LONCr Qrant Carpenter"* [ ^V^oK LONG SWEETENING LONG SWEETENING A Romance of the Red Woods BY GRANT CARPENTER NEW YORK ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY 1921 Copyright, 1921, by Robert M. McBride & Co. Qxoas f\ i'ktt- Printed in the United States of America Published, 1921 CHAPTER I. It was the late afternoon of a November day that had been steadfastly gray and still — such a day in the mountains of Northern California as marks the end of a long Indian summer and presages the near ap- proach of a longer winter. The high unwavering clouds, that had held the sun in unbroken obscurity from its lazy and indulgent rising to its sullen and re- luctant setting, were darkening and descending swiftly. When they touched the tops of the sparsely-wooded ridges, the tree-squirrels, warned that their season of provident activity was drawing to a close, dropped their burdens to bark a half-hearted protest, and scampered away to their nests. The querulous jays lowered their crests, cocked their heads on one side for an instant, then fled shrieking to the shelter of the can- yon below. There, where a primeval forest of giant redwoods stood rooted in the moss and mold of centuries, the day-long twilight was deepening into dusk, and the solemn stillness was broken only by the play of a hidden brook, murmuring and gurgling under cano- pies of yew, laurel and fern. Faithfully following its meanderings was an old wood road, so choked with laurel, and hazel, and huckleberry brush that only a slender trail remained to mark its course. It would have required a second glance to determine whether the object moving swiftly but noiselessly 463421 2 LONG SWEETENING along the gloomy path was an animal or a human being; another to discover whether man or child. Where the hazel and huckleberry thickened a coon- skin cap with tail dangling behind just topped them; where they thinned a suit of untanned deerskin showed. The coat, so large that the sleeves had to be rolled back to allow his hands their freedom, hung nearly to his knees; and the trousers, so short that they left half of his bare shanks exposed, were in tatters. His feet, large, leathery and grimy, were bare. Upon his shoulder rested an old-fashioned fowling-piece, and by his side hung a shot pouch and powder horn. Suddenly he stopped, listened and glanced about him with the uneasiness of a wild animal that senses danger before there is a warning of it. As the first gust of the gathering storm set the forest shivering and sent a shower of dry leaves rustling down from the upper branches, he looked up at the swaying tree tops and at the lowering sky. The lifted face was so browned from exposure that one might readily have mistaken him for an Indian, but for the jet black curls that tumbled from his cap to his shoulders. Dark, deep-set eyes, wonderfully bright and alert, a clean- cut, aquiline nose that ended in thin, sensitive nostrils and a prominent chin, deeply cleft, were the dominant features of a face that would have arrested attention anywhere — the face of a thirteen-year-old boy. It was too hawkish to be handsome, but, nevertheless, gave promise of rugged, manly beauty. Untouched by sophistication it showed only animal instincts, inher- LONG SWEETENING 3 ited and developed — distrust, cunning and patience, fearlessness without recklessness, relentlessness with- out cruelty — a matrix ready for the moulding of un- usual character. "Hit's shore goin' to rain mighty soon," he mut- tered, and shifting his gun to the other shoulder hur- ried on at a quickened pace. Again he halted in the middle of a stride and stood with one foot lifted, like a setter at point. From a little gulch at his left came first a crackling of dried twigs and then a crashing of brush. His trained ears told him that no deer or panther would move so clumsily, and he knew that no cattle could have strayed in there from the distant ranges. Quickly, and with- out snapping a twig or stirring a leaf, he slipped behind the trunk of a fallen tree, dropped a handful of buckshot into each barrel of his gun, rammed a wad of oak moss down upon each load, raised the hammers so carefully that they gave no warning click, shoved the barrel over the top of the log and waited. The crashing grew louder and drew nearer. " 'Tain't a hoss, er I c'd hear his hooves," he de- cided. "An' no man'd be fool enough to come down thoo that bresh, when he c'd foller the ridge trail." Whatever it might be, it was coming directly toward him. Soon he saw the brush near the edge of the thicket shaken violently, and then came the sound of a heavy fall followed by a grunt. "Sounds like a b'ar," he reflected. "I'll have to 4 LONG SWEETENING give 'im both bar'ls to oncet, an' oV Betsy'll kick the stuffm' outen me." He wadded up his coat at the shoulder, pressed the stock of the gun against the improvised pad and took careful aim at thei point, not twenty yards distant, where he calculated the animal would emerge. Sud- denly the brush parted, and a short, thick-set man, hat- less and slightly bald, staggered out into the open. His face and hands were scratched and bleeding, his khaki hunting-suit was torn to shreds, and one of his leather puttees was gone, but he still clung desperately to his rifle. He gathered himself together and stood for a moment looking up and down the canyon in hopeless bewilderment. The lad lay behind the log watching him with un- blinking eyes as he flung down his rifle, tottered to the brook and drank long and deeply, pausing to wash the blood from his face and hands, then drinking again; watched him as he climbed back to the trail and looked about him, evidently trying to decide which way he should turn. He glanced at the threatening sky and peered through the darkening forest. He halloed and listened, but not even an echo answered. He picked up his rifle and without raising it to his shoulder fired three quick shots, then shouted again, but the wilder- ness swallowed the sound as quickly as it had engulfed the hunter. The boy lowered the hammers of his gun, stepped out from his ambush and approached the stranger noiselessly. LONG SWEETENING 5 "What are you hollerin , about?" he asked. At the unexpected sound of a human vpice almost at his elbow, the man started and wheeled. "Why— hello!" he gasped. "Hello !" responded the boy. "What you hollerm' for?" "Why, I'm lost." "Lost! I thought you was a b'ar a-huntin' hazel nuts, an' I come mighty nigh pluggin' you." "Can you tell me where I am?" growled the stranger. "Ye-e-ah." The lad eyed him deliberately from head to heel after the manner of the mountainside. "Well — where am I?" demanded the hunter trucu- lently. "Right hyur." The man scowled and flushed. "Don't stand there gaping at me like an idiot, but tell me how I can get to Warm Springs." The lad stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He made no response, but gripped his gun in both hands, held it lightly across his body and began backing slowly toward the trunk of a nearby tree, feeling his way with his bare toes and keeping his eyes fixed on the stranger's face. "Say ! You're not going to leave me in this wilder- ness, are you?" pleaded the hunter in sudden alarm. "I don't know as I keer much fur yer comp'ny." "I'll pay you for your trouble, if you'll direct me to Warm Springs. I'll give you ten dollars." 6 , LONG SWEETENING The lad stopped when his elbow touched the tree and eyed him with contempt. "Say ! Where you fum- anyway ?" "I'm from San Francisco." "Do folks there have to be paid fur info'mation?" "Yes — generally." "Well, they don't up hyur. If a body's civil about askin', he gits it fur nuthin.' If he ain't, he kain't git it at all." "I beg your pardon, my boy," the hunter hastened to apologize. "I'm a stranger here, and I don't know the people or the country." "No; I reckon you don't." "Won't you be good enough to tell me how to get back to my camp?" "To Warm Springs?" "Yes." "Well, jes f oiler this trail an* keep to the left at all the forks till you git to the lake. Then keep to the right till you git past it, an' at the fust fork take the left hand trail to the bottom of the canyon, an' f oiler down the crick to the secon' crossin'. Then turn tq. the left at the top of the ridge, an* Warm Springs is jes two looks straight ahead." "How far is it, anyway?" " 'Bout eight mile." "Eight miles!" gasped the stranger in dismay. "I can't possibly get there tonight. Isn't there some place near here where I can stay?" "Well— I dunno." LONG SWEETENING 7 The lad reflected. An intuitive sense of hostility, more than the man's arrogance, prompted a feeling of aversion that almost amounted to enmity, but that was no reason for denying the customary hospitality of the hills. "I guess, mebbe, I kin put you up at my cabin fur the night," he decided. "How far is it from here?" " 'Bout two mile." "I can't go that far. I'm completely done up." "Then I guess you'll have to camp hyur." The stranger looked about hopelessly. The prospect of a night in the forest with no food or shelter, and in the storm that was brewing, terrified him. "How can I ?" he complained. "I have no blankets and nothing to eat. I haven't even a match." "Got ca'tridges an' a gun, ain't you?" "Yes; but what good are they? Isn't there some place near here — a deserted cabin or something — where I can find shelter ? It's going to rain." "Hit shore- is." The lad pondered. "Say ! You kin walk a couple o' hunderd yards, kain't you ?" "Just about." "All right. Come on," and he started briskly up the trail with the swinging gait of the trained moun- taineer, the stranger limping after him. "What is your name, my boy?" he inquired. That was a question that was never asked in the mountains. A man's identity was his own affair, and if he chose to reveal it, well and good. 8 LONG SWEETENING "Wade Carson," responded the young guide prompt- ly. "What's yourn?" He wanted it understood that any affront would be repaid in kind. "John Arnold/' replied the stranger, unconscious of the discourtesy. "Been out huntin'?" "Yes — hunting and fishing. I wounded a deer this morning and followed the trail till I got lost." "Huh! I don't see how anybody kin git lost," chuckled the boy. "You don't! How do you find your way about in •this wilderness?" "Why, when I want to go anywheres, I jes go; and when I want to come back, I jes come. Hyur's a good place to camp," he said, as he stopped in a group of giant redwoods and set down his gun. "You kin sleep all right hyur." He pointed to a hollow in the trunk of one of the trees large enough to shelter half a dozen men. "If you'll cut some limbs and ferns fur a bed, I'll build a fire clost enough to keep you warm an* fur enough away so's not to smoke you out. Gimme yer gun — an' some ca'tridges." "What do you want of them?" asked Arnold, with quick suspicion. "To build a fire with. I ain't got much powder o' my own." Arnold handed over the rifle and sat down with his back to a tree. Young Carson inspected the gun in great perplexity. LONG SWEETENING 9 "How do you git the ca'tridges out 'thout shootin' ?" he inquired as he passed it back. Arnold threw a couple out of the magazine and watched the boy curiously as he scraped the earth bare, stamped it with his tough heels, removed the lead from the cartridges with his hunting knife and poured the powder from the shells, the greater part in a small heap that he covered with moss and twigs, and the remainder in a slender train leading to it. "Shoot right hyur," he instructed Arnold, pointing to the end of the train. "Why don't you do it?" "I don't know how she works," confessed the lad, with a glance at the gun. Arnold rose wearily, threw a cartridge into the bar- rel and fired a shot at the point indicated. With the flash of the powder the moss began to blaze. "That's how to build a fire when you ain't got no matches," observed the boy. "You pick up some dry limbs an' keep'er goin', an' I'll cook you somethin' to eat." He drew a couple of mountain quail from the pocket of his coat, and while Arnold gathered fuel for his fire and cut boughs for the bed, dressed and washed the birds at the brook. Then he cut a green hazel branch, raked out a bed of glowing coals, spitted the quail and proceeded to broil them. "I alius pack pepper and salt," he explained, as he took an old percussion cap box from his pocket, "but io LONG SWEETENING I ain't got no bread. I'm a little short o' flour jes now." "That's all right," said Arnold. "These quail will be lifesavers." He lay by the fire watching them hungrily while they browned. "I guess they're done now." The boy was laying them before Arnold on the frond of a fern. "While you're eatin', I'll git wood enough to keep your fire a-goin'." He quickly gathered a great pile of dried limbs and rolled a log up beside the fire. "There! I guess that'll answer," he decided. Rain began to patter upon the dry leaves beyond the sheltered circle, and the boy shouldered his gun. "I've got to be a-movin' now," he said. "If you'll jes foller this trail in the mornin' an' keep to the left till you come to the lake, I'll git some break fust fur you." "Thanks, my boy. You've helped me out of a pret- ty bad hole," admitted Arnold, as he struggled to his feet. "Oh, that's nothin'." "I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't met you. Here — take this." He offered the lad a gold coin. Young Carson glanced at it in surprise and at Arn- old with suspicion. He recalled that a fugitive bandit had once offered his father a whole silver dollar for a single night's shelter, and certainly one who handled gold coin with such prodigality couldn't have come by LONG SWEETENING n it honestly. He was to be distrusted, watched and avoid- ed. The sense of hostility that he had felt in the be- ginning returned with redoubled force. Instantly he regretted his offer of further hospitality and hoped it would not be accepted, but without a word he turned on his heel and disappeared. Arnold stood staring at a wall of impenetrable darkness that flung the fire- light back upon itself. He strained his ears to catch some sound from the inky wilderness beyond, half ex- pecting to hear a cry from the boy, blotted out so sud- denly and completely, but he heard only the nearby plash of the brook and the distant hoot of a great horned owl. He shuddered and drew closer to the fire. CHAPTER II. It was barely daybreak when Arnold sat up, rubbed his eyes and tried to locate himself. His limbs were stiff and sore from the unusual hardships of the previ- ous day, and his body ached from the unaccustomed hardness of his bed. As he stepped out of the hol- low tree a gray-squirrel, which had been sitting on a log watching his smouldering fire with cautious curi- osity, scampered up a nearby madrona and barked at him petulantly. The forest was dripping from the rain of the night, but the sky was clear, except for an occasional high- scudding cloud, the harbinger of a heavy and protracted storm. Arnold stretched himself, limped to the brook, removed the remnants of clothing that still clung to him and refreshed himself with a bath in the icy water. Then, redressing and tying a bandanna handkerchief over his head, he shouldered his rifle and started up the trail. It wound its way through a virgin forest of red- woods, whose fluted columns seemed to support the azure dome above. It passed beneath lower arches of madrona and chestnut oak and through bowers of pungent laurel and fragrant nutmeg. It crossed a marshy basin, where thimbleberry and blackberry vines grew thick and tangled, like myrtle on neglected graves, and the skeletons of giant trees long dead stood erect, grimi and reproachful. It rose gently to a higher (12) LONG SWEETENING 13 bench, threaded a maze of hazel, plunged down again and crossed the brook by a rude bridge of unhewn logs. Here Arnold paused to watch the trout leaping in the pool below and the ferns fluttering in the cascade above, and to inhale the pungent fragrance of the damp forest. Something in the money-grubbing soul of the man swelled and quivered. Blood, grown sluggish from years of coddling, leaped to life; nerves, slack and unsteady from constant strain, tightened and tingled. The hardships through which he had just passed, the wounds, the bruises and the mental per- turbation were forgotten. With a lighter step he tramped on, past a pond criss-crossed with the trunks of monster trees that had died and fallen, and past the gushing springs that burst from the mountainside to feed it. Here, where the lazy brook had its source, the trail reluctantly parted company with it to climb a steep slope, winding through a forest so dense that not a single ray of a summer sun could ever penetrate it. At last, through the interlaced boughs overhead and beyond, Arnold began to catch occasional glimpses of the sky and knew that he was approaching an open- ing, but he was wholly unprepared for the view that burst upon him as he emerged from the wood. He stopped, awed, amazed, at the beauty of the scene. In some prehistoric period two mountains — twin giants — had stood guard over the gateway of the great canyon, one at each side. At their feet a mountain stream had rushed and rioted, till in anger they flung 14 LONG SWEETENING themselves down upon it and held it in subjection; and now their scarred and forbidding faces looked down upon their prisoner — a lake of deepest blue. Arnold stood at the summit of the natural dam and looked across the lake where a mountain rose so abrupt- ly that its bristling pines seemed ready to slip in- to the water. Around its base the lake curved to the East until it hid itself behind a jutting point of rocks. At his right a grove of laurel stretched to the water's edge, and at his left stood a rude cabin, over which a mass of honeysuckle and wild roses sprawled. Upon its side were stretched fresh deerskins and the pelts of foxes, raccoons and squirrels, and on the bench before it sat his little guide of the night before, lazily smok- ing a corn-cob pipe. "Hello!" shouted Arnold, as he hurried down the slope. "Hello !" responded the boy. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose deliberately. "Ready for breakfas'?" "Yes; I think I am. That tramp has given me an appetite." "Well, set down, an' I'll cook it. I've had mine." Arnold leaned his gun against the side of the cabin and dropped on the bench. Opposite him, only a few rods away, a mountain — almost a sheer precipice — rose from the indigo waters at its base to the golden oaks upon its crest a thousand feet above. Near the summit, just touched by the morning sun, Autumn leaves flamed red. Below were patches of rich brown LONG SWEETENING 15 and soft yellow foliage, and still lower, where the shadows deepened, showed the brilliant green of ferns and creepers and the silvery gleam of cascading springs. Arnold had seen Springtime in the Alps, Summer among the fjords of Norway and Autumn among the lakes of the high Sierra, but nowhere had he ever seen a spot of such exquisite beauty — so perfectly peaceful, so completely restful, so satisfying to the soul. It was as though Nature, dissatisfied with her first crude handiwork, had striven with all her power to soften and to chasten the roughness and wildness of it. "What an ideal country place this would make," mused Arnold, and he began sketching it in his imag- ination. Early in life — in fact, when a young lady refused to marry him till he was able to provide for her amply — John Arnold had formulated, approved and adopted the theory that money would meet every human desire. He had devoted himself so assiduously to its accumula- tion that he had had neither time nor inclination for anything beyond its reach, and so successfully that he had been able to get everything he wanted, including the young lady. The desire to own the lake reduced it to his possession — acquisition being a mere matter of detail — and he proceeded at once to plan the im- provement of the property. He would have a roor.iy log bungalow with beamed ceilings, big fireplaces and broad verandas there at the edge of the forest, a red clover lawn stretching to the pebble beach, graveled i6 LONG SWEETENING paths leading to the boat-house and bath-house under the overhanging laurels, and a tangle of pond lilies wherever the water shallowed. "Breakfas' ready," announced young Carson. "This is a beautiful place," remarked Arnold, as he rose and turned toward the door, reluctantly yielding to the call of hunger. "Think so?" The cabin contained but one long room, floored with puncheons, roofed with clapboards and lighted dimly by two small windows. At one side was an immense fireplace of unhewed stone and yellow clay, and above the rough redwood mantel were matched deer antlers that served as a gun-rack. The fowling-piece the boy had carried the night before, a long-barrelled, muzzle- loading rifle with silver mountings, and a home-made, brass- fer ruled rod of seasoned yew, rested upon them, while from them dangled shot pouches and powder horns. Built against the opposite wall were two rude bunks, upon which worn furs and blankets were piled in disorder. A rough table and four stools, all of split timber unplaned, occupied the center of the room. Appetizing odors rose from the pots and pans that stood on the glowing wood coals in the open fireplace. "Where are your father and mother?" asked Arnold. "Ain't got none," replied the boy. "No? Are they dead?" "Yeah. Draw up," and he nodded toward a stool. "When did they die?" LONG SWEETENING 17 "Mammy died when I was a baby, an' pap brung me up. He died 'bout a month ago." "And you live here alone?" "Yeah." "Who owns this place?" "I do. Have some fish?" and he placed before his guest a tin plate with a broiled trout on it. "That looks all right," declared Arnold. "Where did you catch it?" "In the lake. Hit's full o' them." "Just whip your breakfast from plunge to pan, eh ?" and Arnold glowed at the thought of it. He won- dered what basis there might be for the boy's claim of ownership. In all probability it rested solely upon his temporary occupation. If this were Government land, it would still be open to entry and purchase, for a min- or could not even set up "squatter's rights." "Did your father own this place?" he inquired. "Yeah — three hundred an' twenty acres. He proved up on it an' give it to me when he died. Have some 1 corn pone ?" The lad lifted the lid of the Dutch oven on the hearth, took out half a loaf and placed it on Arnold's plate. "Has there been any administration?" asked Arn- old. "Any which?" "Administration — on your father's estate." "I don't know what you mean. I jes made a coffin an' buried him up yon — " he jerked his thumb over his 18 LONG SWEETENING shoulder in the direction of the knoll back of the cab- in — "where he tol' me to." He filled a tin cup with coffee, set it upon the table and picked up a jug. "Have some sweet'nin' ?" 'he asked. "I ain't got no short — only long," he added apologetically. "What's long sweet'nin' ?" inquired Arnold. "M'lasses." "Oh! Why is it called 'long sweet'nin' ?" "I dunno — 'less it's because hit's so long a-comin'," chuckled the boy, as he waited for the cold molasses to flow from the jug. "Say when!" "There! I guess that will do. This trout is de- licious," declared Arnold. "Do you do all of your own cooking?" "Course. There ain't nobody else to do it. Have some deer liver an' bacon?" "You bet I will. Who killed the deer?" "I did." "By George! I wish I could get one!" exclaimed Arnold. "Ain't you killed any yet?" asked Wade in sur- prise. "No," admitted Arnold, "I've seen but one since I came up here." "Huh!" It was a grunt of amusement and con- tempt. "Are there many around here?" "I kin git one any mornin' or evenin'. You see, this LONG SWEETENING 19 place is so kind o' out o' the way that there ain't much huntin' hyur." "What an ideal preserve!" reflected Arnold. "Do you keep hunters out?" he asked. "Course not. Hit's a mighty mean man that won't let nobody hunt on his place." The skins of half a dozen gigantic rattlesnakes stretched on the walls caught Arnold's attention. "Are there rattlesnakes around here?" he asked in sudden alarm. Wade glanced at him sharply. "I suspicion there is," he was about to reply, but caution curbed his tongue. "There's some over yon," he jerked his thumb in the direction of the open ranges to the East, "but they ain't no snakes in the timber." While his guest was finishing his breakfast Wade went outside and examined Arnold's rifle with interest and curiosity. He had heard of the new-fangled breech- loader and repeater, but had never before seen one, except as pictured on the back page of an old maga-» zine. He threw it to his shoulder, sighted it at differ- ent objects and tested its weight and balance. "She's nice and light," he mused, "but I bet she won't shoot any straighter'n Ol' Tom." Though still loyal to the old Kentucky rifle of his forefathers, this was the gun he had dreamed of possessing sometime in some way — he did not know how — a gun he could throw to his shoulder in an in- stant and knock over a deer without waiting to find a rest, as he had to do with "01' Tom;" and he sighed 20 LONG SWEETENING as he fondled it. If the visitor would just let him shoot it once, he would be content to wait for that dis- tant day when he could have one of his own. When he heard Arnold shove his stool back from the table he set the gun down quickly. "By George! You've got a great place here!" ex- claimed Arnold, as he stood in the doorway and gazed around. "You think so?" and the boy glowed with pride. "Most people says hit's kind o' wuthless, 'cause there ain't no range and mighty little timber — mos'ly all bresh an' water." "How much do I owe you for my breakfast?" "You don't owe me nothin'," replied young Carson promptly. "Oh, you had better take something. I've paid five dollars many a time for a worse breakfast than that." "Five dollars! Jes for breakfas'?" gasped the boy. "You must o' been almighty hungry — er yer awful rich." "Both," admitted Arnold. Any one who could pay such a fabulous sum for a single meal must be the richest man in the world, the lad thought, and flushed as he recalled his unwar- ranted suspicions and his incivility of the night before. "Won't you take something?" insisted the guest, as he drew out his purse, opened it and showed a handful of gold. "No-o; it wouldn't be 'zactly right. But if you — " He was about to ask permission to shoot the rifle LONG SWEETENING 21 once, but his courage failed him. Cartridges, he knew, were expensive. "But what?" "If you want, I'll show you the upper end o' the lake." "I really would like to see a little more of your place." "All right. Come on, an* I'll row you up." He led the way to a flat-bottomed punt tied beneath the drooping laurels. "Git in." He took the oars and pulled up the lake, pausing occasionally to point out the high feeding-grounds where he could always count on getting a deer, the lower runways where his traps were set for foxes and raccoons, the little meadow at the extreme end of the lake where rabbits and quail were always to be found, and the opening in the pine forest where grouse sunned themselves. "Do you want to sell this place?" inquired Arnold. "Nope," responded Wade, promptly and positively. "Why not?" "Pap tor me to hang on to it, an' some day hit'd be wuth a lot o' money. But I ain't never goin' to sell it. I jes couldn' live nowheres else." "How will you be able to keep up the taxes on it?" "Oh, I reckon I kin sell enough pelts to do that — till I git big enough to work out. Then hit'll be easier." "Well, I think I'll have to be starting back to the 22 LONG SWEETENING Springs," observed Arnold. 