to vent the last drop 
 of poison in his heart. . . . Nor did Jane see, nor did Hilton 
 suspect, that waiting there for him was another stalker, who 
 had followed and lost him, who had turned back, who had 
 seen the travelers up the trail and who waited their approach 
 screened by timber. . . . 
 
 Bobby Cole's heart leaped as she saw him run crouching 
 to meet Tom Beck, and her gun leaped to position . . . and 
 she waited there in the darkness for the next flash of light 
 ... as men waited below ... as Jane Hunter waited, with 
 her heart racing in despair ; as Dick Hilton, gibbering under 
 his breath, waited. . . . 
 
BATTLE I 279 
 
 The big brown horse stumbled and Tom Beck cried aloud 
 in fear and pain, cried drunkenly, as his blood drenched the 
 saddle. Twenty yards to the shelter of solid rock . . . ten 
 
 • • • ^-L V ^«   • • 
 
 And a scarecrow figure leaped from it at them, revealed 
 by a long, green glimmer. 
 
 " Damn you. Beck ! Damn you, you've ruined me ; you 
 drove me to this. . . . Now, take th — " 
 
 His gun had whipped up even as the gun of the girl they 
 saw behind him whipped up. 
 
 Neither fired. 
 
 Down below had come those winking fangs again and 
 Hilton's voice trailed into a rising, rasping gasp as missiles 
 from his compatriots drilled his body. 
 
 His pistol dropped to the rock. He put his hands to his 
 stomach. 
 
 " Damn your — " 
 
 He choked on the word, and as he choked he took one 
 blind step forward, over the brink. As he fell he threvv 
 up his hands and sailed downward into the depths, into the 
 coming darkness. . . . 
 
 The brown horse had halted, but as Jane Hunter slipped 
 to the ground, holding Beck's sagging body with all her 
 strength, he stepped forward, in behind the rocks : their 
 haven. . . . 
 
 "Oh, they got him!" Bobby sobbed. "They got 
 him. . . ." 
 
 She might have meant Hilton, but if so the pity, the regret 
 in her voice was a mourning of her dead love, not the dead 
 lover; or she might have meant Tom Beck and the tone 
 might have been sympathy for the woman she had come to 
 understand, the woman who had respect for her and who 
 she could respect. . . . 
 
 They let Tom's body to the trail. The horse moved off. 
 Hastily Bobby ripped open his shirt. . . . 
 
 " Through the hips," she whispered. " Through the 
 hip 
 
 )s. 
 
28o THE LAST STRAW 
 
 " Look ! " — starting up. " He's movin' his foot. It 
 didn't get his spine ; it didn't get his spine. . . ." 
 
 She tore open her shirt and tugged at the undergarment 
 beneath it. She stuffed it into the wound deftly, staying the 
 blood while Jane Hunter, Beck's head in her lap, cried aloud. 
 
 " Listen ! " 'Bobby knelt beside the other woman, hands 
 on her shoulders, peering into her face. ..." You're safe 
 here. They've got 'em cut off from this trail below. . . . 
 
 " My horse is fresh. I'm goin' to your ranch for help. 
 He ain't goin' to die, ma'am. ... I promise you that. . . . 
 He ain't goin' to die ! " 
 
 She was gone and Jane Hunter, half faint, clinging to 
 that promise as the last, the only thing in life, lowered her 
 lips to her lover's eyes. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 IT was the first day that Tom Beck could lie on his back.. 
 For weeks he had lain on his face there in the living" 
 room of the ranch house, nursed back to health by Jane- 
 Hunter's gentle hands. Now the doctor had turned him 
 over, with the promise that he would not only be sitting up 
 but walking before long, and the Veterans' Society had been 
 in session. 
 
 That was what Two-Bits called it : The Veterans' Society. 
 Every lafternoon they had gathered there, Two-Bits with his 
 slowly healing back, Jimmy Oliver, after his leg had mended 
 and he could hobble with a cane, Joe Black, whose arm was 
 just out of its sling and, occasionally, Riley, who rode up the 
 creek holding gingerly his one shoulder, to fight the battle 
 over again. 
 
 Summer was ripening and the golden sunlight spilled down 
 onto peaceful mountains from a mighty sweep of sky. A 
 gentle breeze bent the tall cottonwoods, making them whis- 
 per, making the birds in their branches sing in lazy content- 
 ment. Unmolested cattle ranged in prospering hundreds. 
 The work was up, fall and beef ride were coming . . . and 
 other years to bring their toll of happiness and well being, 
 for after its one paroxysm of strife the country had settled 
 back to easier ways, to a better, more wholesome manner of 
 living. 
 
 There were memories, true, kept fresh by such things as; 
 this Veterans' Society, and the three graves in Devil's Hole 
 where rested the bodies of Sam McKee, Dad Hepburn and? 
 Dick Hilton, for there was none to claim what remained of 
 them. Under the cottonwoods slept Baldy Bowen, his grave 
 
 281 
 
4( 
 
 282 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 surrounded by white pickets and his head marked by a stone. 
 
 But even now those memories were less poignant than 
 they had been weeks before.^ Interest in the range war was 
 waning and though it would be talked about across bar and 
 bunk house stove for many winters the thrill of it was gone 
 .... as the horror of it was largely gone for those who had 
 :suffered most. 
 
 Two-Bits had lingered after the departure of the rest and 
 'sat in a chair beside Tom's cot. Beck's face was pale, but 
 his eyes were alive and as of old, evidence of satisfactory 
 convalescence. 
 
 " So you think there is a hell, Tommy ? " he asked. 
 
 Beck grunted assent. 
 Yeah. I know there's a hell, Two-Bits." 
 My brother always said there was. He said it was an 
 awful place, Tommy. I'll bet two bits th' old Devil was 
 sorry to see Hepburn an' Hilton an' Sam McKee comin' in 
 that mornin' ! I'll bet he says to hisself : ' Here's some right 
 smart competition for me ! ' " 
 
 Beck laughed silently. 
 
 " Sometimes I get feelin' mighty sorry for 'em," the 
 lanky cow-boy continued. " I use to hate Webb somethin' 
 awful an' I sure did think Hepburn was about th' lowest 
 critter that walked. . . . God ought to 've made him crawl ! 
 Sam McKee never was no good. He was th' meanest man I 
 ever saw. . . . 
 
 " But, shucks, Tommy, I hate to think of 'em bein' blis- 
 tered all th' time ! " 
 
 " That ain't the kind of hell I referred to, Two-Bits. I 
 don't know much about that kind, with brimstone and fire 
 and all the rest. . . . 
 
 " There's a hell, though. Tommy. It's when a man lets 
 the weakness in him run off with what strength he has, when 
 he don't trust those who deserve to be trusted, when he's sus- 
 picious of those his heart tells him are above suspicion." 
 
 Two-Bits swallowed, setting his Adam's apple leaping. 
 "jHis eyes widened. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 283 
 
 " Gosh, you talk just like th' Reverend ! " he said, and 
 Beck laughed until his wound hurt him. 
 
 " Well, if they ain't in hell, they're under an awful lot of 
 rocks," he added. '* That's all I care, to have 'em out of 
 her way." 
 
 '' Yes, it makes it smoother. Real folks, men who de- 
 serve the name, won't do anything but trust her and help 
 her." 
 
 " Not after the way she made 'em come out of their holes ! 
 That trial must 've been grand, Tommy! I'd 've give two 
 bits to seen it an' heard it ! 
 
 " She won't have no trouble no more. Everybody knows 
 she's got more head than most men on this here creek. 
 But she's got somethin' else ! She's got a ... a gentle 
 way with her that makes everybody want to do things for 
 her. 
 
 "Look at how she treated Cole. \\'hy, anybody else 'd 
 run him off ! 'Stead of that she gets Bobby Cole to file on 
 that claim an' helps 'em to build a good house an' wants 'em 
 to stay. You can bet your life that H C cattle '11 get water 
 there now. That catamount . . . hell, she'd carry it for 
 'em if there wasn't any other way to get it to 'em! " 
 
 " Yes, Bobby's changed." 
 