'The other fellows will be out hunting for me." Wade rowed him back to the shore opposite the cab- in and gave him directions, warning him of the diverg- ing trails to be avoided. He picked up the gun to hand it to Arnold, then hesitated. "I guess I'd better go a piece with you," he decided. "You might git lost ag'in." "I wish you would — if you have the time to spare," said Arnold. "Ain't got much of anything else," laughed the boy. "I'll pack your gun, if you don't mind," and with- out waiting for permission threw it over his shoulder and started up the trail. "How does she shoot?" he asked. "Perfectly — since I had that platinum sight put on it." "No kick er bounce in 'er, I s'pose." "Not a bit." The lad had intended going only to the top of the first ridge, from which the greater part of the trail could be seen, but he could not relinquish the rifle so soon. It was a joy merely to have it on his shoulder and conjure up in his imagination occasions for its use. "If you want to, you kin come up to my place and hunt an' fish," he offered, thinking that an extended visit might afford him the opportunity to use the rifle. "I'd like to, but I've got to hurry back to San Francisco," replied Arnold. LONG SWEETENING 23 "That's the place the folks call 'the city', ain't it?" "Yes." "I s'pose you've traveled aroun' quite a bit." "Yes; I've been to Europe, Asia and Africa." "I was to Potterville oncet," the boy boasted. Arnold smiled as he thought of the rustic village twenty miles away. "You've traveled some yourself," he observed. "Yeah ; hit's quite a trip. I don't like it there." "No? Why not?" "They's too many people, an' I feel kind o' crowded. I s'pose the city's bigger'n Potterville, ain't it?" "Well — yes — rather," laughed Arnold. "How long have you lived here?" "I was born hyur." "Where were your people from?" "They come fum Kaintucky to Missouri an' then to Calif orny — 'cross the plains." As they came in sight of the Springs Arnold again broached the subject of the purchase of the lake. "I wish you would change your mind about selling your place," he said. "I will pay a good fair price for it." "I don't want to sell at no price," declared the boy. "What'd I do with the money?" "You could put yourself through school with it. You ought to have an education." "Did you ever go to school?" 24 LONG SWEETENING "Yes — certainly. Every one has to, if he wants to get on in the world." "Well, they didn't learn you to git aroun' without gittin' lost, so I reckon they kain't learn me much." "Not about this part of the country — certainly — but there is a lot of the world outside." "This country's good enough fur me, an' I calcalate to stay hyur." "Well, I'm greatly indebted to you, my boy," said Arnold, "and I wish you'd take something for your time and trouble." The boy shook his head. "Wouldn't you like to have that gun ?" "To keep?" he gasped, and his heart gave a great bound. "Certainly." The lad looked at it longingly but made no reply. "I don't need it," urged Arnold. "I've got half a dozen more." "No; I kain't do it." The lad shook his head re- gretfully. "Hit's jes like takin' pay." "Not at all. It's only a present." "I'm feared I couldn't 'ford to buy ca'tridges fur it." "I've got a supply here that you can have," said Arnold. "An' I don't know how she works," the boy added waveringly. "I'll show you in a second." Arnold took the gun and demonstrated its mechanism. "Here — take it," and he put it in the lad's hands. "Right shore you ain't goin' to need it?" LONG SWEETENING 25 "Certainly not." "Well — I guess hit's all right, but — " his lips quiv- ered and he brushed a sleeve across his eyes — "any time you feel like it, come up to my place an' stay as long as you want." "Thank you very much. I will avail myself of your offer." "An* I'll keep the gun till you come, an' if you want *er back, course you kin have 'er." "All right." He gave the boy several boxes of cartridges, bade him good-bye and watched him trudge off up the trail with the gun on his shoulder. It was well after noon, a drizzling rain: was falling, and Arnold was just starting away from Warm Springs on the daily stage, when young Carson came running down the hill, call- ing to him. "Oh, Mr. Arnold !" he gasped. "I jes wanted to say 'thanky'. I was so tickled about the gun that I got plumb back to the lake 'fore I thought about it." CHAPTER III. As far back as he could remember Wade Carson had been accustomed to little companionship and much solitude. His home by the lake was six miles by a direct trail from the nearest habitation, Warm Springs, a station on the stage road across the mountains, and rarely had he been further from the cabin. Few strangers came that way, and they paused only long enough to exchange the time of day or make neces- sary inquiries. The boy's father had taught him to swim, to shoot, to fish and to cook their humble fare almost as soon as he was able to toddle, and when still little more than a baby he was left alone day .after day to amuse himself as best he could, while the elder Carson hunted and attended his traps. As soon as he was large and strong enough, he was permitted to go on short expedi- tions to acquire the essentials of a mountaineer's edu- cation — woodcraft and trapping. When he was but seven years old his father left him alone to go down into the valleys and work in the harvest fields, and for three months the child killed his own game, cooked his own food and looked after the traps. Left so much to his own resources, he explored every nook and corner of the adjacent hills and developed a self-reliance far beyond his years. In the long winter evenings the elder Carson, who could barely read and write, taught the boy his A B (26) LONG SWEETENING 27 Cs and to spell out the words in an old primer and an occasional newspaper, "skippin' the hard uns." The boy cared little for learning but enjoyed the com- panionship, so he learned to write little more than his own name. He was stimulated to that by the oft-re- peated story of Tamar Fox, a mountain woman, so il- literate that she was once compelled to sign a deed with a cross and ever afterward was known in the community as "Tamar X." "You don't want folks a-callin' you Wade X," his father would conclude, and the boy would take a fresh grip upon his stubby pencil, wag his tongue and scrawl "Wade Carson" over and over again. So his childhood passed without any great joys but with never-ending pleasure in the freedom of it. When the father suddenly sickened and died, the lad wasted no time in useless grief, but went stoically about the; task of burial — splitting out lumber for a rude coffin, drawing the remains on a sled to the grave he had dug on the knoll overlooking the lake, and lowering the body into the ground with ropes turned about a nearby tree. When he had filled in the grave and smoothed the ground over it, he shouldered his gun and went back to look after the neglected traps, feel- ing that upon him now rested the sole responsibility of maintaining the only home he had ever known. The possession of the new rifle was the first great joy of his life. He yearned to test it from the mo- ment that it became his, but did not feel that he could afford to waste a single cartridge upon a target. He 28 LONG SWEETENING hurried home with it, took it apart, studied its mechan- ism, cleaned and oiled it carefully and pondered upon an appropriate name for it. A gun was as much a member of a mountaineer's family as his horse, his dog or his child, and to be nameless was to be worthless. When he looked at "Old Tom" and "Betsy," resting on the rack over the mantel, he felt a twinge of remorse at his apparent disloyalty, and made partial amends by taking them down and polishing them, reminding them meanwhile of their manifold virtues and notable achievements. "You're gittin' too old, Tom," he argued, "to go trapesin' round over the hills. Better stay home an* rest an' let a young feller do it. But I kain't git along without you, Betsy. You'll have to keep on knockin' over squirrels, an' rabbits, an' quail fur a spell yet." The boy waited impatiently for evening and the coming of the deer to the lakeside for cool water and lush grasses. Though he was in no need of fresh meat, he could always make good use of jerked ven- ison, and deer skins brought a fair price. As the time approached he filled the magazine of the new gun, rowed half the length of the lake, tied his boat and hid himself in a clump of bushes overlooking a deer trail that led down from the chemissal-covered hills. It was just growing dusk when an antlered buck stepped gingerly out into the little opening a hundred yards away, stopped with head erect and ears cocked to sniff the evening breeze. The boy raised the gun LONG SWEETENING 29 deliberately, took careful aim and fired. The deer sprang high into the air and fell dead. "'Little DanTs' all right," he declared instantly bestowing upon the new weapon the name of the mighty Kentucky hunter whose prowess had been the theme of many a fireside tale. Though reluctant to let the gun out of his hands for a moment, he felt it was due "Old Tom" and "Betsy" that they should have "Little DanTs" company at night time, but he was secretly gratified to discover that the gun was too short for the rack. With a pre- tense of regret calculated to mollify his old friends, he said: "Well, I reckon I'll have to take Tittle DanT to bed with me. There don't seem to be no other place fur im. The days shortened and passed swiftly, and winter with its heavy rains and light snows had begun to close in, when a stranger rode up to the little cabin late one afternoon, announced that he was a deputy sheriff and served a subpoena on the boy. "What's this hyur say?" he asked, as he turned it over and examined it curiously. "Can't you read?" inquired the deputy. "I kin read some readin', but I kain't read writin' " the lad admitted. "It says for you to be in court at Potterville on De- cember eighteenth at ten o'clock." "When's that?" "Two weeks from tomorrow." 30 LONG SWEETENING "What's that fur, anyway?" "just to prove that your father is dead." "What's that got to be proved fur? Kain't they take my word fur it ?" "So's to administer on his estate. You can't have a good clear title to this property till it's administered on." Wade remembered that Airnold had said something about the matter. "My title's good enough fur me," he declared. "Pap gi'n me the place, an' it was his'n, wasn't it?" "Yes; it stands in his name, so you can't ever sell it till it is probated on," advised the deputy. "I don't calcalate to sell it." "It's got to be administered on just the same," de- clared the officer. "It's the law." "Well, I s'pose I'll have to go down thar an' talk to the Jedge about it." "You'll have to go, or you'll be fined for contempt of court," warned the deputy. In order to appear in court at the time fixed it would be necessary for the boy to start for the county seat the day before, and he devoted much time and thought to his plans for the long journey. He sorted his pelts, cooked corn pone enough to last him a couple of days, tied up a bundle of jerked venison and a package of coffee, selected a tin plate, tin cup, coffee pot and knife and fork and made the whole into a pack that could be conveniently carried. LONG SWEETENING 31 When the day of his departure came rain was falling in torrents, and he waited for the weather to moderate a little, but as there was no cessation of the downpour by noon time, he put on moccasins, tied on buckskin leggins, shouldered his pack and "Little Dan'l" and took the most direct route across the mountains. He was wet to the skin before he had gone a mile, but he was accustomed to such exposure and plodded steadily on. It was late in the afternoon when he strode down the middle of the main street of the village, avoiding the sidewalks that appeared to him to be crowded, and ignoring the jibes and laughter that his quaint ap- pearance excited among the townspeople. He soon disposed of his pelts, inquired the way to a livery stable and asked the privilege of sleeping in the hay for the night. Such accommodation had been given him and his father on a previous visit, and there was no reason why he should go to a hotel, where, as he had been informed, it cost a "whole half a dollar" just for a bed. He sat by the big box-stove in the office of the stable, dried his clothing, boiled his coffee, munched his corn pone and "jerky," smoked his pipe and retired to the hay mow to roll himself in the horse blankets the stableman lent him. He was up again at daylight and breakfasted as he had supped. "Whar'll I find the Jedge o' the court?" he asked. "Up to the court house," said the stableman. "Just wait around till the Sheriff comes out on the porch up- 32 LONG SWEETENING stairs and hollers : 'Oh, yes ! Oh, yes ¥ Then f oiler the crowd." With his gun on his shoulder and his pipe in his mouth he loitered about the plaza, pondering on what he should say to the Judge and staring in wonder at the high dome of the new two-story courthouse, which he "reckoned must be 'bout the biggest buildin' in the world." After what seemed an interminable delay, court was finally called, and young Carson followed other loit- erers to the courtroom, found a seat and listened at- tentively to the proceedings without in the least under- standing what they were all about. "Wade Carson !" called an attorney before the bar. "Hyur !" responded the boy, as he had heard others answer, and stepped quickly forward with his cap and rifle in his hands. "Put down that gun!" ordered the Sheriff, with a pretense of severity. "Don't be a feared. I ain't a-goin* to shoot nobody," replied the boy in surprise, and a titter ran through the courtroom. The attorney took the rifle, set it down and mo- tioned the lad to the witness stand. He understood it to be the granting of an opportunity to speak to the Judge. "Hit's this away, Jedge. I—" "Be sworn," ordered the Judge crustily. "Hold up your right hand!" instructed the clerk, and he administered the oath. "Sit down." LONG SWEETENING 33 In response to the attorney's questions he testified to his father's death, and that, so far as he knew, he had no relatives. "Petition of the Public Administrator is granted/' ordered the court. "This boy is a minor, and a peti- tion should be filed for the appointment of a guardian." " 'Scuse me, Jedge," protested the boy. "I ain't no miner. I'm a hunter an' trapper, an' I don't need no minister or guardeen nuther." "Recess till two o'clock," growled the irascible old Judge, and stalked away to his chambers. Wade, hopelessly at sea, left the witness stand, picked up his rifle, pulled his coonskin cap over his eyes and looked around him appealingly, but no one offered him any explanation of the proceedings. He stalked over to the attorney who had questioned him and faced the man defiantly. "Say! What you-all a-tryin' to do with me an* my prope'ty?" he demanded. "We are merely pursuing legal methods for the pro- tection of both," replied the attorney. "What's the reason you kain't jes leave me be?" "It's all right, son," the Sheriff assured him, as he laid a friendly hand on the boy's shoulder. "Maybe you don't understand it, but it's all strictly according to law." "You ain't got no call to bring the law on me," Wade protested. "I ain't done nothin'." "No; of course not. We all know that. But you don't want to buck against the law, now do you, son ?" 34 LONG SWEETENING "No-o; I reckon not," admitted the boy doubtfully. "I suppose you will consent to act as his guardian," observed the attorney. "Well, I guess I'll have to," laughed the Sheriff. "I've got so many wards that one more won't make any difference." Sheriff Tom Burke was a man who invariably in- spired instantaneous confidence. In his keen blue eyes there was the twinkle of sympathetic comprehension; in his square jaws the assurance of unfaltering deter- mination; on his firm but sensitive lips the pledge of loyalty. Born in an Irish bog, transplanted to a Mis- souri farm, orphaned in his childhood and compelled to shift for himself, he was surprised on reaching ma- turity to discover that he had, in violation of all tradi- tions of family and environment, learned to read and write. When he found himself broke, in a community so illiterate that his meager attainments stamped him as a man of profound erudition, he decided to teach school. He heard of a newly organized school district and applied to the trustees, three weather-beaten mountaineers, for the position of teacher. "What kin yo' teach?" inquired the chairman of the board. "Reading, writing and — " he groped for a moment — "'rithmetic." "Well, that's all right, but do you teach this hyur new-fangled stuff they cal 'j'ogerphy?' " "Yep," replied Burke promptly, though he had never heard of it. LONG SWEETENING 35 "How do you teach her?" "Oh, any way you like." "Well, we've talked it all over, an' I reckon you'd better teach her flat," decided the chairman. "We all come across the plains, an' I guess if there'd been any bulge in the world we c'd of saw it." For three years his instruction in geography was a flat success, for no pupil remained in school long enough to get beyond the map of California. Burke's^ reputation for honesty, courage and kindliness gave him a popularity that had forced him into office in the beginning and had kept him there for three suc- cessive terms. Being a bachelor, with no living rela- tives so far as he knew, all of his salary and much of his time was devoted to private benefactions, and he was not only the self-appointed guardian of numerous orphans but the mainstay of many indigent widows. No one in distress ever appealed to Tom Burke in vain, and often substantial assistance was rendered by him before an appeal could be made. It had be- come the usual thing for the court to appoint him whenever a .guardian was necessary, as he invariably refused to accept the fees allowed by law and took al- most a paternal interest in the welfare of his wards. "How would you like to have me for your guardian, son?" he asked the boy. "I ain't got no objection to you," he replied, "but I kin take keer o' myself." "I'll bet you can," declared the Sheriff, and he patted Wade on the back approvingly. "But it's this way, 36 LONG SWEETENING son; you've got property, and you're not of age, and the law says that you've got to have a guardian to look after you and your property." "A guardian stands in loco parentis — that is, in the place of a parent," expounded the attorney. "Of course, I can't exactly take your daddy's place," said the Sheriff, "but I'll do the best I can." "Then I s'pose you'll come out to my place to live an' help look after the traps," said Wade. "No; I can't do that without giving up my job as Sheriff," laughed Burke. "Suppose you come and live in town, and go to school, and help me be Sheriff." The boy shook his head. "If your father had been elected Sheriff, that's what he'd have you do. You better think it over," urged Burke. "There ain't no thinkin' to be did. I calcalate to stay at the lake." "All right. Come have something to eat with me, and we'll talk things over." The Sheriff led the boy to the village restaurant, provided him with a meal such as he had never before eaten and little by little drew from him the meager story of his uneventful life. Burke recalled the boy's father, Caleb Carson, as one of several squatters whom he had once had under investigation as the possible perpetrators of a stage robbery — a tall, gaunt and swarthy mountaineer, whose few words and direct gaze were as convincing as they were disconcerting. "I ketch varmints; you ketch robbers," he had said, "an* I 'tend strickly to my own business," and LONG SWEETENING 37 the Sheriff's acquaintance with the elder Carson ended there. Wade's keen perceptions, self-reliance and quiet de- termination impressed Burke and aroused in him even more interest than he usually felt in his wards. Some- thing in the peculiar aloof tness and defiance of the boy's nature appealed to him as singularly pathetic. The very fact that young Carson himself was utterly unconscious of his loneliness, seemed actually to feel the need of no one and depended so completely upon himself and his own resources accentuated rather than mitigated the pathos of it. Burke knew that under no circumstances would the boy ask help or expect pity from any one. Hie knew that such a soul would never spare itself and could not fail to suffer. "He will be somebody some day, if he only has a chance," he thought. The Sheriff discussed the benefits of an education, told anecdotes of boys who had achieved success through the opportunities it afforded and elaborated on the pleasant diversions of town life, in the hope of luring the lad away from the mountains. Wade list- ened politely and attentively, but with little interest. His ignorance of everything beyond the wild free life he had lived was so profound, and he was so thorough- ly contented with his lot, that nothing could alter his determination. "Well, I guess I better be a-movin', if I want to git back 'fore dark," he said at last. 38 LONG SWEETENING "Better stay here in town a day or two — just for a visit — and see how you like it," urged the Sheriff. "No — thanky jes the same. I got to git back an' look after the traps." "All right, son," yielded the Sheriff regretfully. "But it'll be pretty lonesome for you out there this Winter, won't it?" "Oh, I dunno. I don't mind." "Come along with me, and I'll get you something to keep you company." The Sheriff led the boy to a book store and bought copies of "Robinson Crusoe," "The Swiss Family Robinson" and "The Life and Adventures of James Capen Adams" for him. "They're good books, son, and I guess they're all true. This one is, because I knew Adams and the man that wrote the book, and they wouldn't lie. Now, don't go to shooting up anybody or holding up any stages," he admonished the boy, "without talking it over with me first." "I won't," promised Wade. "I calcalate to 'tend to my own business an' let other folks alone." "That's right. And don't forget that I'm your pap now, and if anything goes wrong, you come right straight to me about it, won't you ?" "I shore will." CHAPTER IV. The Winter passed swiftly for the young hunter. The short days were more than long enough, however, to enable him to give his traps the attention they re- quired, cure the pelts and do the necessary hunting and cooking. The long evenings he spent lying on the floor before the fireplace and laboriously spelling out the stories his guardian had given him. There was much in them that he did not understand, but he was able to follow the thread of the narratives; and the adventures of the castaways and the hair-breadth es- capes of the mighty hunter and tamer of grizzlies fas- cinated him. Wade was reminded that he had once found a small opening high on the side of the monster redwood at the edge of the forest only a few yards from his cabin, and that the tree was hollow to its base. He climbed up to it again and inspected it. A growth of suckers concealed the opening, and the hollow was half the size of his house. It would make an ideal hiding place, and who could tell when it might be necessary to find concealment there? So at the first spare moment he constructed rude steps down the inside of the tree, carpeted the dry earth at the bottom with ferns and deposited a supply of jerked venison and a jug of water for an emergency. At the upper end of the lake, overlooking the little meadow, was the Hog's Back, a sheer wall of rock, (39) 40 LONG SWEETENING like the blade of a knife on edge, with flanking hills at either end. In the far distant past, before the waters of the lake had worked a lower outlet through the fallen mountains to the North, they had tumbled over the rock and rushed down the canyon to the South. Wade had once slipped on the face of the cliff, rolled and slid fifty feet and lodged in a cluster of chap- arral, which, he discovered, concealed the mouth of a cave. He visited the place again, found that the rock was of soft sandstone and estimated that a tun- nel twenty feet long would pierce the wall. Both the cave and the contemplated exit at the rear were ac- cessible by a careful but perilous climb, and neither, except by merest chance, could ever be discovered. With a crowbar, pick and shovel he set to work, and in a month he had completed his tunnel and made "toe holts" on both walls, cunningly concealing the steps with moss and leaves. Then he provisioned the place and occupied much of his time in conjuring up imaginary invasions, battles, pursuits and escapes, in all of which the hollow tree and the tunnel figured prominently, and "Little Dan'1" distinguished himself. Winter passed, the blustery showers of early Spring were over and the .long, lazy days of June had come: and with them came the growing fear in Wade's heart that the Summer might bring John Arnold back to claim the gun. What would he ever do without "Lit- tle Dan'1?" His heart sank