 " Should say she is changed ! She's got a different look 
 to her, not so hard an' horstile as she used to be ; she's plumb 
 doe-cyle now ! 
 
 " I expect she's glad she didn't kill Hilton. If she hadn't 
 changed she'd been glad to do it. But, bein' like she is now, 
 she wouldn't want to hurt nobody. . . . Unless that some- 
 body wanted to hurt Miss Hunter." 
 
 His eyes roved off down the road and settled on a swiftly 
 moving horse, the great sorrel who was bringing Jane 
 Hunter back to the ranch after a ride far down the creek. 
 
 '' Speakin' of Hell, Tommy : there mebby ain't any like 
 the Reverend claims there is, but there's a Heaven! I'll 
 bet two bits there is ! I'll gamble on it because I know an 
 
284 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 angel that stepped right down that there, now, solid gold 
 ladder. . . . 
 
 " She's comin' up th' road. . . . An' Mister Two-Bits 
 Beal, esquire, is goin' to drift out of here ! '* 
 
 With a broad wink, which set a suggestion of a flush into 
 Beck's cheeks, he took his hat and departed. 
 
 Jane entered, drawing the pin from her hat ; then stopped 
 on the threshold with a cry. 
 
 '* Oh, the doctor's been here ! " 
 
 " Yes, and he's rolled the old carcass over," 'Beck an- 
 swered. 
 
 She stood looking dow-n at him for a moment and then 
 dropped quickly to her knees. 
 
 " It's so good to look into your eyes again," she whispered, 
 and though her own eyes were bright there were tears in her 
 voice. 
 
 Beck's gaze wavered and he slowly withdrew the hand 
 that she had taken. 
 
 " You mustn't look like that ! " he said, turning his face 
 from her. ** It's more than I've deserved, it's more than I 
 have a right to ! " 
 
 She put her hands on his shoulders, gently, bearing no 
 weight upon them, and said soberly: 
 
 *' Look at me, Tom Beck ! " 
 
 He obeyed, rather reluctantly. 
 
 *' I have waited, oh, so long, to talk to you ! I promised 
 the doctor that nothing should disturb you until you were 
 well. That's one reason why I brought you into the house, 
 instead of leaving you with the men: so you could be quiet. 
 
 " But there was another reason, a greater : I wanted you 
 here, in this room, in my house, near me, where I could see 
 and feel and help you, because seeing and touching and 
 helping you helped me! 
 
 " I needed your help, Tom ! I shall always need you 
 near me ! " 
 
 " Nobody would agree with you," he protested. '' You're 
 
THE L\ST STRAW 285 
 
 the most capable man in the country. You sure can look 
 out for yourself." 
 
 " But looking out for myself isn't ail That's just a tiny 
 part of life," — indicating how small it was with a thumb 
 and fore-finger. " It belongs to the side of me which owns 
 this ranch, which is a cattle woman, which wants to fatten 
 steers and raise calves and prosper. . . . 
 
 " There's the other part, the big part, the part that is 
 really worth while : It's my heart, Tom. It's my heart 
 that needs vou ! " 
 
 His brows puckered. 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't ! " he said huskily. " I can't help 
 that part. I had my chance . . . an' I threw it away." 
 
 " And I picked it up ! Tom, that morning when you were 
 crawling back from Cathedral Tank, across the desert, I was 
 at the round-up camp. I went there to tell you, to make 
 you understand — " 
 
 " That's what hurts : that you had to ride thirty miles to 
 tell me, to make me understand. Why, ma'am, I hadn't any 
 right to have you do that for me. It was me who should 
 have come crawlin' to you ! " 
 
 She took his hand again. 
 
 " Look at me ! " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," striving to lighten his manner. 
 
 *' Yes, Jane I " she insisted. 
 Jane," very softly. 
 
 You are very foolish, sticking to an abstract idea of how 
 you should have conducted yourself. You wanted to die for 
 me once ; you want to put me off now because you think 
 you wronged me. 
 
 *' Don't you see what a wrong that would be ! Don't you 
 see that?" 
 
 She leaned forward, hands clasped at her chin, and tears 
 swam upward into her eyes. 
 