and he grew chill at the thought of parting from his faithful companion. He meditated upon some subterfuge by which he might LONG SWEETENING 41 keep the gun. He could hide it in the hollow tree and tell Arnold it had been stolen, but he remembered the admonition of his dying father — "don't lie, an' don't cheat, an' don't fight, 'less you have to, an' then fight fa'r an' squar' like a man" — and he knew that if Arnold came, he would have to give up the gun. Wade was sitting on the bench at his cabin door smoking his pipe and watching the bees buzzing around the honeysuckle, just beginning to bloom. He marked the course of their flight, as they departed with their burdens, and two or three times he had decided to trail them to their tree, so that he could have honey later in the season; but each time he shouldered his gun and started, he set it down again, for no particu- lar reason, and resumed his seat on the bench. As the day wore on his restlessness increased, and each task he attempted was quickly abandoned. "Somethin's goin' to happen/' he muttered, warned by that sixth sense which much solitude develops. At about noon time he started up from his bench and listened, but heard nothing and sat down again. "Somebody's comin', shore," he mused, and waited, watching the forest where the old road emerged. Within a few minutes he heard the thud of many hoofs. Almost immediately a horseman, leading a train of pack mules, appeared, closely followed by two women on horses — one of them carrying a baby — and by another man, also, mounted. He waved his hand to Wade and shouted : 42 LONG SWEETENING "Hello, young fellow! How are you?" The boy's heart sank and his face grew pale. It was John Arnold — come for "Little Dan'l." "Why — hello, Mr. Arnold!" he responded weakly, and he went up the slope to meet his visitors. Arnold helped one of the women off her horse. "This is Mrs. Arnold," he said, as he shook hands with Wade. She smiled and nodded, and the boy bobbed his head without removing his coonskin cap. "This is the boy, Elizabeth, that gave me long sweet'nin'," added Arnold. "What do you think of this place ?" He waved his arm over the scene before her. "Oh, it's perfectly gorgeous!" gasped Mrs. Arnold. "I had no idea, even from your enthusiastic descrip- tions, that it was so beautiful." Arnold took the baby, gave it to Mrs. Arnold and lifted the nursemaid off her horse, while Wade won- dered how he could possibly provide accommodations for so many guests. When he had invited Arnold to visit him he had not thought of entertaining a family. "Where is the best place for us to camp?" asked Arnold. "You 'low to camp out?" "Yes; we've got our outfit." "Oh, let's have our tent down there," begged Mrs. Arnold, pointing to the grove of laurels. "Better not," advised Wade. "Them pepperwoods '11 give you a headache if you stay in 'em too long. LONG SWEETENING 43 Better camp thar," and he indicated a level spot among the redwoods at the edge of the forest that gave a commanding view of the lake. "That looks all right," approved Arnold. While the guide was unpacking the mules the visi- tors sauntered down toward the cabin. "Set down an' rest," invited Wade. He brought out a couple of stools and placed them by the bench. "How did you get on with the rifle?" inquired Ar- nold. "Oh, all right," replied Wade without enthusiasm. "Hit's all ready for you," he added, wondering if Ar- nold might not leave it with him again when he went away. "Oh, I brought my own guns," said Arnold. "Can't I git you a drink of water?" asked the boy, and without waiting for an answer he hurried into the cabin to brush the tears of relief from his eyes. "Is this filtered?" asked Mrs. Arnold, when he returned with a bucket and a tin cup. "Yes'm. Hit filters thoo the hill an' comes out over yon," he pointed to the base of the mountain opposite. "You needn't be afraid of the spring water up here, Elizabeth," laughed Arnold. "Get the baby's handbag, Marie," ordered Mrs. Ar- nold, after they had drunk deeply of the cold spring water. The maid set the baby on its feet and went up the slope after the satchel. The child stared at Wade out of big, wondering, blue eyes, then toddled over 44 LONG SWEETENING to him, dimpling and crowing, and tried to clasp his leg with her chubby arms. He wanted to pick her up and hold her in his arms, but he had never seen a baby before, and he had a vague fear that a touch might crush the little pink and white thing, so he backed away in confusion. "Look, John P exclaimed Mrs. Arnold. "And she's usually so fearful of strangers." "You've made a hit with her, Wade," chuckled Arnold. Mrs. Arnold turned to the mountain opposite, where cascades were flashing in the sunlight and great Wood- wardia ferns were dancing in the silver showers. "The bungalow must be right there, John," she said, pointing to the spot that had been selected for their camp. "And you must have it put up at once." "Yes — certainly," acquiesced Arnold hastily. "That must be some kind of a new-fangled tent," thought Wade. "Think you're goin' to like it up hyur?" he asked of Mrs. Arnold. "Like it! I adore it already I I don't see how you ever could have sold it." Wade looked from one to the other in a puzzled way and grinned. This was some joke he didn't un- derstand. "I'm so glad that you bought it before anybody else saw it, John," Mrs. Arnold added. "What a perfect summer home it will be!" Wade looked to Arnold for the expected explana- tion, but his visitor only flushed and remained silent. LONG SWEETENING 45 "I reckon there's some mistake about that," said Wade gravely. "I ain't sold this place." Mrs. Arnold looked at her husband questioningly. "The Public Administrator sold it," he explained. "Didn't you know that?" he asked Wade. "No-o," he replied. "An' I don't know it yit." "Why, he had to sell it to pay the expenses of admin- istration, and I bought it." "How kin anybody else sell my prope'ty, I'd like to know?" demanded the boy. "The court ordered him to do it." "An* you bought it fum somebody else what didn't own it ? You knew all the time hit was mine." "You don't understand it, miy boy," protested Ar- nold. "It was all according to law. I bought it and paid for it, and I have just come up to take formal possession." "You 'low to take possession o' my place?" "But it's mine, now." "I'll see about that." The boy backed quickly into the cabin. "John," said Mrs. Arnold gravely, "you didn't take any unfair advantage of that boy, did you?" "Of course not, my dear. The property was put up at auction, and I was the highest — " "You git offen this place an' git quick!" Arnold wheeled and looked into the muzzle of a rifle that rested against the door jamb. "You hear what I say? Git!" 46 LONG SWEETENING "Hey! What are you doing there!" gasped Arnold, shrinking back and raising his hands above his head. "Point that gun the other way!" "You p'int your nose the other way an' git outen hyur!" ordered the boy. Mrs. Arnold sprang in front of her husband, flung her arms around his neck and began to scream hysteri- cally. The guide left his horses and ran toward them to learn the cause of her alarm. "What's the matter?" he shouted. "He's trying to shoot Mr. Arnold," screamed the woman. "Arrest him !" ordered Arnold. "Here! Here! Put down that gun!" The man advanced toward Wade. "You better keep outen this, er you'll have some trouble on yer own hands," warned the boy, and the fellow stopped. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded. "No, an' I don't keer. You-all git out o' hyur!" The guide advanced cautiously. "Better not come any closter," warned Wade. His tone was convincing. "Look a here," argued the stranger. "I'm Con- stable, and I can arrest you for this. Here's my badge." "This is my place, an' you-uns got ter git offen it. I don't keer who you are." "Don't you know that Mr. Arnold bought this place according to law?" asked the Constable. "They ain't no law fur robbin' a boy." LONG SWEETENING 47 "Now you listen to me," parleyed the official. "You listen to me. You git !" ordered the boy, em- phatically and peremptorily. "You'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you'll listen. You let that gun go off and kill anybody, and you'll be hung as sure as shootin'." "Are you a-goin' ?" The lad pressed his cheek against the stock of his rifle and peered through the sights. The Arnolds hur- ried away toward the horses, and the Constable re- treated a few steps, then stopped again. "Now look a here," he argued. "You can't buck against the law. There's only one thing to do — let Arnold have possession, and if he hasn't any right to it, you can get it back." "No, sir! I'd have to go to law, an' I ain't got no money fur lawin'." "Well, I'll tell you what you do. You come with me tomorrow to Potterville and ask the Judge and the Sheriff about it. If they say Arnold hasn't any right here, I'll come back and throw him off, and it won't cost you a cent. That's fair, ain't it?" "Yes," he admitted reluctantly, "it's fair enough if you'll do what you say." "I'll do it, sure. You don't think I want to help anybody in any gouging game, do you?" "I don't know nothin' 'bout that, but I guess mebbe it's best." He yielded, feeling confident that Arnold was a mere interloper and that the Sheriff would speedily adjust matters, if the Constable didn't. 48 LONG SWEETENING "It sure is," coincided the officer. "Put down the gun and come to town with me, and I won't say any- thing about this little matter." Wade was lowering the rifle when he heard a splash* He glanced quickly toward the lake and saw a bit of pink cloth disappear beneath the water, leaving only widening ripples upon the surface. In the excite- ment of the clash between the conflicting claimants the baby had toddled unobserved to the water's edge and had fallen in. Wade threw a startled glance at the others, who were still watching him and unaware of the accident, dropped the gun, ran for the lake and dived in. "He's going to drown himself!" cried Mrs. Arnold. But he quickly came to the surface, holding a little pink bundle high above his head. "It's the baby !" screamed Mrs. Arnold, and ran to- ward the lake. Wade swam to a landing place, gave the child into the hands of the Constable and stalked back to the cabin, without so much as a glance at the Arnolds. The man up-ended the baby and slapped her vigorous- ly on the back. After a deal of coughing, sputtering and gasping she opened her eyes and began to cry lustily. Mrs. Arnold hugged her, kissed her, wept over her, helped the maid put dry clothing on her and then looked for the boy. He was sitting on the bench dry- ing himself in the sun, smoking his pipe and watching them through narrowed lids. She rushed to him, LONG SWEETENING 49 poured out a flood of grateful words and tried to kiss him, but he slipped away from her and retreated into the cabin. When Arnold attempted to follow the door was slammed in his face and the latch-string was drawn in. "You must do something for hin\ John," pleaded Mrs. Arnold. "I intend to — if he will let me." The banker's hand went into his pocket. "You might find him a job," suggested the Con- stable. "That's what I'll do," declared Arnold. "I'll want a guide in Summer and a keeper in Winter — a good job, for the rest of his life." "I'll talk to him when he rides into town with me to-morrow," volunteered the official, "and I'll get the Sheriff to put in a word. He'll be more likely to listen when he finds out that you own the place." Wade, standing with his back against the door while he blinked the glare of the sunlight out of his eyes, heard every word of it, and he knew he had been tricked into a truce — that Arnold's claim of owner- ship was not what he had believed it, a mere piece of effrontery, but that he was in the grip of that mysterious and sinister force dreaded and avoided by all mountaineers — the law. His rage, rekindled, blazed anew. He seized his rifle and started for the dooi. He would kill these intruders as he would a pair of rattlesnakes. His hand was on the latch, when the murmur of voices — women's voices — checked him. He 5 o LONG SWEETENING could kill the men — but what of the women — and the child? In that momentary pause came the reaction. A deathly chill swept over him from head to foot, leav- ing him weak and nauseated. The cabin began to re- volve about him. The gun dropped to the floor, and he lurched toward the table, clinging to it with both hands to steady himself. All about him was whirling chaos, and he, in a vacuum at the vortex, was gasping for breath. He sank upon a stool and stared about him, amazed to find that everything was in its place and motionless. Suddenly he felt himself pierced by an agonizing pain, as though giant hands were gripping his vitals. He wrapped his arms about him and slowly wilted, bent and crumpled till his face rested on his knees. It wrenched a groan from him and then gradu- ally subsided into a dull ache, only a little less poignant. Though his forehead was beaded with perspiration, his teeth began to chatter, and his body was shaken with a chill. Supporting himself with one hand on the table, he staggered to his bunk against the wall, crawled under the pile of ragged blankets and mangy furs and lay with closed eyes, listening to the song of a linnet in the rose bush, the lapping of the lake on the shore and the murmur of voices, punctuated by Arnold's care- free laugh. "I shorely feel like a gut-shot deer," he muttered, and drew the covers over his ears. CHAPTER V. A new grand jury, regularly drawn from the body of the county, had been duly impaneled and solemnly instructed as to its duties. It had considered the mat- ters presented by the District Attorney, had heard numerous witnesses and had returned a few indict- ments ; and as soon as the annual examination into the accounts of the county officers could be completed its members would be free to return to their axes and plows. "Here's the whole business," said Sheriff Burke to the grand juryman assigned to the investigation of his office, and he produced a long narrow book resembling a butcher's blotter. "I guess you'll find it O. K. I put down everything I remember just as soon as I think of it." The investigator stared at the parallel columns of figures that staggered drunkenly down page after page under the headings "In" and "Out," without ever find- ing a footing, and scratched his head dubiously. "This double entry bookkeeping is about the tough- est job I've got," added the Sheriff. "Well, I ain't much of a bookkeeper, either," con- fessed the grand juryman, "so I guess you'd better go over 'em with me and kind o' help out — if you don't mind." Sheriff Burke sighed and looked at his watch. "Course, it's all a lot o' durned foolishness — this goin' over books and accounts," apologized the conscientious (51) 52 LONG SWEETENING investigator. "Kind o' looks as if we thought every- thing wasn't exactly straight. But it's our sworn duty, an' it's got to be did." "All right, Bill," grunted the Sheriff. -"But it's five o'clock now, and it's going to be some job. Suppose you come have supper with me, and we'll do it later." He would gladly have boarded the grand juryman for the remainder of the year, if it would have ab- solved him from the appalling task before him. "All right, Tom. Any time tonight," consented the investigator. "We want to report tomorrow, so's we kin git away." At seven o'clock they returned to the office, lighted their pipes, threw off their coats and attacked the for- midable columns of figures on the first page, with the same calm but desperate heroism with which they would have faced a band of hostile Indians. "What's this, Tom — a three or a five ?" inquired the grand juryman. "There! You've knocked the whole thing plumb out of my head," grumbled the Sheriff, "and I'll have to start all over again. Those that just wiggle are three's and those that wiggle first and then crawl are five's." He started again at the top of the column. When they reached the bottom of the page they compared results. Their totals differed widely. "I reckon we'll have to try 'er again," said the grand juryman firmly but resignedly. Again and again they added them, never agreeing and neither ever reaching the same result twice. LONG SWEETENING 53 "I'll tell you what let's do," suggested the investi- gator. "You make a general average of your figures, an* I'll make a general average of mine, an* we'll split the difference." "That's fair," agreed the Sheriff. By nine o'clock a compromise had been effected on the first three pages, and they adjourned for a drink. By twelve they had disposed of five more. They paused for another drink, rested and spun yarns till one and labored again till two, when both, in a state of mental exhaustion, sat staring at the sixty pages remaining. "I don't s'pose the fool law requires us to look at every blame' figure," growled the grand juryman, "an' if we can skip a few figures, I reckon we can stretch it a p'int an' skip a few pages." "I suppose so," consented the Sheriff, ready to agree to anything that would lighten their labors. "If I was crooked, I guess somebody would have found it out before this." "That's right, Tom," coincided the grand juryman heartily. "Everything's as straight as a string as far as I've got, an' I'm satisfied with my investigation if you are." The Sheriff was more than satisfied, so together they prepared the report to be made to the grand jury. It read: "I have made a thorough and complete investigation of the books and accounts of the Sheriff's office, with all its ins and outs, and find everything O. K. Wm. Hopper." 54 LONG SWEETENING When Sheriff Burke tumbled into bed at three o'clock in the morning he confessed to himself that he was ' 'plumb tuckered out," but sleep brought him little rest. An army of unemployed figures, headed by a big, blatant and rebellious nine, filed down the main street of the village in double columns, halted in front of the court house, broke ranks and began rioting. The townspeople called upon the Sheriff to do his duty, and he responded promptly, but as fast as the rioters were arrested and incarcerated they would slip between the bars of their cells, scramble out the jail windows, reform their lines, parade and riot again. After a desperate battle with a lot of fives disguised as threes and a heart-breaking pursuit, he succeeded in captur- ing the lawless nine and had him safely in a cell with an Oregon boot on his tail, when a mob of grand jury- men, bent upon lynching the prisoner, began hammer- ing at the jail door. Sheriff Burke sprang to his feet, ready to defend his prisoner at all hazards, and saw the wall opposite burst into flame. He seized the pitcher of water at the head of his bed and was about to dash it upon the blaze, when he discovered that it was not fire, but merely the morning sun striking upon his red wall- paper — and someone was knocking at his cottage door. He hastened to open it and found Wade Carson stand- ing upon the veranda. The boy was leaning wearily upon his rifle, and a pack of skins lay at his feet. "Hello! Where did you come from?" asked the Sheriff in surprise. LONG SWEETENING 55 "Fum the lake." "When did you leave there ?" " 'Bout midnight." "Come in." The Sheriff noted the drawn and hag- gard appearance of the boy's face. "Anything gone wrong?" he asked. "Yeah." "What?" "Ever'thing." Burke eyed him sharply. "You haven't gone and shot up anybody, have you?" "No; but I come mighty nigh it." The Sheriff was familiar with the code of ethics that prevailed in the mountains and in thorough accord with it. To draw and not to shoot was cowardly; to shoot and miss was disgraceful. "You didn't miss, did you?" he asked in disgust. "No; I couldn't of missed, if I had pulled trigger." "You don't mean to tell me that you drew and didn't shoot?" "Well — not ezactly," replied the boy apologetically. "I jes had 'em kivered, when I 'membered what you said 'bout shootin', an' I come to talk it over with you fust." The Sheriff shook his head dubiously, but gave a sigh of relief. The boy had meant well but had for- gotten himself, and the fact that he had followed his guardian's advice was a mitigating circumstance. "Light the fire in the stove while I get my breeches 56 LONG SWEETENING on, and then you can tell me all about it," he said. "There's matches alongside it." The boy set the gun in a corner and went into the kitchen. When the Sheriff came out hitching up his suspenders, Wade was on his hands and knees peering under the stove and into the oven. He looked up and grinned sheepishly. "How do you touch 'er off, anyway?" he asked. "Ain't used to stoves, eh?" laughed Burke. "I never seen one like this'n afore." The Sheriff lighted the fire that had been laid, soused his face at the kitchen sink and scrubbed his weather- beaten visage with a rough roller towel. "Now set down and tell me what happened, while I get breakfast," he suggested. "Well, hit's thisaway: a feller named Arnold fum the city 'at got lost up thar last Fall till I found 'im, come up yistiddy with another feller, what says he's a Constable, an' tuck possession o' my prope'ty, sayin' he's bought it. I know I ain't sold it, an' I ordered 'em off at the p'int of a gun; an' the Constable says the public minister sold it to Arnold. What I want to know fust off is if he did, an' secon' place, what right he's got a-doin' of it?" Sheriff Burke pondered. As the boy's guardian he had received notice 6i the Public Administrator's peti- tion to the court for leave to sell and had protested against it, urging that it be mortgaged instead, but the official would not consent. When the matter had come up for hearing he had offered to advance the LONG SWEETENING 57 money necessary to meet the expenses of administra- tion, but the court had decided that the best interests of the estate and of the minor would be subserved by a sale. So it had been sold to the highest bidder. The Sheriff explained the whole proceeding as clearly as he could, Wade listening attentively with pale face, compressed lips and glittering eyes. "Is there any way to git it back?" he asked, when his guardian had concluded. "I don't see any way, except to buy it back some day — and I suppose that fellow Arnold won't sell. Come have some breakfast." "I don't feel like eatin'," replied Wade. "Better have a cup of coffee or something," and seeing the utter hopelessness written on the boy's face, added: "After breakfast we'll go up town and see a lawyer. Maybe he can find a way to bust that sale." The boy choked down a cup of coffee in silence and accompanied the Sheriff to his office. "You wait here, and I'll see the District Attorney about it." In an hour he returned. "It's all regular," he said. "The District Attorney went over all the pa- pers, and there's nothing that can be done about it." Wade stood with his eyes fixed on the floor a full minute. "Well, I guess I'll be a-goin'," he said, very quietly. "Where to ?" asked the Sheriff, who had been watch- ing the boy's face. "I dunno jes yet." 58 LONG SWEETENING "Wait around awhile — till court's over. I want to see you. You ain't in any hurry, are you?" "No-o; I reckon not." When court convened Wade went to the Sheriff's cottage, got his pelts and rifle, sold the skins, bought some powder and lead and was kneeling before the fire- place moulding bullets when the Sheriff returned to his office. "What you doing, son?" inquired his guardian. "Mouldin' bullets." "What for?" "My rifle." "Where's your repeater?" "I left it fur that feller Arnold. I don't want nuthin' fum him." "What you figuring on doing now?" "I reckon I'll go back to the mountains. I hid all my traps an' things 'fore I come away las' night." "Look a here, son," admonished the Sheriff gravely. "Don't go and do anything you'll be sorry for — like going back there and laying for that fellow Arnold. If you kill him, you'll hang, as sure as God made little apples!" The boy did not even glance up, but went on with his work. The Sheriff turned to his desk and busied himself with the affairs of his office, occasionally throwing a searching glance at the grotesque little fig- ure crouching on the hearth. Finally he pigeon-holed his papers, put on his hat and touched the lad on the shoulder. LONG SWEETENING 59 "Come on, son. Let's get something to eat." "I ain't hungry," declared Wade. "Better have a bite anyway. Come on. I want to talk to you." "Kain't you talk right hyur jes as well ?" "All right, son." He threw off his hat, filled his pipe and sat down. "Come set down here and listen to me." The boy took the chair beside him. "I'm your guardian, and more than that, I'm your friend. You believe that, don't you?" Wade nodded. "Well, I'm a whole lot older and know a whole lot more than you do. I know just how you feel about this thing, and if it wasn't against the law I'd go up there and take a pop at that fellow Arnold myself. But it ain't any use to think about it, because nobody can buck the law and get away with it." "Is it ag'in the law to kill a man 'at robs you?" de- manded the boy bitterly. "No-o; I reckon not. But according to the law he hasn't robbed you. It was a mighty low down trick, but it was all legal." "Then how'm I goin' to get even, if I don't kill 'im? I don't keer if I hang fur it !" he declared. "There's only one way to get even, son, and that's according to law. He's a rich man now, and you're a poor boy, but you take my advice, and you won't always be poor. You stay here with me, and go to school, and get an education. There'll be money enough to put you through school and leave you a starter, and then you can go out into a man's world 60 LONG SWEETENING and fight him the way men fight nowadays — fair and square — and lick him, too. It's in you, son, if you'll just listen to me." The boy reflected long and deeply upon his guar- dian's advice, recalling his father's admonition to fight "fa'r and squar\" "How long'll it take?" he asked. "It don't make any difference how long it takes. You know that waiting is always good hunting. What good would it do you to go up there and plug him? He wouldn't even know what hurt him, and you'd lay on the floor in there in one of those cells, counting the days till you had to walk up the steps onto the gal- lows. Wait and make it slow for him. That will hurt him worse and do you more good." The boy's eyes glittered malignantly, and he showed his long white teeth in a grim smile. "I'll help you, too, son — if it takes the rest of my life," the Sheriff promised. "You come live with me. I'm an old batch, and haven't anybody to look after, and we'll figure it out together." "If it's goin' to hurt 'im worse, I'll wait, an' I don't keer how long," declared the boy. "That's right," said the Sheriff with an approving nod. "I guess there's a little Indian blood in you, son." Wade flushed and hung his head. He knew in that community where the lazy California Digger was con- temptuously referred to as an "Injun," where the shiftless white trash who consorted with them were LONG SWEETENING 61 known as "squaw men," Indian blood was regarded as a bar sinister; and his father had told him that there was Indian blood in the Carsons. Burke ob- served the boy's confusion and divined the cause. Im- pulsively he threw his arms around Wade's shoulders and drew him closer. "Son," he said softly and tenderly, "I didn't say 'Injun.' I said 'Indian' — and there's a heap of dif- ference. That's the reason you're going to wait and make a man of yourself — and fight a white man's fight." The boy hid his face in the folds of his guardian's coat to conceal the tears that welled to his eyes and registered a solemn vow to wait and to fight a white man's fight — but fight to the end. CHAPTER VI. "The jury is coming in!" The bailiff locked the door behind him and hurried toward the Judge's chambers. The judicial drama, which, with constant clash and conflict, had been un- folding itself for months, was approaching its culmina- tion. Within the railing that separated the actors from their audience a full dozen of the most eminent attorneys of the California bar dropped their friendly banter and slipped into their accustomed seats. As the announcement was passed back, a score of the best known staff-writers of the San Francisco press hastily rearranged their wads of copy paper and sat waiting with pencils poised. The babel of inconsequential con- versation in the packed courtroom was succeeded by the shuffling of feet, as the crowd readjusted itself to hard benches, highly prized and patiently retained through long intermissions. "The jury is coming in!" shouted someone at the entrance. Cigars and cigarettes were hastily discarded, and the mob in the corridors without began to pour through the doors and pack itself into every inch of unoccupied space. The buzz of inquiry and specula- tion, as to whether the jury had reached a verdict or merely sought further instruction, was silenced by the bailiff's raps and demands for "order in court," as the (62) LONG SWEETENING 63 Judg$ took his place on the bench and waited for the jurors to file into their seats. "Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" The dignified merchant, who, because of his years, experience and prominence, had been selected as fore- man, rose deliberately. For the first time he found him- self occupying the center of the stage, the spokesman of "twelve good men and true," chosen to deliver the last word. He felt every eye in that great throng attendant on his slightest movement, every ear primed to catch his faintest utterance. With a full sense of the solemnity of the occasion and the importance of his role, and with true dramatic instinct, he held his audi- ence breathless, while he fumbled at the inside pocket of his coat for a slip of paper, slowly unfolded it, cleared his throat and responded: "We— have!" A murmur, quickly suppressed, ran through the courtroom, and for an instant every eye rested on emi- nent counsel, who, with nods and smiles, sought to impress all with their confidence and satisfaction, then shifted to the young man sitting apart from them, motionless and apparently unconcerned. "Read it, please!" ordered the Judge. Again the shuffling of feet, as the assemblage set itself to catch every word of the momentous decision. The foreman fumbled for his handkerchief, polished his pinc-nez deliberately and adjusted them with the utmost precision and care. 64 LONG SWEETENING "We, the jury," he read, "find {hat the will bearing date of June 23, 1901, purporting to have been made and signed by James M. Coleman, deceased, is a forgery, and that said will was neither dated, written nor signed by the said James M. Coleman, deceased. We further find that the contestant, Mary J. Coleman, was the lawful wife of the said James M. Coleman, deceased." The bailiff, standing with gavel poised ready to sup- press the expected demonstration, let it fall thunder- ously in the midst of a silence that was oppressive; and before the amazed assemblage could get its breath the Judge had discharged the jury and adjourned the session. Thus ended a cause celebre in which, as one of the staff-writers expressed it, "a young man without experience, defending a client without a dollar in a cause without a chance," had battled for months alone and unaided against the brains of the California bar, and had won a victory without parallel in the legal annals of the state. While eminent counsel sought, with confident predic- tions of a reversal on appeal, to reassure a hysterical client — the bejeweled mistress of a dead millionaire — the reporters crowded about the young attorney, who was trying to make a simple, faded woman of middle age understand that the battle for her respectable widowhood, which to her meant everything, and for the millions of her late husband, which meant nothing at all, had been won. LONG SWEETENING 65 "Have you any statement to make, Mr. Carson?" one of them asked. "The verdict speaks for itself," he replied. Wade Carson was not popular with the press. When, despite the violent expostulations of his asso- ciates, he had emerged from the obscurity of a junior partnership to assert an incredible claim on behalf of an impossible client, eminent counsel, fortified behind a will already admitted to probate, vehemently de- nounced him as a pettifogging ambulance-chaser and his client as a brazen and bedraggled adventuress. To the press, begging for a statement, he had replied curtly : "This case will be tried in the courts — not in the newspapers." In a frantic search for some information concern- ing him and his antecedents the newspapers had trailed him back through a clerkship with the legal firm in which he was now a junior partner, through the Hast- ings College of Law, the University of California and a small preparatory school, but no farther. Every- where he had earned the reputation of being an unso- ciable and incorrigible "dig," and had retained the sobriquet bestowed in the "prep" school — "The Trog- lodyte." Nowhere had he given any confidences, asked any favors or made any friends. Investigation into his private life in the metropolis was no more fruitful. Apparently he had restricted his association with men and women alike purely to matters of busi- ness, without wasting a moment, a word or a cent. 66 LONG SWEETENING In the early stages of the case Carson and his cause were ridiculed and derided, he and his; client were libeled and caricatured, till the general public was in- clined to share the opinion expressed by eminent coun- sel. The masterly presentation of his case, however, forced eminent counsel to summon the assistance of more eminent counsel, and his brilliant attack upon a defense deemed impregnable compelled the respect and admiration of the bar, the press and the public. From the beginning of the trial every time-worn trick, every new artifice that legal ingenuity could devise, to preju- dice the jury and cloud or confuse the issues of law and fact was unerringly exposed or avoided; and his adversaries, first surprised and then astonished by the clarity of a vision that seemed to have anticipated every possible contingency and emergency in a case involving such a mass of conflicting testimony and such a tangle of technical law, were amazed to find that one man, after the prodigious task of preparation, still had the mental and physical strength for the colos- sal labor of the trial. "How did he do it?" gasped one of eminent counsel. "By a singleness of purpose that is indivisible — inexorable — irresistible," declared the Nestor of the bar. "When that young man starts, God have mercy on anything or anybody that stands in his way!" Before Carson could reach his office the daily papers, prepared long in advance for any sort of a verdict, had extras on the street announcing that the Coleman will LONG SWEETENING 67 was a forgery. He let himself in by the private en- trance, threw off his hat and stood for a moment gazing intently over the tops of intervening buildings at the imposing structure in the. distance, bearing on an otherwise blank wall the sign, "San Francisco Bank- ing & Trust Co." Lately he had heard vague but per- sistent rumors that the institution had departed from conservative banking methods to engage in speculation, and that it was regarded in the financial district with suspicion and distrust. Though of vital interest to him, he left the rumors to private investigators and resolutely put every thought of the matter out of his mind until he could finish the work in hand. Now he turned to a cabinet, drew out a file box marked "J. A.," swept the litter from his desk, lighted a cigar and emptied the box of its contents. He was familiar with every scrap of information collected from every possible source, but, nevertheless, he proceeded to re- view the voluminous data, carefully arranged and indexed, concerning the career of John Arnold. Of humble origin and with a meager education Ar- nold had started in the bank as a petty clerk, had risen rapidly to the position of cashier, and, upon a reorgan- ization of the institution, had subscribed for such a large block of stock that he was made vice-president and general manager. Under his control it had be- come one of the most popular banking houses in the metropolis, and he had succeeded to the presidency. Carson was not alone in surmising that such success could have been achieved only through the violation of 68 LONG SWEETENING confidences and the misuse of funds, and the financial world, waiting confidently for Arnold's fall, was startled by the announcement of an achievement that dwarfed everything since the construction of the first trans-continental railroad. With nothing but the worthless bonds of a moribund narrow-gauge line, twelve miles long, which had been owned and operated in connection with a coal mine, Arnold had organized a new corporation, had acquired terminals and rights of way and had made all the financial arrangements to construct, equip and operate a broad-gauge road across the states of California and Nevada, to connect with and form an important part of a great transcontinental system. Arnold's financial prestige and position appeared im- pregnable, but he stood alone, for his associates were mining men, who knew nothing of banking methods and yielded him undisputed control. Carson, who understood the perils of high finance, was convinced that the rumors of weakness were well founded and felt assured that Arnold, if menaced, would go to any length to maintain himself. All that was necessary to send the whole colossal structure toppling was to find one vulnerable spot and strike one telling blow. Carson was pondering the problem, when the fingers of his left hand suddenly grew numb and nerveless, his cigar fell upon the desk and he found himself utterly unable to pick it up. Pierce, the senior member of the firm, entered to congratulate him upon his vic- tory and saw his handsome face drawn, haggard and LONG SWEETENING 69 copper-hued, his eyes, ordinarily so brilliant and pierc- ing, lusterless, sunken and fixed in a vacant stare. "My God, Carson! What's the matter?" gasped Pierce. One side of Carson's face twisted into a smile as he endeavored to fix the identity of his visitor, and he mumbled incoherently. "You're ill, man! Come — lie down, till I can call a physician." He took Carson's arm and assisted him to his feet, but at the first step toward the couch he collapsed and would have fallen had Pierce not supported him. "I'm paralyzed — left — side," he muttered thickly. CHAPTER VII. Carson, acutely conscious of his untimely affliction and utter helplessness, but unable to offer a protest, was whisked away to a sanitarium, bundled into a cot, given sedatives and left in charge of nurses and physi- cians. The next morning he felt rested and refreshed, the paralysis had disappeared, and he insisted upon returning to his office. "I've got to get back to work," he declared. "No you don't I" snapped his physician. "I'm all right. ,, "No you're not." "What's the matter with me?" "Nothing serious — yet. Just a slight cerebral em- bolism due to overwork. You feel all right to-day, but to-morrow you'd collapse again. You must take a good long rest." The thought of remaining inactive, even for an hour, when there was so much to be done, was mad- dening, and Carson fretted, fumed and protested. "Will a week in this confounded pest-house be enough ?" he growled. "No; you can't get the kind of rest you need in a sanitarium — or anywhere else — in a week. You've got to go away where you can't see or hear anything to bother about." "I can't do it. I won't — that's all," declared Car- son, and his jaws closed with a snap. (70) LONG SWEETENING 71 "All right. Go to your office and — commit suicide." Carson pondered a moment. "How long will it take?" he asked. "You might last three months, if you were kept in a strait jacket and strapped down." "I mean — to get the required rest." "That depends on the way you take it. Three months' travel abroad might do it, but one month of roughing it in the mountains would be better." Carson frowned at the suggestion. "I don't know where to go," he grumbled. "Go anywhere. California is full of mountains." "There's only one place in the world to which I would care to go. Any other would only make mat- ters worse." "Then go there." "I can't." "Well, it's up to you." Reclining in a chair on the hospital veranda Carson pondered all the physician had said. He questioned neither the accuracy of the diagnosis nor the wisdom of the advice, but he could reconcile himself to neither of the alternatives. There was work to be done — a man's work that had been waiting on his manhood — and not another moment should be wasted. Mr. Pierce to see you, sir," announced the nurse. "Show him up!" For the first time in his life he welcomed an inter- ruption — anything to dispel his confused reflections. Pierce was the bearer of a suggestion that eminent J2 LONG SWEETENING counsel in the Coleman case would consider a com- promise. "I anticipated it," said Carson. Deaf to all pleas and protests he dressed, left the hospital and arranged for a conference with his adversaries. "We will allow you enough to cover fees, costs and a competence for the claimant," he told them. "That is positively final." That would leave his client a couple of millions, would yield him a contingent fee of half a million and would end litigation that might be continued for months or even years; and with his usual clarity of vision he was confident the offer would be accepted. Within a week an agreement had been reached and the settlements made — and Carson was back in the hospi- tal dazed and bewildered, utterly unable to compre- hend how such abundant strength and vitality could suffer such a complete collapse. Gradually the solemn and repeated warnings of his physician convinced him that only absolute rest and relaxation would restore him ; and then it suddenly occurred to him that Arnold might be in such financial straits that he would be will- ing to part with the lake property. He knew it had advanced ten- fold in value, but no price was too great, if it meant rejuvenation and fulfilment of his designs. His only fear was that Arnold might fall of his own weight, or that some other hand might rob him of his revenge. Still, he would have to chance it. He had LONG SWEETENING 73 one of his clerks summoned, gave him his instructions and waited for the answer. "Arnold is in his country place, but I am assured that he will not sell at any price," was the reply. Carson's condition grew steadily worse. His sleep- less nights were haunted by John Arnold in all sorts of devilish guises, jeering and taunting him, and his brooding day-dreams were filled with visions of his old home beckoning and calling. What would he not give to be back there for a single day ? The whole world — everything — except the revenge for which he had lived and for which he was even ready to die. There was one thing he still had the strength to accomplish. He could find John Arnold, take him by his fat throat and choke the life out of him. He de- manded his clothing, threatened to walk out of the hospital in a blanket and raged until attendants were compelled to restrain him by force. His physician was hastily summoned. He found his patient very still and pale, his purple lips compressed and his cavernous eyes burning feverishly. He glanced at the chart and shook his head. "Look here, Carson," he said, gravely. "Don't you know that you are a dying man — that there is only one thing in the world that will save you — absolute rest and quiet? You must go away." "Yes; I know it," replied Carson. "Well — what are you going to do about it?" "I'm going." "When?" 74 LONG SWEETENING "Now. Send me my clothes." The physician scrutinized him in doubt and perplex- ity. "Better take a nurse with you — for a short time," he suggested. "You're in no condition to go alone." "All right. Whatever you say." Carson dressed and sent a message to his partners : "Please look after Mrs. Coleman's estate. I'm going to the mountains. You'll hear from me later." He called a taxicab, hurried down town, bought a light camping outfit, necessary clothing and supplies, a few toilet articles, a revolver, a rod, line and a book of flies. He drove to his rooms and changed his clothing, then to the ferry depot, where he dismissed his nurse. In an obscure corner of the train, half concealed behind the page of a newspaper and with his cap drawn so low over his face that only the scrubby beard he had grown in the hospital showed beneath it, he sat buried in reflection, undisturbed by any fear of recognition. When Sheriff Burke, merely to divert a child from a deadly and disastrous purpose, urged him to wait and promised his aid, he fertilized the seed of ven- geance already planted in fertile soil. To this boy, in whom the blood of indomitable pioneers and of their traditional enemies mingled, the feudal code of the mountains, as well as the tribal law of the plains— never to forgive or to forget an injury — was more than a time-honored precept and unvarying practice. It was a deep-rooted instinct, the inevitable heritage LONG SWEETENING 75 of an implacable ancestry — the very essence of every corpuscle in his veins, red and white. Undisturbed by the hand of occasion it would have remained dormant ; under judicious influence and in a suitable environ- ment it could have been weeded out, or, better still, utilized as the root of tenacious and beneficent pur- pose. But, after its germination, every event and cir- cumstance through the formative period contributed to the rankness of its development. Habituated to solitude from infancy Wade shrank intuitively from every touch of social civilization; and when he was driven from the unrestricted freedom of the wilds his only refuge was a terra incognita peopled by an alien race, scornful and contemptuous. Strait- jacketed in a suit of "store clothes" and fet- tered with the first pair of shoes he had ever worn, he had faced the inquisition of enrollment in the vil- lage school, answering the principal's questions in the uncouth dialect of the mountains and ignoring the giggling and nudging of the more sophisticated pupils. Then he had been led away to another class-room and placed on a bench beside a girl half his age, who promptly broke into hysterical weeping and fled from the room. Half an hour later an indignant parent had burst through the door, dragging her tear-stained offspring after her. "I want it distinkly understood," she screamed, "that we-uns ain't never 'sociated with no 'tar-heels/ an* my gal ain't a-goin' to set in school, nor no- wheres else, with no Injun!" 76 LONG SWEETENING This vehement appeal to the law of caste was in- stantly and apologetically sustained, and Wade, with the indelible brand of "Injun" on him, accepted the decree of ostracism as irrevocable and his consequent isolation as irremediable. From the morbid seclusion into which he shrank neither the friendly advances of later student life, nor the lure of youthful diversions could ever entice him. Without resentment, except toward John Arnold, the prime factor in his afflicted exile, he walked his way alone. And whenever he wavered or faltered his foster-father knew no quicker or surer way of stimulating him to renewed effort than by twanging insistently on the single string of revenge. Thus the categorical impulse developed into a fixed idea — an obsession — and only an insurmountable ob- stacle was necessary to fan it into a blaze of mono- mania. To Carson it had all been merely the stalking of an enemy through the wilds of society, and now he was ready for the last grapple. It was night when he reached Potterville. Slipping off the train unobserved, he walked rapidly through unfrequented streets of the village toward the moun- tains beyond and plunged into a dark canyon. Under a thicket of laurel he rolled himself in his blankets — and slept. CHAPTER VIII. Williams's position as gamekeeper and caretaker of Arnold's country place exactly suited his tempera- ment. During the inclement days of Winter he sat in a rocking chair before the fireplace of the old Carson cabin, puffed at his pipe and wondered if "it mightn't be a-goin' to clear up." When the sun broke through he walked as far as the bench outside the door and wondered if "it mightn't be a-goin' to rain ag'in." When driven to it by the pangs of hunger he pre- pared coffee, bacon and johnny-cake; and occasion- ally, when bacon revolted and weather invited, he hunted or fished in the way that involved the least possible exertion — by setting a trout line in the lake or a wire snare on a deer trail, and awaiting results. "Thar ain't nothin' to do but to rest," he once con- fided to an acquaintance, "but when that's all did, I'm so plumb tuckered out I don't know what to do." The arrival of the Arnolds for the Summer natur- ally terminated Williams's period of hibernation, but added little to his physical activities. Under the pre- tense of guarding against trespassers he was com- pelled to walk as much as half a mile to find a shady nook where he could rest undisturbed, but when he subtracted from that the effort of preparing his own meals he was forced to admit, somewhat reluctantly, that it was about "a stand-off." Arnold, grown fat and flabby, and Mrs. Arnold, always timorous and (77) 78 LONG SWEETENING sedentary, made few demands. Betty, a rugged, fear- less and active girl of nearly eighteen, had long since abandoned as hopeless all effort to overcome Wil- liams's inertia. In a moment of exasperation she had once told him the story of Rip Van Winkle, but his only response, offered with undisguised envy and ad- miration, was: "That feller shore had a good sleep." As Williams was too indolent and illiterate to fabri- cate an expense account, Arnold held his honesty in high regard and refused to discharge him; so Betty accepted him as a fixture and explored the estate with- out guidance. But the strain imposed upon the game- keeper's mentality was almost beyond endurance. Added to the perpetual problem of the weather was the constant question, "how long air they a-goin' to stay?" and all his waking hours were spent in devis- ing means of hastening their departure. Years of experience had taught him that Arnold's movements were controlled by his business, Mrs. Arnold's by her fears, and Betty's by her caprices. The echoes of a distant rifle shot or the report of an unfamiliar foot- print was sufficient to throw Mrs. Arnold into a panic and prompt the threat to return immediately to the security of her home in the metropolis. The moment the Arnolds occupied the bungalow Williams laid siege and maintained a steady bombard- ment, selecting Mrs. Arnold as his target. If by acci- dent he discovered a man track he. multiplied and mag- nified it; if by any chance he encountered a trespasser LONG SWEETENING 79 he immediately invested the stranger with mysterious and sinister motives; and in the absence of anything suspicious or tangible he supplied the deficiency from his almost arid imagination. It would have ended in a hollow victory but for Betty. By coaxing, wheedling and scheming she was able to start her vacations in the early Summer; by tears, obstinacy and defiance she was able to extend them to the early Autumn. But she always dreaded the moment when Williams would triumph, and she would be compelled to think more of gowns than of guns, of the depressing con- ventions of the metropolis than the unrestricted freedom of the mountains. Until his family were installed at his country place for the season Arnold did not tell them that his in- volved affairs would demand his constant attention during the summer. At the end of a week, despite Mrs. Arnold's tears and protests, he was in his automo- bile ready to return to San Francisco. Mrs. Arnold and Betty were trying to exact from him a promise of a speedy return for a few days at least, when Williams appeared running toward them. The mere fact that Williams ran was astonishing, and they watched his lumbering approach with open-mouthed amazement. "Mr. Arnold !" he gasped, waving his arms in well- simulated excitement. "Well— what is it?" "A little while ago I heard a shot in that little gulch jest over yon," declared Williams, bringing it as near home as possible. "It ain't an inch over a half a mile 80 LONG SWEETENING from where yer standin' this minute. Well, I went over thar an' found tracks that looked as if they might o' been made by a man seven foot high. I follered 'em an' foun' the feller a-dressin' a deer he had killed. As soon as he saw me he picked up his gun an' held it ready to shoot me in cold blood. I tol' him he wuz on private prope'ty, an' that he was a-killin' your deer." "What did he say?" asked Arnold. "Why, he said he didn't see any brand on its hip or any marks in its ears. I tol' him to leave it an' git often the place, but he said he guessed he'd keep it. When I tol' him you'd prosecute him to the full extent o' the law, he said: 'He's gotta git me fust — an' git me afore I git him.' " "Who was he — do you know ?" "He looked like a squatter, but he might be that stage robber — the feller that holds up the Warm Springs stage ev'ry two or three months. He wuz six foot six if he wuz an inch, an' fifty year old if he wuz a day." "Do you think it safe for us to remain here — alone?" asked Mrs. Arnold. "Well, it mought be, an' then ag'in it moughtn't. Yer perfeckly safe as long's I'm aroun' the house, but, o' course, I hafY to go my rounds — or the place would be swarmin' with 'em. When I haft to leave yer hyur alone, I don't want to be held responsible — that's all." "John, you must take us with you. We can be ready in a few minutes." LONG SWEETENING 81 "It would be cowardly of us to run away and leave poor Williams here alone," said Betty. "The man with snaggly teeth might come and bite him." "I'll see the Sheriff at Potterville and order him to stop this annoyance," promised Arnold, as he drove away. "I'm surprised, Williams," declared Betty, fixing him with an accusing eye, "that it never occurred to you to put mice in the house." "Don't you dare leave us tomorrow, Williams," commanded Mrs. Arnold. "Well, you know, Mrs. Arnold, this time o' year, when there's so many hunters an' campers around, I oughta be watchin' things pretty clost, but — o' course — jest as you say, Mrs. Arnold," he yielded with a show of reluctance and a pretense of resignation. "Williams, you are almost unimaginative enough to be a detective," declared Betty, when her mother had retired to the security of the bungalow. "That's the ninth stage robber with snaggly teeth and long whiskers you have seen. I wish you'd find one that employs a dentist and a barber — just for a change." "All I kin do is to tell what I see an' take things as they come, Miss Arnold," protested Williams. Sheriff Burke was leaning back in his chair, his feet on his desk and his pipe in his mouth, when Arnold bustled into his office. "I want to see the Sheriff," he said pompously, though he knew Burke well by sight. 