 " I am saying the things I've waited so long to say. 
 
 " You have lain here ever since that black night when they 
 carried you in and I had to feel your heart to know whether 
 
 
286 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 you lived. I've tried to say nothing that would disturb you, 
 tried to keep your mind off the thing that has occupied mine. 
 But I know you've been thinking; I know you've been un- 
 easy. I have seen that in the looks, the words, the way 
 you've laughed, rather forced and weakly at times. I have 
 known what you thought. . . . 
 
 " You are very foolish to be concerned with an idea of 
 how you should have conducted yourself. You wanted to 
 die for me once; you want to put me off now because you 
 think you wronged me. 
 
 " I am not forgiving you because there is nothing to for- 
 give. My pride was hurt and by yielding to it I shook your 
 faith in me. It was weak for me to yield to pride; it was 
 foolish for you to give way to suspicion. It was not I who 
 yielded, Tom ; it was that other girl, the girl who came to 
 you to be hurt and ridiculed and made strong ! And it was 
 not the Tom Beck who loved me that suspected ; it was that 
 other man, the one who held himself back, who did not 
 take chances, who, perhaps, would have denied himself the 
 finest thing in life if he had always walked on ground with 
 which he was familiar. ... 
 
 " And now to carry this breach from the past into the fu- 
 ture. . . . Don't you see w^hat a wrong that would be? 
 Don't you see how you would be harming yourself? You, 
 who wanted to die for me, would be refusing to live for me ! 
 And I who need you would w^alk alone. . . . Don't you see 
 what a horrible thing that would be to both of us . . . my 
 lover?" 
 
 She leaned forward, hands clasped at her breast, and the 
 tears swam into her eyes. She was very beautiful, very 
 gentle and tender, but as he looked he felt rather than saw 
 the strength that was in her : the character that had stood 
 alone, that had been herself in the face of the loss of love 
 and position, and that, by so standing, had triumphed. 
 
 For a breathless instant she poised so, with unsteady lips, 
 and she saw the want come into his face, saw the old re- 
 serve, the old resolution to punish himself melt away. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 287 
 
 *' I want you, Jane ! " he whispered. 
 
 The evening shadows had come before she rose from her 
 knees and drew up a chair to sit stroking his hand. 
 
 His eyes rested on her hungrily and after a time they 
 concentrated on the locket at her throat. 
 
 " Say ! Now that you've done me the honor to give me 
 a second chance at lovin' you, there's somethin' I want to 
 ask." 
 
 " Ask it.'' 
 
 '' What's in that locket ? " 
 
 She laughed as she caught it in her fingers. 
 
 •'My luck!" 
 
 " I understand that. It brought me luck, too, but there's" 
 something else. Won't you tell me ? " 
 
 She unclasped the trinket and held it in her hand, turning 
 it over slowly. Then she sprung the catch and held it so he 
 could see. 
 
 Behind the disc of mica lay a piece of oat straw. 
 
 " That is the last straw," she said simply. 
 
 He did not understand. 
 
 " The one you would not draw that day, which seems so 
 long ago ! " 
 
 His face brightened. 
 You kept it ? " 
 
 I clung to it as though it were . . . the last straw ! 
 Why, Tom, can't you see what it has meant? \i you 
 had drawn you would have been my foreman. You would 
 have protected me, fought for me, taken care of me. I'd 
 never have been forced to stand alone, never been forced to 
 try to do something for myself, by myself. Your refusal 
 put on me the responsibility of being a woman or a 
 leech. . . . 
 
 " I drew the last straw that day. I drew the responsibility 
 of keeping the H C on its feet. I feel that I have helped 
 to do that. . . ." 
 
 " You have." 
 
 
288 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 Cf. 
 
 Through sickness and through death, through dark days 
 and storms. I have done something! I have walked alone, 
 unaided. . . . 
 
 " And I have made you love me, Tom. . . . That is the 
 biggest thing I have done. To be worthy of your love was 
 my greatest undertaking. By being worthy, by winning 
 you, I have justified my being here, my walking the earth, 
 my breathing the air. . . ." 
 