82 LONG SWEETENING "Well, I guess there's no objection to your taking a look," replied the official. "Are you Sheriff Burke?" "Yes." "My name is Arnold — John Arnold." "Yeah?" The Sheriff neither rose nor asked his visitor to take a seat. "I just wanted to see you about a little trouble that I'm having out at my place." "Yeah?" "I have trespass notices posted everywhere, but peo- ple keep coming in on my property and killing my game." "Yeah?" "I've stood it as long as I can, and now I'm going to put a stop to it." "Yeah?" "Yes; I want you to appoint John Williams a deputy sheriff." "Yeah? Who's John Williams?" "He's my gamekeeper." "I don't know him, and I don't need any more deputies," said Sheriff Burke. "I am not asking that you take him into your of- fice, but I want the appointment for him, so that he will have authority to arrest trespassers without a warrant." "Yeah? What are these trespassers — hide hunters?" "No; not that I know of." "Just kill a little game occasionally to eat, eh?" LONG SWEETENING 83 "Yes, I suppose so, but they come on my preserve to do it." "Can't you spare a little game?" "Oh, of course, I don't need it all myself." "Want to kill it all yourself, eh?" "Oh, no; I hardly ever shoot, but when I do, I want to be able to find some there. These fellows scare off all that they don't shoot. Besides, my wife is very nervous, and is afraid of strangers." "Maybe their wives are hungry and are afraid of starving," suggested Sheriff Burke. "Well, of course, that would be considered in miti- gation when they are arrested, but I am not sup- posed to feed the whole neighborhood. All I want is the protection that the law gives me." "And you're going to get it," declared the Sheriff. "Certainly. I knew it would be all right as soon as I spoke to you. Send Williams's appointment out to him, will you?" "No, I won't," declared Burke, bluntly and emphatically. "You won't ? Why not ?" asked Arnold in surprise. "Because I'm not going to appoint him. That's why." "What is your objection?" "I appoint deputies only when I need them. It's no part of my official duty to watch your property for you. If you know of any violations of law, and you feel like prosecuting, swear to complaints, have warrants issued, and I will serve them. I've got 84 LONG SWEETENING something more to do than chaperoning your game." "Do you purpose to permit people to violate the game laws with impunity?" demanded Arnold angrily. "I intend to attend strictly to my own business and let other people attend to theirs. I came to this part of the country when the game was as free as the air, and everybody helped himself to what he needed of both. It's against the law to kill more than two deer a year now, and I suppose it will be against the law pretty soon to take more than two breaths a minute. When it is, I guess I'll have to sneak around and steal an extra breath or two occasionally to keep my pipe going. If I'm caught at it, I suppose I'll have to go to jail, where there isn't any air to speak of, and quit smoking. In the meantime I'm not going to lose any sleep watching for the man that feels the need of an extra rabbit or quail," and Sheriff Burke proceeded to make the most of his pipe while the air was still free. "Then you refuse to make this appointment?" de- manded Arnold, his face flushing with anger. "That's about the size of it. As long as I'm Sheriff of this county, I'm not going to have any private depu- ties in public office, or public deputies in private employment." "Then you'll not be Sheriff of this county very long," snorted Arnold. "I'll attend to that." His teeth shut with a snap. "Look here, Arnold !" Sheriff Burke set his feet on the floor and laid his pipe on his desk. "Don't get LONG SWEETENING 85 the idea into your head that because you have a little pond up in the redwoods you own the whole county. Furthermore, you're trespassing on my air. You get out of here, and mighty damn quick, too!" The little old Sheriff uncoiled himself like a wire spring, bounced from his chair, seized Arnold by the collar; and ran him through the door, just as County Treasurer Cole was entering. "What's the matter, Tom?" he inquired. "Just speeding the parting guest?" "Yeah." "That's not good politics, Tom. He's got a lot of money and influence." "I guess I did make a mistake, Jim," admitted the Sheriff. "I've been wanting to kick that fellow for sixteen years, and I got so excited I plumb forgot it. I don't suppose I'll ever have another chance like 1 that," and he shook his head regretfully over the lost opportunity. CHAPTER IX. Carson broke through the tangle of chaparral at the mouth of his cave and stepped out on the narrow ledge that ran across the face of the cliff. While he let his eyes dance joyously over the panorama spread before him he inhaled the crisp morning air as an epicure would drain a glass of rare vintage — first, with tantalizing and expectant sips, then with deep full draughts that set his blood bounding and tingling. The rays of the rising sun, shooting over the chemissal range to the East, gilded the tips of the lance-like pines on the ridge to the West, and the crown of oaks on the towering mountain beyond. Deep in the shadow of enfolding hills lay Sapphire Lake — so christened by the Arnolds — its glassy sur- face broken only by the plash of leaping trout and the widening circles they left behind them. Far below him, tiny as motes, rabbits raced and capered in a little meadow, careless of the eagles that circled the sentinel pine high above. In the distance mountain quail were calling, and a disturbed gray-squirrel was chattering hysterically; almost at his elbow a sickle- bill thrush caroled its single phrase. The solemn majesty, the radiant beauty, the ex- quisite peacefulness of it all, obscured and almost for- gotten through years of bitterness and toil, held Car- son fascinated, enraptured. He flung out his arms as though he would seize it all and hug it to his breast, m LONG SWEETENING 87 forgetting in the exaltation of the moment that these woods and hills, once as free as the air he breathed, were now guarded with jealous care — that he was a mere trespasser on private property — a poacher in a preserve. Carson had returned with no definite plan or fixed purpose, first impelled by the necessity of freedom, then prompted by the instinct that leads a stricken animal back to its familiar haunts. For a week he had prowled around the lake, taking fish and snaring game almost mechanically, but watching the bungalow with as little intent and as much enmity as a panther might. Through his field glasses he had often seen the gamekeeper and occasionally two or three women, probably servants, but had had no glimpse of Arnold. With a sense of disappointment came the realization that he had been instinctively stalking his prey, and he frowned as he pondered what moist have happened had he encountered the banker. Now, for the first time since leaving the hospital, he reflected upon the course to be pursued; for the first time in sixteen years he faltered and wavered unconsciously, unable to decide at once between the present enjoyment of all of which he had been de- spoiled and the immediate pursuit of the despoiler. He was loath to turn his back upon the quiet delights of which he had so long been deprived and return to the world of bitter turmoil he had so long endured. His physician was right — he needed health and strength for the final struggle, and the reflection that 88 LONG SWEETENING he could regain them at his enemy's expense brought the first smile in years. A thread of smoke rising lazily behind the pine- covered mountain that shouldered bulkily into the lake recalled him. "They're getting breakfast at the bungalow, and I'll get mine — and I'll stay the month out," he decided. Carson turned to his cave, slung his fishing rod on his back, picked his way along the ledge to its West- ern extremity, and, with bare fingers and moccasined toes searching out the crevices, scaled the cliff. Re- calling one of his boyhood pranks, he balanced him- self on the slender footpath at the top, flung a stone into the gorge on the other side and watched the startled deer spring from their coverts and go bound- ing away. Then he hurried on through a chaparral thicket, into the pine forest, and down to a cascading spring near the lake side picking up dead wood as he went. A fire that gave no) sign of smoke was quickly started; cooking utensils were drawn from beneath concealing ferns and laurels ; coffee was meas- ured into the pot; johnny-cake was mixed and placed to bake in the Dutch oven. After his morning plunge Carson took up his rod and skirted the lake shore to a projecting point of rocks, where he would have room to cast and still be hidden from the bungalow half a mile away. He peeped over the point, satisfied himself that the coast was clear, jointed his rod, ran out his line and made a cast. The fly had scarcely LONG SWEETENING 89 touched the water when a great trout rose to it, seized it and set the reel humming. The thought that he was poaching lent zest to a sport that had always been a delight, but the knowl- edge, that his breakfast depended upon his delicacy and skill set his nerves tingling ecstatically. As he checked the first rush, the trout leaped high in the air, tried to shake itself free, splashed back, leaped again and dashed away. The contest between the gamest of fish and the expert angler was on — cool, merciless skill matched against a mad desire for life and freedom. The trout rushed, leaped and battled blindly, while Carson, with eager eyes and compressed lips, played it delicately, firmly and patiently, reeling in a little the instant the line slackened, yielding a little when it tautened. "Come on, Johnnie! It's no use. I've got you!" he muttered grimly, as he felt the trout's struggles weak- ening. Thus would he cast for John Arnold, hook him, and play him till the fellow lay gasping at his feet. And then — "Hey! You there!" The explosion of a dynamite bomb could not have been more startling than the sound of a human voice at that time and place. Carson whirled and had barely a glimpse of a blonde head bobbing on the surface of the lake, when he lost his footing, sprawled on his stomach and began sliding. As he clawed franctically at the smooth rock to check his descent he heard a 90 LONG SWEETENING burst of girlish laughter, followed by the taunting invitation. "Come on in. The water's fine !" Carson went into the shallow water with a splash, and as he floundered among the slippery rocks at the bottom another burst of laughter swept away the first sickening chill of surprise and left a hot wave of ex- asperation — resentment. He crawled back to his perch, dragging his rod after him, and stood dripping, frown- ing and staring. He noted a pair of violet eyes regard- ing him with growing disapproval, well-rounded cheeks glowing with abundant health, full red lips with a piquant pout, and beneath the surface the flash of white limbs industriously treading water. He felt his leader snap and scowled. His tormentor instinct- ively drew a little away, and without a word or glance Carson busied himself with his line. If he had unexpectedly encountered Arnold, an armed bandit or even a truculent grizzly, he would not have avoided the issue, but this situation was so far beyond his experience, actual or imaginary, that he felt himself confounded, defeated, routed — just at the moment when his plans had crystallized — and by a chit of a girl. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, but she was thinking : "He is half sixty, he hasn't shaved for a week, he is more than six feet in height, and he probably has teeth. Now he'll show them, and I'll see whether or not they're snaggly." LONG SWEETENING 91 Carson ignored the question and the questioner, but he revolved the problem in his mind faster than the reel in his hand. He would not be driven away. That was final. He must, therefore, temporise — resort to cajolery or trickery. She was probably a servant in the Arnold menage — a governess, companion, or maid, in which case bribery — "You're poaching, and you must leave at once!" As Carson reached the end of his line he turned and showed his teeth — in a smile — teeth that were wonder- fully white, even and strong. "Are you a water-sprite or a gamewarden?" he asked as he doffed his cap and exposed a shock of black hair that curled about his ears and over his forehead. The unexpected question and change of manner dis- concerted her for the moment, and she could only quote a little uncertainly from the trespass notices that hedged the place : "You're liable to prosecution to the full extent of the law." "You are plagiarizing," he responded, "and that is worse — it's piracy." A moment's awkward silence followed. They were equally non-plussed, he to account for his presence and find means of averting the consequences of discovery; she at encountering a poacher with the speech and man- ners of a gentleman. She puckered her brow in an effort to reconcile a bristling beard and moccasins with "water-sprite" and "plagiarizing." When his steady gaze reminded her that she wore a single-piece bathing- suit, she flushed a deeper red, paddled up to the rock, 92 LONG SWEETENING moored herself to the sheltered side of it and scrutin- ized him at closer range. "Well — are you going?" she demanded in a tone cal- culated to remove any impression that her approach might be construed as a willingness to parley. "Certainly," replied Carson, as he began un jointing his rod, "if you insist. But can't I have my breakfast first? Just a little coffee, bacon and johnny-cake," he pleaded. "You have already deprived me of my piece de resistance" She made no response, merely eyed him with uncom- promising disapproval. Carson shrugged. "Just picture it — a hungry man with a hot breakfast in wild flight through a dark forest to escape an in- dignant mermaid — the protector of little fishes ! Why, it's opera bouffe!" "Where is your camp?" she asked, when she felt her nose begin to crinkle with a smile. "It's not very far from here. I can smell the smoke," and she sniffed back the laughter bubbling up within her. "And if you had been a few minutes later you would have smelled a broiling trout. Then you would never have let me go till you had extorted the recipe." "How long have you been here?" She might as well get all the information possible concerning his poaching. "Only a few minutes," he replied, affecting to mis- understand. "I mean — camping here." LONG SWEETENING 93 "Oh! I haven't been camping here by the lake. I merely came here for breakfast." "Where are you camping, then?" "I don't think I can tell you — exactly." "Was it you who killed that deer over West of the lake the other day?" "No; I have killed no deer." "But you have fished here before." "You don't expect me to incriminate myself, do you?" he laughed "If I plead guilty and make a full confession will you put me on probation?" "You show a considerable familiarity with the crim- inal courts," she responded tartly. "Well — yes ; I have had some experience with them," he admitted. "I am afraid that you wiH have more, very soon, if you don't pay closer attention to trespass notices around here." "If you only knew what a pleasant little vacation you are spoiling, you might — " "Doesn't it occur to you that you are spoiling the peace and quiet of our vacation? We cannot be an- noyed by strangers, no matter how inoffensive they may prove to be. Only a few days ago a poacher threatened the gamekeeper, when he was caught with a deer he had killed. Abd I may as well warn you that my father has made arrangements with the Sheriff to put a stop to it." Carson started and fixed her with his piercing black eyes, narrowed by a forbidding frown. 94 LONG SWEETENING "And unless you want to be arrested and prosecuted you had better leave at once," she added as she drew away from the rocks. So this must be John Arnold's daughter, Betty — the child he had saved from drowning years before. How stupid of him not to have guessed it at once ! But even now that he knew it must be so, it was difficult to as- sociate her with the object of his malignant hatred. Without a word or a backward glance he turned and strode away, she watching him till he had disappeared in the undergrowth, wondering why his manner had changed so suddenly upon the mere mention of the Sheriff. Carson broiled his bacon and sipped his coffee deliberately. After pondering the incident, he felt only a slight sense of irritation over the loss of trout for breakfast and his carelessness in exposing himself to observation. The decision of the morning — to remain rest and recuperate — had acted upon him like a power- ful stimulant, lifting him out of the slough of aimless and confused depression in which he had been flounder- ing, and placing him again upon the firm and well-de- fined path of fixed purpose. The first shock of sur- prise had merely checked for an instant without alter- ing his determination, for John Arnold's daughter meant no more to him than a threatening gamekeeper or a barking dog. She was merely another obstacle to be reckoned on and avoided. On the whole, the en- counter had been fortunate, for she had forewarned him of an active campaign against trespassers, and now he would be more alert. CHAPTER X. As Betty swam back to her canoe, tied in the shad- ow of the pines a hundred yards beyond the point of rocks, she puzzled over the identity of the intruder. There was nothing- about him to suggest the ordinary tramp, and it was altogether improbable that one would have found his way there from the railroad, even if he had grown weary of brakebeams and box-cars. Betty recalled that he had mentioned a vacation. Hunters from San Francisco frequently camped at Warm Springs, and occasionally one would find the bungalow, pause long enough to get directions concerning the trails and pass on. But this man, in general appear- ance, did not conform to the type. Besides, the fact that he had selected the most secluded spot on the place for his camp argued a familiarity with the locality. His rugged, sinewy frame, his long, swinging stride and his moccasined feet suggested the mountaineer, who let his little corn patch and large family grow up in a haphazard way, while he occupied himself with hunt- ing and fishing; but the jointed rod instead of a peeled sapling, the khaki suit instead of butternut and over- alls, the polished speech instead of the broad dialect of the mountains instantly refuted the thought. It wa9 more probable that he was what was termed in the vernacular of the hills a "claimer" — one with little money and much time, who files a homestead on a bit of government timber or grazing* land and waits three (95) 96 LONG SWEETENING years to make perfunctory proof of residence, improve- ment and cultivation. Betty climbed into her canoe, paddled across the lake to the landing place under the laurels, hurried to the bungalow and dressed for breakfast. "You're late this morning, Betty," Mrs. Arnold re- minded her. "Where have you been ?" "Oh, I just took a little longer swim than usual." "But I saw you in the canoe at the other side of the lake." "Yes ; I paddled over there." "You must be more careful how you wander about, especially when dangerous characters are lurking around." "Oh, mother! Please don't let Williams's wild tales disturb you. You know he is always trying to frighten us away." While Betty ate her breakfast she pondered upon the possible diversions of the day, but was unable to reach a decision. A new novel and the hammock under the redwoods were inviting, the quail shooting in the can- yon to the West enticing, a long tramp over the hills and a cool swim in the lake alluring. That recalled the incident of the morning and the ridiculous surprise of the poacher, and she burst into laughter. "What are you laughing at, Betty?" inquired Mrs. Arnold, her mind still on the dangers that had prompt- ed her admonition. "Oh, I just thought of something funny," she re- plied. LONG SWEETENING 97 "Well, it is no laughing matter." But for the unusual episode Betty would have scarce- ly given the stranger another thought. Again she puzzled over the incongruities he presented, and there was just enough mystery about him to pique her curi- osity. Why not employ the forenoon in solving it? She knew she would have no difficulty in locating his camp. It must be near the spring below the rock point. If he had gone, she might find some clew to his identity. If he still remained, she would inform the Sheriff when he came and have the fellow investigated at least. Betty donned her hunting-suit — a short skirt, heavy boots, broad-brimmed hat and bloomers — took her re- peating rifle, paddled across the lake to a little cove, tied her canoe and took to the forest. By cutting across the high, pine-covered ridge around which the lake curved to the East she could approach the poach- ers camp from the rear without being observed, and obtain a view from the hillside above. Betty soon reached the summit and began a slow and cautious descent, picking her way stealthily down a well-worn deer trail and pausing at frequent intervals to listen or to peer through the thick timber or dense underbrush. She climbed upon the trunk of a fallen tree, scarred by the hoofs of deer that had leaped upon it, and caught a glimpse of the lake below. She could hear the plash of the little cascade and caught the acrid odor of wood smoke. A few steps would bring 98 LONG SWEETENING her to the edge of a rocky and abrupt declivity, from which she could look directly down upon the camp. Betty's face was flushed, her hands were trembling and her heart was thumping with the delicious excite- ment of it all. She thought of the first deer she had ever stalked. Just as she was getting within range a lizard had scampered from beneath her feet, drawing a scream that had sent the game bounding away. She smiled at the recollection, sat down on the tree trunk, slid noiselessly to the ground and took one step. Zip! Her ankle was seized, her feet jerked from under her, and she felt herself dangling in the air head down- ward. She uttered a cry of terror and fought the skirt away from her face, expecting, she knew not what. She stared wildly about her, but no one was near. She looked at her ankle and saw that she had been neatly noosed with a piece of piano wire that ran over the projecting limb of a pine tree to the top of a nearby sapling. She had been caught in a deer snare. Betty wondered if the poacher had heard her outcry, hoping he had not. It would be too humiliating to be caught spying upon him — to be found hanging by the heels like a snared rabbit. Angrily she tried to shake herself free, but the noose only gripped the tighter. She bent her body upward and grasped the wire, hop- ing to be able to slacken the noose and extricate herself, but it was so slender she could not grip it. Then she set herself swinging toward a nearby hazel bush, think- ing that if she could grasp it she might be able to bend the sapling down, but it was beyond her reach. LONG SWEETENING 99 She felt the blood rushing to her head in a suffocat- ing flood, and again she drew herself up, clung to the wire with both hands till it cut into her fingers, then dropped back again. What could she do ? If she called for help, the poacher might hear her and release her, but she was alone and helpless, for her rifle lay in the path where it had fallen. She knew her absence from the house would cause no alarm till after night- fall, and that she would not be found till the next day ; and she wondered if one could live so long head down- ward. If she could only work her fingers under the noose, she could hold her head up, and there would be no danger of death, but the prospect of a day and a night of torture terrified her. Again she thought of crying out and attracting the attention of the stranger. He might still be at his camp, and in any event he couldn't have gone far. He had the manners of a gentleman, but still he might even be a criminal in hiding. One could never tell. Again she recalled his start at the mention of the Sheriff, and like a flash it came to her that he was the mysterious highwayman who had always baffled his pursuers so successfully. And she had been face to face with him that very morning ! An exclamation on the trail below startled her, and twisting her head around she saw him only a few feet from her. "Oh!" she cried, more in fear than in anger. "Go away !" "And leave you hanging there?" ioo LONG SWEETENING His camp equipment dropped with a clatter, and he ran to her side. He seized her in his arms, lifted her upright and took a turn of the wire around his hand, while Betty struggled and beat at his face with her clenched fists. With the strong sapling straining at the wire, which cut deep into his hands, and Betty resist- ing with all her strength, his efforts to release her were futile. "Please — " a stinging blow fell on his forehead. Carson released the wire, and the sapling straight- ened with a jerk that wrung a sharp cry of pain from her. Under the exasperation of the moment his first impulse had been to let her dangle till her head cool- ed ; but through his mind flashed the thought that she might have suffered a fracture or a dislocation. Turn- ing his face to avoid the fists that were still flying about his head, he pinned her arms to her sides, drew her into a crushing embrace and gave her a shake that made her teeth rattle. "Stop that!" It was no gentle request, but a com- mand to which there could be but one response — obed- ience. Betty, completely terrorized and realizing her utter helplessness, instantly ceased her struggles and lay in his arms limp and whimpering. Even then it required all his remaining strength to bend the sapling, draw the wire down till he could twist it around his foot and remove the noose from her ankle. The instant he set Betty on her feet she bounded away from him and LONG SWEETENING ici faced him defiantly, while he stood looking at her and wondering how she had escaped injury. "Don't you dare — " He picked up her rifle, handed it to her and stepped back. She saw with relief that he was unarmed. "I wish you'd go!" She stamped her foot imperi- ously, blazing with mingled anger and humiliation. "If you don't mind I will rest just a moment." With- out waiting for her consent he seated himself on the log where it blocked the trail. "I have been out of a hospital only a short time, and it's a stiff climb up here from the lake." She eyed him, 1 in silence. "But it's fortunate I came this way, or you would have — " "I would have been found dead in your snare, and jyou — " She was about to say that he would have added murder to his other crimes, but checked herself. Carson brushed away the moisture he felt accumu- lating on his forehead and left a smear of blood. Betty gasped and grew pale. "Oh! Are you hurt?" she asked, wondering how it could have happened. He glanced at his hand and saw the blood. "It's nothing," he replied. "The wire cut my hand a little." "No — your forehead!" She noted the handkerchief, unquestionably clean and of fine quality, with which he wiped away the blood that was beginning to trickle down over his eye. "Oh, just a brush scratch, I suppose." Then it flashed upon her that she had struck him in :io2 .LONG SWEETENING the face — that the heavy ring on her ringer had cut him. Still it was nothing to what he deserved. "I'm glad to see that you are not hurt/' he observed. "I had feared—" "It's no fault of yours that I wasn't — setting snares here where any one might walk into them." "It is a beastly thing to do, isn't it?" "Perfectly fiendish! Any one who does it should be sent to prison for life!" She wondered if she shouldn't march him to the bungalow at the point of her rifle and have him de- livered over to the authorities for prosecution, but abandoned the idea when she thought of the probable effect upon her mother. "I dare say you're right, but — " "There are no buts about it. Why, it's as bad as poisoning springs!" she declared. He shrugged and smiled in a way that was madden- ing. Notwithstanding the enormity of his offense and the terrible consequences that might have resulted, he regarded it as a joke! "But, I was about to explain — it is not my snare." Betty stared at him incredulously. "From the tracks on this trail I should say it was placed here by your gamekeeper." "Williams?" For the moment she felt dismayed. "Oh, I—" "If you will examine them I think you will find they fit his boots." LONG SWEETENING 103 "If Williams did that, I'll see that he is dismissed — immediately !" Her resentment instantly veered from the stranger, who had disturbed her for only a few moments, to the employee, who had annoyed her for years; and in the one who had provided the means of triumphing over the other she felt a sudden, almost friendly, in- terest. "Why, my father might have been caught in one of those infernal contrivances and hung up by the heels to starve." She was already formulating the plea that would dispose of Williams. "That would have been very unfortunate," observed Carson, but she missed the irony in his tone. "If there is nothing more I can do for you I will be going now." Still thinking of the gamekeeper she watched Car- son as he gathered up his impedimenta and till, with a smile and a nod, he turned to the trail up the moun- tain. "I am very grateful." She flushed and dropped her eyes. "Don't mention it. The little service I was able to render scarcely compensates for the annoyance I have caused you." "Did you say you were just out of a hospital ?" she asked. "Yes; a week ago. But I'm feeling like a new man already — thanks to your unconscious hospitality." "Oh, I know you think it perfectly horrid of me to 104 LONG SWEETENING drive you away from here, but — if you don't go, we will have to." "Why?" he asked in surprise. "Mother is so timid that the presence of strangers terrifies her." "I understand, Miss Arnold." "You know me? Do you know my father?" "I — I have met him — a long time ago," and Carson could scarcely repress a gathering frown. "But he has doubtless forgotten me." "How silly to have mistaken him for a bandit," she thought. "If he has met my father he must be quite a respectable person." And then she asked : "Would you mind telling me who you are ?" "Oh, I am nobody in particular." "Don't you really think it would have been better if you had asked my father's permission to spend your vacation here?" "Is he here now?" he asked with a start that she mistook for an acceptance of her suggestion. "No ; he is in San Francisco." "Do you think it all likely that he would have grant- ed such a request ?" he asked as he recalled an observa- tion of Sheriff Burke's: "Arnold would put out the eye of a one-eyed man if he caught him looking at his pond." "Well — it would depend on circumstances, of course," she admitted. "If he knew you had saved my life I am sure he would." LONG SWEETENING 105 Carson's thoughts flew back to the day, sixteen years before, when he had fished her out of the lake, and her father had urged him to remain there as guide and care- taker. "But he is not here, and I don't dare mention the matter to my mother," she chattered on. "Aren't there other places near here where you can camp — and find sufficient fish and game?" "Certainly, but there's not another place on earth like this. You know that. Don't you love every rock, every^ tree, every flower, every drop of water in this little Eden?" Betty nodded. "Of course you do — you who have lived here from childhood — and must understand. If you were suddenly expelled from it, knowing that in all probability you would never see it again, what would be your feelings?" "I would feel like committing suicide — or murder," declared Betty, without hesitation. "More than once I have felt that I could kill Williams, when he has tried to frighten us away; and I know how you must feel toward me. But this is not your home." Not his home — and still the only home he had ever known! They stood silent and thoughtful for a mo- ment. "Would you like to stay a little longer?" she asked shyly. "You don't have to ask that." "How long?" "Forever!" 106 LONG SWEETENING "Oh, but I'm afraid that is impossible,' ' she laughed, "unless you can get Williams's job." Carson reflected. If permission to remain were grant- ed, his identity need never be discovered, and Arnold would never know he had been there, but still — "I don't think I am in a position to ask any favors," he said. "Neither am I in a position to grant any," she re- plied. "How much longer would you have stayed here if — " she hesitated. "If I had not been caught?" she nodded. "Three weeks — no longer." "Well, if you should find it impossible to leave at once, I hope you will take only what fish and game you actually need." "I had not thought of taking more." "And to be careful of your fire." "I would feel like a criminal if I burned a single shrub." "But I warn you that you will be arrested if the gamewardens catch you." "I'll chance that. But aren't you making yourself a party to my misdemeanors — an accessory?" "No. Remember, I ordered you off the place, and you refused to go. Under the circumstances I shall say nothing about it — unless I am forced to." "That is very good of you. Good-bye." "Good luck !" she called after him as he disappeared up the trail. CHAPTER XL Carson himself, with all his natural acumen and broad experience in trapping witnesses, could not have prepared a more cunning pitfall for Williams than Betty did. She, with a book in her hand, was sitting on the veranda with her mother when the gamekeeper returned from his afternoon's siesta "Oh, Williams!" called Betty languidly. "Yas'm!" He turned and shuffled toward them. "I have been reading an English story about poach- ers annoying gamekeepers by laying snares for rab- bits." "Yas'm." "I suppose a gamekeeper has to know all about their tricks." "Yas'm." "How is a snare made?" "With jest a piece o' wire with a loop in it — an' a trigger." "Could ypu show me how one is set?" "Shore!" "I don't think we have any wire." "I got some." "I hope you do not intend to snare rabbits, Betty," protested Mrs. Arnold, as Williams hurried away to- ward his cabin. "It's bad enough to shoot them." "No; but I want to know how it is done." (107) r -4 108 LONG SWEETENING Williams returned with a piece of noosed wire as slender as linen thread, and several small bits of wood. "If you'll come hyur, I'll show you." Betty watched him intently as he adjusted the wire to the bent branch of a shrub, pegged down the noose, set the trigger and concealed the contrivance under a covering of leaves. "Now, when yur rabbit comes along, watch what happens." When he touched the covering his arm flew into the air, and he grinned with pride as he pointed to the noose around his wrist. "See?" "Isn't that wonderful!" exclaimed Betty. "And there is no noise to frighten other game away." "Narry bit!" "It's too bad one can't catch deer that way." "You kin— easy." "No ! You can't make me believe that slender wire and little shrub would hold a deer, Williams." "Course not. You got to use a heavier wire an' fasten it to a bent saplin'. That's all." Betty shook her head and smiled incredulously. "I've ketched many a one that a way," declared Williams, determined 'to produce conviction, — "when I wanted a little ven'son — an' didn't want to scare the other deer off with shoot- in'," he added hastily. "Suppose a man should step into a deer snare." "It'd jes about jerk the livin' lights outen 'im, an' hang 'im up till somebody tuck him down." "Do you think you could snare a deer for us ? We haven't had any venison since we came." LONG SWEETENING 109 "Shore — any time." "Where would be a good place to set a snare?" "Oh, any place where they use. They's a trail jest across the lake thar that they travel ev'ry night a-com- in' down to water." "Oh, it's rather rough climbing over there." "Not very." "By the way, which is better — a few hobnails in your boots or many?" "A few'll answer (jest as well." "How many have you in your boots?" Williams exposed the sole of his boot and counted six in the heel and a dozen in the toe. Betty scrutinized them and nodded. "Oh, I suppose that was one of your snares I saw over there today — a piece of heavy wire fastened to the top of a sapling." Williams glanced at her sharply and shifted from) one foot to the other. "It must have been, for I saw your tracks on the trail near a big log — you know where it is." Her tone was so casual that Williams felt reassured. "Yes: I had one over there. Must o' forgot it." Betty glanced toward her mother, sitting on the veranda nearby, smiled confidentially and lowered her tone a trifle. "It's against the law, isn't it?" The gamekeeper nodded and grinned. Betty turned abruptly and joined her mother on the veranda. "You heard all that Williams said, didn't you, mother?" she asked. "Yes; but I hope you won't—" no LONG SWEETENING "You heard him say that, in violation of the law, he has set deer snares on our place that would 'jerk the livin' lights' out of a man and hang him up to starve." Williams began to shift uneasily on his feet, and Betty turned on him, her eyes blazing with indigna- tion. "Well, I was caught in that snare of yours this morning, and had the 'livin' lights' nearly jerked out of me. What have you to say for yourself?" The gamekeeper stared at her in dumb amazement, his jaw sagging lower and lower. "The noose caught one of my ankles, and it is no fault of yours that I wasn't found there hanging head downward — dead!" "Why, Betty!" gasped Mrs. Arnold, and she turned an accusing eye upon Williams. "I shall take this matter up with my father and see that he dismisses you immediately," declared Betty. "Do you understand ?" "Y-y-yas'm!" That brought his jaw in position for further speech. "But what I kain't understand is — " He paused and shook his head hopelessly. "What is there about it that you don't understand ?" "Well — I kain't ezackly understand how you got outen it." "That will be all, Williams ! You may go now !" As he turned and slouched away, still shaking his head over the unsolved problem, Betty plunged into a vivid but carefully expurgated version of her experi- ence, calculated to distract her mother's attention from the question that had been raised, and at the same LONG SWEETENING 1 1 1 time sufficiently impress her with the heinous character of Williams's offense. It was useless. "But how did you ever manage to get out of it?" inquired Mrs. Arnold, when Betty paused for breath. "Oh, — I — I don't think I could explain it — ex- actly — so that you would understand it," she flound- ered. "It was such an awful experience that — that I just can't talk about it any more." When she ran into her bedroom and turned the key in the lock Mrs. Arnold thought it meant a flood of tears, but Betty sat dry-eyed, nipping at her finger with her teeth, and wondering! "How can I ever — ever explain it !" How could she ever tell any one that a strange man had found her in that ridiculous and humiliating posi- tion? Her face flushed at the mere recollection of it. And instead of keeping her head she had clawed like a cat suspended by the tail ! Again she felt the crush- ing embrace of his strong arms, and the savage shake that had reduced her to submission. If he had beaten or choked her into insensibility it would have been no more than she had deserved. Betty suddenly became conscious of a deep sense of gratitude for his gentlemanly forbearance, followed by the fear that she had been remiss in showing or ex- pressing it. She had a fleeting impulse to confide the whole affair to her mother and ask that the stranger be granted the privileges of the preserve for a limited time, and immediately abandoned it as impracticable. 1 12 LONG SWEETENING "But I would like to know who he is," she admitted, then felt herself torn between the hope and the fear that she might meet him again. Betty suddenly started and glanced at the door with a feeling of guilt — almost alarm. She would not have been surprised if she had found him standing there re- garding her with that elusive, unfathomable smile. If there were anything in telepathy, he must have felt the thought she had concentrated upon him. She felt al- most as if she had been caught spying upon him. In the excitement of the incident she had forgotten that he had caught her doing that very thing. And now she knew she never wanted to see him again — never. Betty might have spared herself her humiliating re- flections, for she was as far from Carson's mind as the lizard that clung to the side of a nearby rock and watched him with alert eyes, its throat palpitating more with curiosity than timidity. The precautions im- posed upon him by the threatened activity of game- wardens would necessarily restrict his movements, so Betty's implied permission to remain, technically a trespasser, had been dismissed as a matter of no con- sequence — and she along with it. Carson lay on his back beneath the shade of a great madrona on the summit of the wooded mountain West of the lake, his clasped hands at the back of his head, his neglected pipe lying at his side, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, where the giant waves of green- timbered ridges dwindled to violet ripples. Up the mighty canyon of a thousand echoes rolled the dimin- LONG SWEETENING 1 13 ishing roar of a falling redwood ; from the pines near- by came the intermittent drumming of a grouse; from all sides came the persistent chirp of grasshoppers and cicadas; and beneath him a jagged stone was pressing into his flesh. But he heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. His senses drowsed while his thoughts wandered back over the past. The pages of his mem- ory, upon which every fact and incident had been, as he supposed, indelibly inscribed, he had found faded, almost illegible. Time had erased every pang and dis- comfort, but the chemistry of association had freshened and restored every joyous detail — up to the day he had been turned out of his little paradise. From that mo- ment only the mental tortures he had endured and the reiterated vows of savage vengeance were set down, in somber purple or flaming red that nothing would ever obliterate. In all the years it covered, not an instant's joy, not a moment's peace had been noted. "What a world," mused Carson. "An organic atom infested with megalocephalic bacteria, all controlled by eternal, immutable and incomprehensible laws of chance and accident!" If there had been the swaying of a bough to detain him an instant, or the call of a quail to turn his foot- steps into another path, he would never have met John Arnold. Mirrored in his memory he saw again the ignorant uncouth mountain lad caught in the meshes of the law, first bewildered, then desperate and finally beaten by the shrewd and unscrupulous man of affairs. Now, he himself vas the net-thrower in final 1 14 LONG SWEETENING training to meet his old antagonist in the arena, net and trident against sword and shield; and he saw his enemy at his feet, struggling, gasping, groveling, and pleading vainly for his life. That one moment would compensate him for all the years of painful prepara- tion. That would be the end — of John Arnold; but what of himself? Carson recalled with a start that every thought, hope, desire and ambition had ended there. What of the future? He must go on living, but how — where? If he had never met Arnold, he would never have left his mountain home, but would have grown up a rude mountaineer clothed in skins, gaining a bare subsist- ence with his rifle and traps, and living alone in his little cabin in utter ignorance of the world before his day or beyond his vision — but content. What was he now ? A highly trained and perfectly equipped man of that outer world, already successful, distin- guished — and thoroughly unhappy. What had he to gain from a continuance of the battle out there? Money — nothing else. In a very few years he could amass a fortune, retire from practice and race through foreign countries or lounge in a stuffy club. Impos- sible — revolting ! And then the thought came to him that with his fall Arnold would be forced to sell his country place. He could purchase it, dispose of his musty law books, buy a rifle and spend the remainder of his days there. And as he saw himself again wearing a fur cap, deer- skin breeches and moccasins, packing a bundle of pelts LONG SWEETENING 1 1 5 to market, buying what ammunition, tobacco and "sweet'nin' " he needed and returning to his hermit life, he understood and sympathized with the tutored Indian who returns to his blanket and tepee. "It would be a reversion to type/' he muttered, and lingered over his first day-dream of the new future. CHAPTER XII. Carson entered into the game of hare and hounds with all the ardor and enthusiasm of one who has made a club wager. The threatened appearance of county gamewardens — public officials never so diligent and zealous as when in private employ — only revived the sporting quality that Betty's implied permission had temporarily extinguished. As he had already noted the restricted orbit in which Williams revolved, and was no longer concerned with the meteoric move- ments of the girl, he watched, somewhat impatiently, for the predicted appearance of the new satellites. He knew they could never find his burrow and was con- fident of his ability to escape pursuit, so long as he avoided a surprise. While he kept to the high ground and moved warily, he scanned the lower trails through his glasses, descending only at the peep of dawn or in the dusk of evening for his baths, taking his trout and his breakfast an hour earlier, and carefully con- cealing all traces of his fire. For several days Betty kept to the farther end of the lake, but one morning, just as Carson was finishing his breakfast, he saw her paddle past his green screen of laurel without a glance in his direction, land at the little meadow beyond and proceed to gather the wild flowers that grew there in such profusion. Carson was irritated. Though he had inconveni- enced himself in order to avoid just such annoyances, (116) LONG SWEETENING 117 he would have been caught in his bath if she had ap- appeared a few minutes earlier. With no little grum- bling and a great deal of awkwardness he immediately, upon his return to his cave, converted his sweater into a bathing-suit by sewing a button and constructing a button hole at the bottom of it. A couple of mornings later he had just jointed his rod when Betty's canoe shot around the point of rocks. He would have ig- nored her if she had not nodded at his first glance in her direction and rested her paddle. "Good morning," he muttered. "Have you caught your breakfast yet?" inquired Betty. "Not yet." He ran out his line and made a cast. A big trout leaped high out of the water. "Oh ! Isn't it a beauty !" she exclaimed. The trout rushed and leaped again. "Let me land it — won't you, please?" Without waiting for an answer she paddled into the little cove, sprang from her canoe, scrambled to his side and snatched the rod from his hands. Carson stepped back and watched her, first with in- different tolerance, then with undisguised contempt. Though she was no novice, he saw at once that she had had little experience with large fish and light rods. "Give him more line!" he ordered, impatient with her bungling attempts to drag it in. The reel whizzed till Betty thought it would never stop. "Check him! Quick ! Give him the butt !" Carson almost shouted. 