 '' Sho ! " he cried in embarrassment, and took the locket 
 and fingered it. 
 
 His hand dropped to the blanket and he stared upward 
 as though a fresh idea had occurred to him. 
 
 ** Say, I wonder if the Reverend was a regular preacher ? '* 
 he asked. 
 
 " Why ? He was a doer of good works. Why consider 
 his actual standing? " 
 
 '' Yeah. But I mean, could he marry folks, do you 
 s pose ? 
 
 He looked at her again and in his eyes was that amused 
 twinkle, the laugh of a man assured, content, self sufiicient 
 . . . and behind it was the tenderness that comes to a strong 
 man's eyes only when he looks upon the woman who has 
 given him love for love. 
 
 "If he could he'd be glad to," he said, " and I suspect 
 that he'd throw a little variety into the ceremony . . . some- 
 thing, likely, about your fightin' a good fight ! " 
 
 THE END 
 
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 f>esired Woman, The. By Will N. Harben. A 
 
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 Destroying Angel, The. By Louis Jos. Vance. 
 
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 Double Traitor, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Empty Pockets. By Rupert Hughes. 
 
 Eyes of the Blind, The. By Arthur Somers Roche. 
 
 Eye of Dread, The. By Payne Erskine. 
 
 Eyes of the World, The. By Harold Bell Wright. 
 
 Extricating Obadiah. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Felix O'Day. By F. Hopkinson Smith. 
 54-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough. 
 Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 Fighting Shepherdess, The. By Caroline Lockhart. 
 Financier, The. By Theodore Dreiser. 
 Flame, The. By Olive Wadsley. 
 Flamsted Quarries. By Mary E. Wallar. 
 Forfeit, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
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 Fruitful Vine, The. By Robert Hichens. 
 Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. By Frank L. 
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 Girl of the Blue Ridge, A. By Payne Erskine. 
 
 Girl from Keller's, The. By Harold Bindloss. 
 
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 Going Some. By Rex Beach. 
 
 Golden Slipper. The By Anna Katharine Green. 
 
 Golden Woman, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Greater Love Hath No Man. By Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Greyfriars Bobby By Eleanor Atkinson. 
 
 Gun Brand, The. By James B. Hendryx. 
 
 Halcyone. Bv Elinor Glyn. 
 
 Hand of Fu-Manchu. The. By Sax Rohmer. 
 
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 Heart of the Sunset. By Rex Beach. 
 
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 Her Weight in Gold. By Geo. B. McCutcheon. 
 
 Hidden Children, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Hidden Spring, The. By Clarence B. Kelland. 
 
 Hiiiman, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Hills of Refuge, The. By Will N. Harben. 
 
 His OfHcial Fiancee. By Berta Ruck. 
 
 Honor of the Big Snows. By James Oliver Curwood. 
 
 Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Hound from the North, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katharine 
 
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 Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D. 
 
 I Conquered. By Harold Titus. 
 
 Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 In Another Girl's Shoes. By Berta Ruck. 
 
 Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond. 
 
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 Inner Law, The. By Will N. Harben. 
 
 Innocent. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer. f 
 
 In the Brooding Wild. By Ridgwell Cullum. 5 
 
 Intriguers, The. By Harold Bindloss. | 
 
 Iron Trail, The. By Rex Beach. 
 
 Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland. 
 
 I Spy. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. 
 
 Japonette. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Jean of the Lazy A. By B. M. Bower. 
 
 Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Jennie Gerhardt. By Theodore Dreiser. 
 
 Judgment House, The. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
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 Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish. ^ 
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 King Spruce. Bv Holman Day. 
 
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 Knave of Diamonds, The. By Ethel M. Dell. 
 
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 Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey. 
 Laugh and Live. By Douglas Fairbanks. 
 Laughing Bill Hyde. By Rex Beach. 
 Laughing Girl, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 Law Breakers, The. Bj'- Ridgwell Cullum. 
 Lifted Veil, The. By Basil King. 
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 Lone Wolf, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. 
 Long Ever Ago. By Rupert Hughes. 
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 Long Live the King. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. 
 Long Roll, The. By Mary Johnston. 
 Lord Tony's Wife. By Baroness Orczy. 
 Lost Ambassador. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 Lost Prince, The. By Frances Hodgson Burnett. 
 Lydia of the Pines. By Honore Willsie. 
 