1 18 LONG SWEETENING Betty's teeth went shut with a snap, but she obeyed. "Now, reel in ! Faster — so you'll be ready for the next rush! You don't want to make him a present of the line and rod both ! There he goes again ! Keep your thumb on the reel I" Betty, flushed and excited, labored grimly with the delicate bamboo, expecting every moment that it would snap. More than once Carson feared the loss of his breakfast, his leader or a tip before Betty finally drew the exhausted fish into shallow water. "You can't drag a four-pound trout out of the water and slam it up on the bank like a drowned catfish," he expostulated, as he slipped his fingers un- der its gills and lifted it flapping out of the water. "Well, you needn't be so cross about it," she re- torted. "I beg your pardon — if I spoke abruptly." He stooped and busied himself with the hook deep in the fish's gills. "You first shouted and then growled at me," she reminded him. "Sorry." "It's great sport, isn't it?" Carson grunted a grudging assent with a mental reservation as to spectators. When he had disengaged the hook he remembered that the trophy did not be- long to him, so he left it lying on the grass and glanced at Betty questioningly. "How do you cook it ?" she asked. LONG SWEETENING 119 "I don't think I shall/' he replied with a slight shrug. "Why not?" "It belongs to you/' "But what could I do with it?" "Take it back to the house for breakfast." "I'm afraid I couldn't exactly explain it — without telling on you," she laughed. "And anyway I would not deprive you of your breakfast. But you might give me your recipe." "I broil it and add a few trimmings. Can I offer you a bit?" he asked perfunctorily. "No — thanks. My breakfast will be ready for me by the time I get back. Oh! My canoe!" In landing Betty had not taken time to secure it, and it had drifted out into the lake. She started quick- ly toward the water. "What are you going to do?" asked Carson. "Get it," she replied. "You're not going to swim for it?" "How else? I can't whistle it back." "But you'll get wet." "I usually do, when I swim." "Let me get it." He started toward the lake. "No, no ! Don't trouble yourself." "It will drift ashore there in a little while," he said, as he noted the direction of the gentle morning breeze. "If you're not in a hurry, perhaps you would share my breakfast while you're waiting," On the whole 120 LONG SWEETENING it would be less bother than drying his clothes. "I haven't much — only johnny-cake, coffee and trout." Betty looked at the drifting canoe and then at Car- son, in doubt as to whether she should be obviously shocked or carelessly ingenuous. He was eyeing her evenly and awaiting her answer. She decided to compromise on vicarious disapproval. "Mother would be horrified at anything so uncon- ventional," she said, "but I really must find out how you cook trout." Carson muttered something about conventionality yielding to necessity, picked up the fish and led the way to his fire. Betty, following at his heels, had ample opportunity to note his erect carriage, the con- fident swing of his shoulders and his light-footed, elas- tic stride. She sat on a rock with her chin in her hands and watched him deftly split the trout, place a strip of bacon and a dried bay leaf on each half, rake out a bed of glowing coals and lay the fish upon them. "Why is it that no smoke ever rises from your fire?" she asked. "I have watched for it but have never seen it." "I am careful to use wood that is thoroughly dried," he exclaimed. She studied him at her leisure, while he busied him- self with his cookery, but, between the concealing cap drawn nearly to his heavy black eye-brows and the bristling beard growing well up on his high cheek bones, she could discover little except a thin and de- cidedly aquiline nose between a pair of very black and LONG SWEETENING 121 disconcerting eyes. Unconscious of her scrutiny Car- son proceeded silently with the preparations for their breakfast, inspecting his johnny-cake, throwing a dash of cold water into his boiling coffee and getting a jar of butter and a can of condensed cream from the spring. Then he chopped some green stuff fine with his hunting knife and sprinkled it over the browning trout. "What's that?" asked Betty. "The secret — wood sorrel and angelica — a sort of wild celery," replied Carson. "It lends a piquancy that never can be achieved with, lemon juice and parsley." He placed a portion of the fish upon a tin plate with a piece of johnny-cake beside it, filled the tin cup with coffee and set all on a flat-topped rock beside her. "This is my table. Do you take sweet'nin' ?" he asked, as he took up the sugar. He had not employed the word for years, but it came naturally to his lips. Betty laughed. "That sounds so natural and home- like," she confided. "When my father bought this place he named it 'Long Sweetening/ and we have used the word ever since. When he first came here — " "How many lumps?" interrupted Carson, with a frown. He gave her a knife and fork and stood waiting for her to taste the fish. "Aren't you going to eat ?" she asked. "I shall have to wait for the second table. I ex- pected no guests and consequently have equipment for but one." 122 LONG SWEETENING "So this is your camp." "My kitchen and dining-room/ ' he corrected. "Then where is your camp?" "Taste the fish," suggested Carson evasively. "It's perfectly delicious," she declared. "I thought you would approve it." "Where did you say your camp is ?" she asked again. "I didn't say." "Oh! Do you fear an invasion?" "No; but — " Carson hesitated. "Never mind. I will find it when you are gone," she promised. "Nothing can remain long hidden from me here." "No; you will never find it," he declared just as positively. "I'll wager you haven't even found my con- servatory." He immediately regretted the remark. "Your conservatory! What do you mean?" "Oh, it's merely a little nook in the redwoods, where there are some orchids and ferns." "Orchids!" "Yes — lady-slippers." "Why, I have never seen one." He did not tell her that years before he had carefully transplanted every one he had ever found. "Are they in bloom now ?" "Yes." "Won't you share your conservatory with me ?" she pleaded with a pout. "Please tell me where it is. I'll promise not to pick any of the lady-slippers." LONG SWEETENING 123 "Well, you know where the bridge crosses the out- let of the little pond in the redwoods." "Yes." "It is just off the road to the right — not fifteen feet from it." "I shall go there as soon as I get back to the bungalow," she declared. When Betty had finished her breakfast Carson went with her to find her canoe, delaying his meal till later. "You seem to be ardently devoted to your boating and swimming," he observed as they walked toward the shore. "Oh, I adore the lake," replied Betty enthusiastical- ly. "When I first saw it I was only a baby, but I walked right into it and nearly drowned. And they have never been able to keep me away from it or out of it. Mother has predicted almost every day for years that I will have a cramp and drown, but I'd rather die in it than away from it." The canoe had drifted ashore only a few yards away, as Carson knew it would. "Thanks so much for the delicious breakfast," said Betty, "and in advance for the conservatory." "You're quite welcome," he replied, "since it is already yours," and she paddled away. Carson was glad to be rid of her. Unconventional and inquisitive girls who interrupted and delayed one's breakfast were nuisances. Still, upon reflection, he considered it quite probable that poachers who fright- ened timid mothers might justly be placed in the same i2 4 LONG SWEETENING category; and if she could tolerate him he should be equally complaisant. He hoped, however, that he had seen the last of her. Vain hope! At his break- fast the next morning he was startled by a "Hoo-hoo !" from the lake. "There she is again," he growled and continued with his meal. The call was repeated. Obviously she was trying to attract his attention, and it irritated him. Debating whether to hide himself or remain quite still where he was, he parted the bushes and peered out. Betty was paddling toward the shore. She evidently meant to find him, and there was no escape, so he stepped out into view. "I couldn't find your conservatory," she said petu- lantly. "I don't believe you have one." "Did you look for it?" "Of course I did." "So you couldn't find it, even after I had told you where it is," he taunted. "I believe you were merely romancing," declared Betty. "Oh, no; I wasn't." "I wish you'd show it to me, then." Carson had planned an excursion in that direction for the afternoon. To go there would be a very little out of his way, and if her curiosity were once satisfied, perhaps she would leave him alone." "All right. I'll show it to you." "When?" LONG SWEETENING 125 He reflected. The place was only about a mile due North of his cave, but a good four miles by the long detour necessary to avoid the open trails near the lake. "Can you meet me at the bridge at three o'clock ?" "I'll be there," she promised. CHAPTER XIII. Idling about his cave during the forenoon Carson glanced in his small hand-mirror for the first time since his return to the mountains, and was startled at the unfamiliar reflection. "I do certainly look villainous/' he muttered as he rubbed a hand over his black scrubby beard. "I won- der if my lawn-mower will cut that brush." He searched out his safety razor and was ready for the tortures of a cold shave before it occurred to him that there was no reason for him to keep up appear- ances, and that a beard might conceal his identity in the event of any unexpected encounter ; so he laid aside his razor and began preparations for the afternoon's tramp. Carson had the choice of two routes about equal in distance. He selected the one to the East — the more difficult but less exposed of the two — taking a deer trail from the Hog's Back to the top of a high chemis- sal ridge, keeping to its summit till he reached a canyon leading to the Northwest, and following it to the pond at its mouth. He reached the spot a little before the time appointed, but found Betty perched on the trunk of a fallen redwood awaiting him. "I see you have found it," observed Carson. Though Betty had been straining her ears for the sound of his approach and wondering from which di- rection he would come, she had not heard so much as (126) LONG SWEETENING 127 the crackle of a leaf, and the voice almost at her side startled her. "Oh !" She flushed and looked about her in a puz- zled way. "You see, I was not romancing after all." "But where is it?" "You are sitting on it," replied Carson, with a laugh of triumph. "Come down off the roof and look m. He brushed aside the fronds of the giant Wood- wardia fern that reached above his head and touched her feet. Betty sprang down beside him and peered through the opening he had made. In a little depres- sion spanned and sheltered by the tree trunk she saw a bed of rare lilies through which a tiny rivulet trickled, and a mossy bank where lady-slippers bloomed among the maiden-hair. "Oh!" she exclaimed ecstatically. "How perfectly exquisite! It's like a little corner of fairyland." She stretched eager hands toward them, and Car- son flinched, but before her fingers could touch one of the dainty blossoms she checked herself. "No; it would be a sacrilege!" she said. Carson caught his breath and with unconscious rev- erence bared his head. Her words, as grateful as one's native tongue to the ear of an exile in foreign lands, touched the depths of his lonely soul. Here was one who understood. When she turned he was smiling, and in his fathomless eyes was a soft limpidity that invited search. 128 LONG SWEETENING "Come with me," he said in a voice that matched the eyes, "and I will show you something you have never seen — something as big, and broad, and glorious as this is delicate and exquisite." Without a word or doubt she followed him through a tangle of hazel and huckleberry brush to the summit of a low, timbered ridge. There he stopped and waved his hand toward the field of tiger lilies just beyond the pond below them. "They are beautiful, but I have seen them almost daily/' said Betty in evident disappointment. "But never as you will see them in a few minutes. Sit here and wait till the sun strikes through that open- ing in the forest beyond." Betty watched breathlessly, and, as the first rays flashed a fiery path across the field of blossoms, uttered a quick cry of pleasure and surprise. "Wait!" he warned. Slowly the light spread till the whole field was ablaze. Where the gently swaying boughs of a distant redwood cast their shadows for an instant, she saw the curl of smoke; where the sunlight flashed through again, the leap of flame. Betty sat silent, immobile, completely enthralled. "Now watch it die," murmured Carson. As the sun sank slowly behind wooded hills the field grew dull and dark again, with only here and there a spot that still glowed red like the dying embers of a fire burned low. LONG SWEETENING 129 "It's an epitome of human life," said Carson with a touch of bitterness, "springing suddenly into exist- ence, blazing beautifully for a moment and then ex- piring, leaving only a bed of ashes. ,, "Don't say that," she protested. "Look at the glori- ous afterglow, like the recollections of a life well- lived. I have never seen anything so wonderful." "That is only one of a hundred marvels in these mountains." "And to think that I have spent half my life here and have never seen them, while you — " She stopped and threw him a startled glance. "Why! You must have been here before!" "Naturally." "I mean — in other years." "Yes," he admitted, "I once knew this part of Cali- fornia fairly well." "Won't you show me something else?" "I'm sorry, but I scarcely have time now to reach my camp before dark." "I meant tomorrow — some other time." "Tomorrow?" He hesitated, trying to frame a plausible excuse for a refusal. "Don't you care to?" "I have planned to climb Eagle Peak tomorrow." He was confident the long tramp and all but impossi 1 le ascent would discourage her. "Oh ! Just the thing !" she declared enthusiastically, springing up as though ready to start at once. "I 130 LONG SWEETENING have been wild to climb it for years. I tried once but couldn't quite make it. Can it be done?" "Ye-es — by a strong and experienced mountain climber; but it would be too much for you." "No, no — really! I can go anywhere you can, if you'll only lead the way." "It is really not worth while," he argued, "unless you reach the summit in time to see the sun rise, and then you have to start before daylight, or to see the sun set, and then you can't get home till after dark." Carson stood watching Betty while she pondered, confident that a little reflection would cool her impul- sive ardor, but she was considering the alternatives, thinking not at all of the physical difficulties, nor even of the indiscretion of trusting herself to a strange guide on a secret excursion into the wilds. "Suppose we go in the afternoon," she decided. "Where and at what time shall I meet you?" "Really, I — I don't think you had better attempt it," protested Carson, fearing he would be forced to an undertaking for which he had no relish. "Tell me — honestly and truly — " she said, searching his face with grave eyes, "is it because you think it is too difficult, or because you believe I will be an encum- brance ? Or because you — you would rather go alone ?" "I — I would rather — " Carson groped for words to tell her without offense that he had come to the mountains for the rest and contentment that one finds only in solitude. "I would rather not expose you to LONG SWEETENING 131 hardships you evidently underestimate," he finished lamely. "But I have been very close to the summit alone," she argued. "Very well — tomorrow afternoon." Carson con- sidered a moment and mentioned a convenient land- mark. "Meet me there at one o'clock. I must be go- ing now." "Would you mind telling to whom I am indebted for— all this?" "Oh — I'm nobody in particular." "No? But you'll surely be somebody some day." He shrugged. "When I am, you will know me." He had almost said: "You may not want to know me. "Until then your identity is to remain hidden in your camp?" "I would prefer it." "Very well." She laughed. "I shall not try to dis- cover either, till you are gone, but I know I shall nearly die of curiosity — about your camp." "Then good-bye till tomorrow." She watched him till he had disappeared in the forest, and as she strolled homeward speculated again as to his identity and station in life. Obviously he was a gentleman, even though he showed none of the savoir faire of the fashionable world; but why should one merely in search of health surround himself with mys- tery? Though he might consider it expedient to hide his camp from the gamekeeper and his identity from 132 LONG SWEETENING an arresting officer, why should he practice conceal- ment with her ? He either had a very good reason or a very trifling one. In all probability it was solely to excite her curiosity, and she flushed at the thought of his success. When Betty reached the bungalow she found her mother in the customary flutter of fear and excitement. Williams, who had been making an extraordinary show of activity since the threatened dismissal, had seen another stage robber. A few questions satisfied Betty that he had not seen her guide of the afternoon. Then she applied herself to her usual task, first as a pallia- tive, then as a counter-irritant, but her mother seemed determined on their immediate return to San Fran- cisco. "It is more on your account than on my own," she declared. "You wander away — heavens only knows where — unprotected and unarmed, apparently with no sense of fear or no appreciation of the peril to which you constantly expose yourself. Either you must re- main within sight and call of the bungalow, or I will take you away from here as soon as a conveyance can be procured/' was Mrs. Arnold's ultimatum. Betty had plenty of time for reflection and was forced to admit to herself that she had been imprudent, and that her mother's apprehensions were not alto- gether groundless. It was doubtless foolhardy to trust herself completely in the hands of a stranger who re- fused to raise himself above suspicion, even though he LONG SWEETENING 133 had not invited her confidence and seemed not to de- sire her companionship. If Betty had not overslept the next morning she would have intruded on Carson's breakfast long enough to tell him that she could not accompany him. Anyway, he would understand, when she failed to ap- pear at the appointed place, that something had inter- vened. "You are quite right, mother," she admitted at breakfast. "I have been very careless and thought- less. I'm sorry." Mrs. Arnold was so amazed at Betty's unusual amen- ability that she could only gasp : "Aren't you feeling well today, dear?" Being assured that no temporary indisposition was responsible for the unexpected conversion, Mrs. Ar- nold could only wonder at its cause and hope for its permanency. During the whole forenoon she minis- tered assiduously to Betty's comfort, but nevertheless saw her daughter growing hourly more restive. "If you don't really mind, mother," said Betty at last, "I believe I will take a little tramp this afternoon." Mrs. Arnold did her best to dissuade her, but fear- ful that too much opposition might entirely destroy the resolution of the morning finally yielded a reluc- tant consent, after Betty had promised to take her rifle and be cautious and watchful. CHAPTER XIV. Carson was in no amiable mood when he found himself waiting for the girl who had forced her com- panionship and an arduous undertaking upon him. He was unaccustomed to accommodating himself to the plans or caprices of others, and she was late. "Am I on time ?" she asked with exasperating cheer- fulness, when she came hurrying up to him. "No." "Oh! Am I late?" "About half an hour." "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it," she apologized. "Williams saw another stage robber yesterday, and frightened mother so that I had considerable difficulty in getting away." "You surely don't intend to lug that gun along, do you?" he growled. "You'll have all you can handle without it." "Just as you think best," she replied. "Leave it here and pick it up as we come back." She laid it beside a log. "Come on — it's growing late." Betty flushed resentfully at his tone and manner and hesitated an instant, debating whether to order him from the place peremptorily or to refuse his grudg- ing guidance. Then it occurred to her that his irrita- bility might be attributable to ill-health, and, anyway, it was preferable that he should be boorish rather than (134) LONG SWEETENING 135 presumptuous. So she smothered the rebellion that had risen in her, and followed him meekly. The climb up the mountain to the base of the peak was not an easy one, and Carson set a heart-breaking pace with the deliberate intent to walk her off her feet and cure her of a desire for any further excursions. She plodded along behind him in silence, grim, de- termined and all but breathless. He offered no assist- ance, and she would not have accepted it if he had. Scarcely a word was spoken till they approached the base of the rock pinnacle that rose perpendicularly two hundred feet above them. Accustomed though she was to mountain climbing, Betty was in evident distress. Carson observed it and, relenting a little, suggested that they rest a bit before beginning the hazardous ascent. "I don't think you can negotiate it in those boots," he said. "I didn't think to tell you to bring moccasins or rubber-soled shoes for this part of it." Betty made no reply, but sat down on a boulder, unlaced her boots, threw them to one side and waggled her toes defiantly. "You're a real little sport," laughed Carson. Betty frowned. She was in no mood for compliments. "But the view is really worth the effort." "I thought it would be, or I wouldn't have come," she replied stiffly. "We had better not lose any more time." She rose and started along the trail that skirted the base of the cliff. Suddenly she felt herself seized 136 LONG SWEETENING around the waist, swung off her feet and held tight in his arms. She uttered a quick sharp cry of alarm, and through her mind flashed the repeated warnings of her mother. She struggled savagely, viciously, till he set her on her feet again. "What do you mean, sir?" she demanded. "You had a very narrow escape." He smiled in a queer way and pointed to the trail. Almost at her feet lay the rattlesnake he had trampled into the broken rock. Betty sprang away from it in horror, then crumpled down by the side of the trail, hid her face in her hands and laughed and cried hys- terically. "Don't be alarmed. It's dead now, and there is no danger," he assured her. "Oh! You frightened me so!" she cried. "I didn't mean to," he apologized. "Naturally, I didn't think I was expected to say: 'I beg pardon, but if you will be good enough to permit me I'll take you away from the rattlesnake that is just coiling to strike you.' " "Take the horrible thing away! I can't bear the sight of it !" Betty felt that she really owed it to him to shift all responsibility for her fright to the reptile. Carson picked it up with a stick and flung it into the brush. "It is not safe to touch even a dead one," he explained, "for the slightest abrasion is a highway for its venom." "I thought they always gave a warning rattle," she said. LONG SWEETENING 137 "Not always. This one had recently fed and was sluggish." "I didn't know there were any around here. This is the first I have ever seen." "You will never find them in the timber," he con- tinued, "but wherever there is open country, and es- pecially around broken rock piles, look out." Betty, already recovered, got to her feet again. "Better let me go ahead," he said. "Here's where the hard work begins. Be careful to follow my footholds exactly. This rock is brittle and treacherous." He searched out the crevices with his fingers and toes, testing each step to see that it would not give way and send a shower of stones upon his companion's head. Betty, drawing quick breaths through clenched teeth, followed close after him, the jagged stones cut- ting into her stockinged feet. There were points where he was compelled to stretch his full length in order to reach the next crevice, and she was unable to nego- tiate them unassisted. Then he would cling to the rock with both hands, stretch down a leg for her to grasp and wait for her to scramble up beside him. They were standing on a narrow ledge, where they had paused for breath, when he pointed out a mottled patch on a hillside a hundred feet below them. "What is it?" she asked. "It looks like a rag car- pet." He laughed. "It's a carpet of rattlesnakes. That pile of broken rock beyond them is the hatchery that supplies the open country to the East of us. They 1 38 LONG SWEETENING crawl out there by the thousand, from five inches to five feet in length, to bask in the afternoon sun." "They ought to be exterminated. Can't it be done ?" "I have always intended coming here some day with a stick of dynamite and blowing up their den. It would yield a small fortune in rattlesnake skins and oil." "You may have it," declared Betty. The pinnacle of the peak was a sheer rock, no broader than a large dining table. Standing at the base of it upon a ledge only a few inches wide, Car- son could just reach the top of it. He grasped the edge with both hands, drew himself up and clambered to the top. Lying prone upon it, he took Betty's hands and lifted her up beside him. All of her toes were through her stockings, and one foot was bleeding. "I'm afraid it will not be worth it after all," he said. "You have hurt yourself." "It's nothing," replied Betty. With apparent unconcern she sat cross-legged beside him, carefully hiding her feet under her short skirt and turned her eyes upon the panorama. Spread be- fore them was a redwood forest that stretched away for miles and miles in velvet folds, near by green and vivid, in the distance violet and vague, till a sel- vedge of silver fog lying over the sea thirty miles away marked the horizon. Betty sat entranced, oblivi- ous of her hurt feet and even of the presence of her companion, watching the sun sink lower and lower, the violet darkening to purple, the silver edging turn- ing to gold. LONG SWEETENING 139 "You should see it in the early morning/' remarked Carson. Recalled by his voice Betty started but did not turn. "That low fog creeps up into every canyon and penetrates every nook until it looks like a silver sea dotted with green islets. But you haven't looked behind you yet." She turned. Instead of unbroken forests she saw the higher ridges of the Coast Range, gray in their chemissal shrouds ; lower hills growing yellow with the advance of summer; little valleys nestling snugly in the bosom of mountains; in the far distance a snow- capped peak glowing under the good-night kiss of the setting sun; and directly beneath her Sapphire Lake purpling in the shadows. "Is there anything like it anywhere!" exclaimed Betty. "Not in the whole world," he declared. "But it's growing late," he warned her, "and we had better be going. We will not get back before dark as it is." "I don't want to go, but I suppose I'll have to," Betty shoved her feet out before her and looked at them disconsolately. "I wish you could wear my moccasins," he said. "Can't we do something about them? Oh, I have an idea!" He drew out his hunting knife and before she could stop him he was cutting the legs off his heavy woolen socks down to the tops of his moccasins. Then he took the bandanna handkerchief from his neck, tore it into strings and ordered her to bandage her feet. She sue- 140 LONG SWEETENING ceeded with some suggestions and assistance in the mat- ter of tying knots, and they began the descent. It was infinitely more difficult than the ascent had been, and more perilous. Carson went first, feeling out the crevices with his toes, grasping Betty's ankle as she let herself down after him and guiding her feet for her. It was trying work, for the slightest slip meant death for one or both of them. They finally reached the bottom in safety and rested a few moments while Betty rearranged the bandages on her feet and put on her walking boots ; and it was almost dusk when they started on their return to the lake, a good two miles distant. Betty started off pluck- ily, but she could not conceal her limp. Carson ob- served it and his conscience smote him. "Can't I help you?" he asked. "You're lame." "No, thanks; I'm all right," she replied. iWhen they reached the woods on the lower slope of the mountain it was almost dark. Betty stumbled over a root, and Carson took her by the arm to help her along, but she pushed him aside. "Don't worry about me," she said cheerily. "I've been