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 Man with the Club Foot, The. By Valentine Williams. 
 
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 Mary Moreland. By Marie Van Vorst. 
 
 Mary Regan. By Leroy Scott. 
 
 Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Men Who W^rought, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Mischief Maker, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Miss Million's Maid. By Berta Ruck. 
 
 Molly McDonald, By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Money Master, The. By Gilbert Parker, 
 
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 Mountain Girl, The. By Payne Erskine. 
 
 Moving Finger, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln, 
 
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 Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Mr. Pratt's Patients. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
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 Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The. By Anna K. Green. 
 
 Nameless Man, The. By Nataile Sumner Lincoln. 
 
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 Net, The. By Rex Beach. 
 
 New Clarion. By Will N. Harben. 
 
 Night Operator, The. By Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Night Riders, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Nobody. By Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Okewood of the Secret Service. By the Author of "The 
 
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 One Way Trail, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 Open, Sesame. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 Otherwise Phyllis. By Meredith Nicholson. 
 Outlaw. The. By Jackson Gregory. 
 
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 Paradise Auction. By Nalbro Hartley. 
 
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 Partners of the Night. By Leroy Scott. 
 
 Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Passionate Friends, The. By H. G. Wells. 
 
 Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The. By Ralph Connor. 
 
 Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hays. 
 
 Pawns Count, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 People's Man, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Perch of the Devil. By Gertrude Atherton. 
 
 Peter Ruff and the Double Four. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Pidgin Island. By Harold MacGrath. 
 
 Place of Honeymoon, The. By Harold MacGrath. 
 
 Pool of Flame, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Postmaster, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Prairie Wife, The. By Arthur Stringer. 
 
 Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter. 
 
 Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Promise, The. By J. B. Hendryx. 
 
 Proof of the Pudding, The. By Meredith Nicholson. 
 
 Rainbow's End, The. By Rex Beach. 
 
 Ranch at the Wolverine, The. By B. M. Bower. 
 
 Ranching for Sylvia. By Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Ransom. By Arthur Somers Roche. 
 
 Reason Why, The. By Elinor Glyn. 
 
 Reclaimers, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter, 
 
 Red Mist, The. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Red Pepper's Patients. By Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner. 
 
 Restless Sex, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Return of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. 
 
 Riddle of Night, The. By Thomas W. Hanshew. 
 
 Rim of the Desert, The. By Ada Woodruff Anderson. 
 
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 Rising Tide, The. By Margaret Deland. 
 
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 Rocks of Valpre, The. By Ethel M. Dell. 
 
 Rogue by Compulsion, A. By Victor Bridges. 
 
 Roorn^ Number 3. By Anna Katharine Green. 
 
 Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. 
 
 Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. 
 
 Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Second Choice. By Will N. Harben. 
 
 Second Violin, The. By Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Secret History. By C. N. & A, M. Williamson. 
 
 Secret of the Reef, The. By Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Seven Darlings, The. By Gouverneur Morris. 
 
 Shavings. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright. 
 
 Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Sherry. By George Barr McCutcheon. 
 
 Side of the Angels, The. By Basil King. 
 
 Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach. 
 
 Sin That Was His, The. By Frank L Packard. 
 
 Sixty-first Second, The. By Owen Johnson. 
 
 Soldier of the Legion, A. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson. 
 
 Son of His Father, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Son of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. 
 
 Source, The. By Clarence Buddington Kelland. 
 
 Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 
 
 Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens. 
 
 Spirit of the Border, The. (New Edition.) By Zane Grey. 
 
 Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. 
 
 Steele of the Royal Mounted. By James Oliver Curwood. 
 
 Still Jim. By Honore Willsie. 
 
 Story of Foss. River Ranch, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Story of Marco, The. By Eleanor H. Porter. 
 
 Strange Case of Cavendish, The. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Sudden Jim. By Clarence B. Kelland. 
 
 Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 Tarzan of the Apes. By Edgar R. Burroughs. 
 Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. 
 
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