bother enough already." "No bother at all, I assure you," declared Carson. "Oh, I know what a nuisance I must be, and I don't purpose to be any greater one than is absolutely neces- sary. A woman shouldn't, expect a man to be both a nurse and a guide, and if she can't keep pace with him she should travel alone." "That's true," he agreed, a little too readily. LONG SWEETENING 141 At the place where the rifle had been left and their paths parted Betty said: "I am very grateful to you. Mr. " "Nobody," he supplied. "Nubbidy," she corrected with a laugh. "That really sounds much better." "I am, glad if the pleasures have compensated for the hardships of the day." "I am grateful for being permitted to tag along to- day, but more than I can tell you for — for saving my life again. This is the second time you have rescued me from danger into which I had deliberately walked." "The third," thought Carson. "It's nothing — mere chance," he said. "I do hope I have not inconvenienced you greatly." It occurred to Carson that the day had not passed as disagreeably as he had anticipated. "Not in the least," he declared. "I — I don't want to be presumptuous, but I do wish you would show me more of the things I have never seen here. They are so beautiful, and you seem to know them all." "I should be glad to," but there was no enthusiasm in his tone. "But for some reason you don't care to? Isn't that true? Would it interfere with your plans?" "Not materially," he replied. "I wouldn't permit anybody or anything to do that." "iWell-^I^-I— " Betty was perplexed. "You are a 142 LONG SWEETENING stranger, and I know nothing of your situation. Per- haps, if I paid you for your time and trouble — " Carson interrupted her with a laugh. "I'm neither a professional guide nor a trained nurse," he said, "but if you really want to rough it a little, I think I can find time to show you a few things." "When?" "Whenever you wish." "Thank you so much — but don't, if it's going to be a bother." "It won't be." "Where will I find you?" "Oh, down at the lake at breakfast time." "All right. Thanks again. Good-bye, Mr. Nubbidy." "She's a plucky little devil," mused Carson as he made his way to his cave, "and not half the pest I thought she would be." CHAPTER XV. The ascent of Eagle Peak was the beginning of a series of excursions under Carson's guidance. If their plans required an early start, Betty breakfasted with him by the lake, taking with her the lunch they would require, and Mrs. Arnold, gradually abandoning all hope of procuring the promised protection of game- wardens, of obtaining her husband's consent to a speedy departure or of curbing her daughter's adventurous spirit, could only fold her hands in apprehensive sub- mission and wonder at the caprices of an appetite that declined a hot breakfast and demanded an enormous luncheon. Day after day Betty trotted at Carson's heels or by his side, happy, trustful and tireless, and each excur- sion yielded fresh surprises, new delights and novel experiences. To Betty his knowledge of woodcraft was astonishing, his familiarity with the habits of wild things amazing and the acuteness of his senses start-' ling, while the occasional manifestation of a sixth sense, dulled by long disuse, seemed almost supernat- ural. Once, when he had drawn her into quick con- cealment, led her stealthily to a spot commanding a view of the canyon below and pointed to the still smouldering ashes of an abandoned campfire, she asked : "How did you know it was there ?" He merely (143) 144 LONG SWEETENING shrugged. "There is no smoke, and you could not have scented it, for the wind is in the wrong direction." "I just felt it," he replied. "It's uncanny ! You must have Indian blood in your veins," she laughed. He gave her one swift, half -contemptuous glance from beneath contracted brows. "I have!" Carson translated the signs of the trails, hitherto meaningless to Betty, but now revealing pathetic little tragedies among the denizens of the wilds. He in- terpreted the different cries and calls of the various birds and animals and taught her to imitate them. He showed her a kangaroo rat that stared at them an in- stant with big, soft eyes, then went bounding away on its long hind legs; the "double-ender," a harmless lit- tle snake that in full flight bluffs an enemy with its tail marked exactly like its head; the great mountain lizard that sends its detachable tail wriggling away among the dried leaves to create a diversion that will enable it to escape unobserved. He showed her how the wild broom explodes at the slightest contact and showers the marauding bee with pollen, and how the wild oat, at the first touch of moisture, rolls itself over and over until it plants itself in a crack of the sun- dried earth. Though Betty had felt assured almost from the be- ginning that her acquaintance would never be offen- sively presumptuous, she continued, nevertheless, to entertain some misgivings concerning the inferences he might draw from her surreptitious unconvention- LONG SWEETENING 145 ality, and at the same time to feel a little apprehensive as to the nature of his expected reaction. So far as she had been able to discover, however, he simply ac- cepted her and tolerated her as he would any other chance acquaintance of the hills, without curiosity, without interest, without a thought or a care as to the possibility of their meeting again. He seemed as in- different to her age, sex, station and even personality as to the social attributes of the young gray-squirrel that came every morning to beg a crust of 'johnny- cake. He ignored her whims and even her expressed preferences without apology or excuse, giving her to understand by his manner that she could either ac- company him upon his terms or go her own way. And Carson guided the conversation as he did Betty — according to the custom of the hills — abruptly turn- ing it whenever she sought to give it a personal direc- tion and restricting it always to matters of immediate concern. So detached and impersonal were his obser- vations that she felt he was not endeavoring to divert or instruct her, but simply recalling to himself the half- forgotten lore of the woods. "How long has it been since you lived in the moun- tains ?" she once asked him when they were resting after a stiff climb. He made no answer. "You seem to be tireless." "Mountaineers always walk with the knees slightly bent and their legs swinging from the hips," he said, "so they do not tire easily. And when they want to rest quickly and thoroughly they dig hip-holes, stretch 146 LONG SWEETENING out at full length and put their arms above their heads. That brings immediate and complete relaxation. ,, "Why have you never, since the day we first met, addressed me by name?" she asked. "I hadn't found it necessary," he evaded. "But even dogs have names, Nubbidy." She smiled and dimpled "I rather like to feel that I am regarded as — some one." He remained silent till he was ready to move on, then: "Let's go, Summins!" She couldn't decide whether it was meant as a re- buke for her familiarity or an acceptance of her on terms of equality, but she liked it. Their converse, sparing even when they stretched themselves on a high mountain top or in some secluded glen for their mid-day rest and repast, was marked by long silences — not the silences of understanding and sympathy, but of baffling mood and abstraction. Often as he lay with hands clasped behind his head, puffing at his pipe, Betty found herself studying him in an effort to solve the mystery of the man, concealed by the masking beard and unrevealed by the brooding eyes that wandered over, through or beyond her without ever seeming to touch her, even when for an instant they rested on her. Anxiety over the state of his health or disappointment over a business reverse would not account for his secrecy. That he had committed crime or suffered disgrace was improbable. There seemed to be but one other reasonable explanation — he had been the victim of a distressing love affair. But whatever LONG SWEETENING 147 it was, she was certain he had come to the mountains to forget. Betty reflected frequently upon the strange camara- derie that had germinated from a chance encounter under such unusual circumstances, but without analyz- ing its development or speculating upon its fruition. A little curiosity and a necessity of diversion had drawn her into a closer acquaintance, excused by its casual and transitory nature; while the yielded privi- leges of the preserve, carrying no guarantees of seclu- sion and amply compensating him for/ any inconven- ience she might cause him, justified its continuance. The impersonal character of it, which had first re- lieved her of all apprehension, merely added to the free- dom and the charm of it. But their constant compan- ionship^ so close but unintimate, with their mutual love of nature and enjoyment of the unsuspected beauties he revealed, had, despite his reticence and taciturnity, gradually and imperceptibly developed in her a sense of sympathy, if not understanding, more profound by reason of its silence and restraint. That he no longer preferred his seclusion to her society, she believed ; that she was helping him. find forgetfulness, she felt as- sured; that it was all destined to end as suddenly and definitely as it had begun, and in time become merely a reminiscence, she regarded as probable. So, inclined to make the most of it while it lasted, it was she who invariably took the initiative in planning their meet- ings, but followed submissively wherever he might lead. 148 LONG SWEETENING "I think I shall go to church, tonight," he once re- plied, when asked how he spent his evenings. "Where and at what time?" And Betty crawled out of her window at midnight to paddle noiselessly across the lake and clamber up through the dark forest to the summit of a rock on the mountain side. Without surprise or a word of greeting, he pointed to the lake. She looked and saw^ it only as she had seen it many times before, its sur- face gleaming in the light of a full moon, except where the black shadows of the pine forest pierced or blotted. And then she saw revealed a great cathedral, its vesti- bule and oriels softly illuminated, its slender spires reaching to the mirrored sky. She stood transfixed, breathless, for a moment; and then its calm, stupen- dous beauty overwhelmed her. A wave of emotion swept over her. She trembled and clenched her hands as she strained her eyes to catch the first majestic tones of the great organ that she felt must break the portentous and palpitating stillness. When Carson opened his lips to speak she grasped his arm in fierce protest against the sacrilege. "God moves in a mysterious way His marvels to perform !" His voice, so low, so sonorous and so reverent, might have come from the pulpit of that cold and si- lent cathedral. Her fingers relaxed, slid down his arm, grasped his hand and held it till a slight pressure and murmured "good night" recalled her. "Good night," she half whispered. "Peace be with you!" CHAPTER XVI. Carson had consented to show Betty where she could find some grouse, but when they met at the ap- pointed place he told her he would be forced to disap- point her. "I have to meet the stage today to get some sup- plies," he explained. "The grouse will have to wait for another time." "Where will you meet it?" she asked. "About a mile from Warm Springs." "Expect to do some shooting?" She glanced at the big Colts he had never carried before. "I thought I might see a deer somewhere down the trail." "Mayn't I go with you?" "No; I shall have to hurry." "Then I suppose I may as well set Williams to work on that bee tree," she concluded. She watched him as his long swinging strides car- ried him swiftly down the trail through the open coun- try and out of sight. A little farther on he flung into the brush the old grain sack he had carried over his shoulder, for he had not considered it necessary to confess to Betty that the urgently needed supplies con- sisted of the sack of tobacco he knew he could beg from the driver of the stage. Under Carson's tutelage Betty had acquired a store of information with which she constantly confounded (149) 150 LONG SWEETENING and mystified the gamekeeper, though he had long pro- fessed a knowledge of woodcraft unexcelled. "Williams, do you think you could get us some honey?" she asked when she had returned to the bunga- low. "The product of wild lilac and red clover must be delicious." "No'm; don't know's I could," he replied. "Why not?" "I don't know where they are any." "There are plenty of bees about." She pointed to the honeysuckle that almost covered the old log cab- in. "Yas'm." " "And where there are bees there must be honey." "Yas'm; hit's easy to see where they're a-gettin it, but the thing is to find out where they're a-puttin' it." "Can't you find out?" Williams scratched his head and grinned. "Well, you see, I ain't never learned bee talk." "Get an axe and something to smoke them out," Betty ordered, with a show of disgust at his incompe- tence. "I'll get a bucket." He watched Betty with a tolerant smirk while she went about the work of "pointing." She sprinkled the backs of several bees with flour and watched them shoot away like white paper wads, taking careful note of the direction of their flight. "Come on." She led the way to a patch of clover a quarter of a mile from the bungalow, powdered more bees and LONG SWEETENING 1 5 1 watched them. She repeated the manoeuver two or three times, then pointed up at the hollow in a big black-oak from which honey was dripping. "Well, I swan!" exclaimed Williams. "A black bear has beaten us to it," observed Betty, indicating scratches on the trunk of the tree. "How do you know it wasn't a grizzly?" "Every one knows there hasn't been a grizzly around here for years, and they never did climb trees." "Well, it mought o' been a cinnamon." "A cinnamon would have reached higher on the tree for its first grip." "A yearlin' wouldn't of," declared Williams, uncon- vinced. "Neither would a yearling cinnamon leave black hair on the bark when it slid down." "Well, you are shore a smart un !" he admitted, then alarmed at the prospect of work: "Hit's too bad he got all the honey." "Oh, there's plenty. The bear got only what it could reach, and that hollow extends down several feet." "But yore pa give strict orders not to cut down any trees." "You won't have to. Climb up and chop at the bottom of the hollow where the honey is oozing out, smoke out the bees, if you have to, and bring us a bucket of it." Betty left him to his work and spent the forenoon reading. After luncheon it occurred to her that she had made no definite appointment for the morrow. 1 52 LONG SWEETENING She calculated that it was about time for Carson's re- turn, and by watching the Warm Springs trail she would probably intercept him. She took her shot-gun and found a place in the shade of a big live-oak high on the mountain side that gave her a view of the trail for nearly a mile. It was not long before she spied him toiling up the slope toward her. As she got to her feet to go meet him, she saw Williams slip be- hind a tree a hundred yards below her and watch the stranger's approach. At the first trespass notice the trail forked, one branch leading directly North to the lake, the other turning sharply to the East to avoid the preserve. Car- son's route lay along the trail through the Arnold property, for a short distance, then due East. Betty saw him walk deliberately past the warning notice without so much as glancing around, and knew that Williams would catch him unless he were warned. She waved her handkerchief frantically, but still he did not look up. Then she fired her gun. At the re- port Carson stopped abruptly, looked up and saw her signalling him to go back. At the same moment Wil- liams stepped out from behind the tree and started to- ward him. Carson, who was still an eighth of a mile from the gamekeeper, hastily retraced his steps to the forks of the trail, took the West branch and disap- peared in the first ravine. But as he went Betty ob- served that he carried no burden, and wondered what he had done with his supplies. LONG SWEETENING 153 In the late afternoon Betty paddled up the lake be- yond the rock point. As soon as she was out of sight of the bungalow she hallooed and waved her handker- chief. She knew that Carson's camp must be some- where near his kitchen, and if she could attract his attention he would understand that she wanted to see him. Within five minutes she heard his whistle — the call of the sickle-bill thrush — and saw him break through the hazel thicket on the shore. "Well, you finally got back all right/' she said as she paddled up to him. "After an extra three-mile tramp," he said. "I had to circle back to the South, down one canyon and up another. But how did you happen to be there at the right time?" "I had forgotten to make arrangements about to- morrow — the grouse you know — and was waiting for you." "Meet me at the same time and place. If you don't see me, whistle. I must keep a little closer under cover now, especially along the main trails." "All right. By the way, you didn't get your sup- plies." "Well, not all. I'll get the rest of them day after tomorrow. Be on time, or we may not find the groutfe on the feeding ground." "If I'm alive," she promised. Betty paddled homeward, and as she neared the boat landing heard the deep baying of bloodhounds and saw three armed horsemen approaching by the Warm 154 LONG SWEETENING Springs trail. Mrs. Arnold, alarmed by the formid- able appearance of the invaders, hurried to the side veranda and called to Williams, who presently emerged from his cabin. By the time Betty had fastened her canoe the horsemen had dismounted at the gate, and one of them approached her. "Howdy, Miss Arnold," he greeted her. She did not know him, so merely nodded shortly. "We want to camp here tonight." His tone conveyed a decision rather than a request. "Yes? I'm afraid we cannot accommodate you," she replied. "We don't calculate to put you out any. My name s Burke. I'm the Sheriff," he added. "Oh, certainly," replied Betty. "I suppose my father spoke to you about — " "Yes; we had an understanding," he interrupted. "Seen any suspicious characters around here lately?" "None more suspicious than Williams here," she replied with a laugh, as the gamekeeper and her mother joined them. "They're annoying us constantly," declared Mrs. Arnold, assuming that the Sheriff had come to pursue poachers. "We hardly dare leave the house." "Yeah," corroborated Williams eagerly. "Seems like all the hard characters in the country come this way, an' they's no tellin' what they mought do." "Oh, Williams is simply trying to frighten us away from here," declared Betty impatiently. "His imagina- tion converts every traveler into a desperado." LONG SWEETENING 155 "I've lived up hyur in the mountains all my life, an* I guess I oughta know what I'm a-talkin' about," he insisted. "Why, jes this afternoon — " "Oh, nonsense!" Betty interrupted hastily. "I go everywhere around here, and I've never seen any one who showed the slightest inclination to disturb us. Once in a while some hunter gets on our — " "What about this afternoon ?" interrupted the Sher- iff. "Why, I seen a feller a-comin' up the trail over yon, an' I stepped behind a tree an' waited fur 'im. He come past the first trespass notice, an' jest then Miss Ar- nold — she was a-huntin' over there — fired a shot. The feller stopped short, an' then went back in a hurry. I stood behind the tree an' watched for about fifteen min- utes, to make sure he wasn't a-comin' back, but I didn't see 'im after he went down the first ravine to'rds the crick." "Can you give me a description of him?" "Well, he was over two hundred yards aWay, but I calcalate he was about six foot tall, an' weighed mebbe a hundred an' ninety pound, an' wore one o' them dungaree suits 'thout leggin's, an* a brown cap." "Didn't he have long whiskers and snaggly teeth?" asked Betty maliciously. "Now't you mention it, it 'pears like he did ha^e short black whiskers." "Didn't you see him?" Burke asked Betty. "I saw a man going down the trail." "Was he armed?" 156 LONG SWEETENING "I didn't see no gun/' said Williams, "but he mought o' had a revolver." "Well, that's our man," declared the Sheriff posi- tively. "We'll pick up the trail again at daylight. Keep a sharp lookout for him or his tracks — he's wearing moccasins. If you see him, take him, dead or alive. If you can't get close enough to get the drop on him, fire three quick rifle shots from the top of a ridge, and we'll come on the jump." "Why, what has he done?" gasped Betty, now thor- oughly alarmed at her guide's peril. "Robbed a stage." "When? Where?" "This morning — about a mile from Warm Springs." "But why do you suspect that man?" "The dogs picked up the trail at the stage road and followed it straight up to the fork of the trail where you saw him. We followed it down a ravine to the bottom of the main canyon and there lost it. I guess he took to the water to throw the dogs off the scent." "But how could an unarmed man hold up the stage?" "He had a revolver. See this ?" Burke drew a folded grain sack from his coat pocket and held it up for in- spection. "He had this over his head. See the eye- holes?" Betty immediately recognized it as the one Carson had carried over his shoulder in the morning, for she had observed the small holes near the bottom of it. She stood staring at the damning evidence while Burke continued : LONG SWEETENING 157 "This is the fellow that has been holding up that stage regularly and getting away with it, but we've never had bloodhounds before, and this time we'll get him." When Betty raised her eyes she was surprised to see the Sheriff and her mother slowly receding in the haze behind them, and as the ground beneath her feet began to sway she closed her eyes and stretched a groping hand toward them. "Why, Miss Arnold! There's nothing— " and the Sheriff's voice trailed off into the distance. CHAPTER XVII. With the spiking of Betty's guns Williams renewed his assaults with such adroitness and vigor that only the intervention of Sheriff Burke, the presence of his armed posse and the absence of any sort of convey- ance prevented the complete rout and night flight of the Arnold menage. Mrs. Arnold's hysterical terror, augmented by the shock Betty had suffered, was only partially allayed by the Sheriff's arguments, persua- sions and assurances, and it was not till the gamekeep- er had retired to his cabin, the servants had ceased their excited whispering, the bloodhounds were whim- pering in their sleep on the veranda and the Sheriff was snoring in the spare bed-room that Mrs. Arnold would leave her daughter's bedside to seek repose. Shaken by her own trepidation, she had felt no alarm at Betty's mute pallor and fixed stare, but only satisfaction that her daughter's narrow es- cape from an encounter with the desperado had taught her a lesson she would never forget. Betty, who had been battling for hours with an al- most irresistible desire to scream and tear the bed clothing, buried her face in her pillow and wept un- restrainedly till she could weep no more. Feverish and exhausted she lay staring at the ceiling, struggling to collect her thoughts. This, then, was the solution of the mystery ! Stripped of the mantle of romance she had thrown around him, (158) LONG SWEETENING 159 the brooding lover seeking forgetfulness in solitude stood revealed, a clever highwayman lurking in fa- miliar coverts. And she, Betty Arnold, despite every safeguard that a millionaire father and a devoted mother could devise, had allowed herself to be lured, betrayed into close, constant and secret companionship with a common thief ! No ; she had not been lured ; she had walked into it, as she had into the deer snare and the rattlesnake. Worse — she had forced herself upon the fellow consciously, deliberately, wilfully, disre- garding her mother's frequent admonitions, his obvi- ous aversion and the first principles of common de- cency ! But why hadn't he shown her as much consid- eration as an ordinary rattlesnake would, and either warned or avoided her? Covered with shame, humiliation and remorse she relapsed into another paroxysm of tears and sobs, sud- denly checked by an illuminating thought. Wasn't it possible that the Sheriff, upon whose testimony she had convicted him without a hearing, had blundered? Criminality, she had read, was attributable to want of intelligence, and it seemed preposterous that one so well-informed, so obviously qualified to move in any circle of society and achieve success in any pursuit would deliberately choose a life of crime and outlawry. Cunning criminals did not go about their work open- ly, but with the utmost secrecy and caution. After their first encounters he could easily have avoided her and remained in hiding, unknown and unsuspected. In any event he could have gone any day and committed 160 LONG SWEETENING the crime without confiding his plans to her. And if he had done it, why should he, knowing there would be an immediate pursuit, unwarily expose himself to Wil- liams's observation, answer her signals and make an appointment to meet her on an open trail to go grouse hunting? He would certainly have realized the peril of it, even if he felt assured that she would not betray him. But how could the evidence against him be explained away — his reticence, his secrecy, his familiarity with the country; his expressed intention to intercept the stage a mile from Warm Springs, though it would have been easier to go directly to that resort; the re- volver he had never carried before; the supplies he did not get; the tell-tale sack, carried in the morning and discarded when it had served its purpose; the trail followed by trained bloodhounds from the scene of the robbery to the point where she had seen him dis- appear; and his words at their last meeting: "I must keep a little closer under cover now" ? There seemed to be no question of his guilt. Betty reviewed every detail of their association from their first meeting to their last parting, searching for something that might excuse, explain or extenuate his offense and her indiscretion. A sudden and unaccount- able impulse or a mental derangement from his recent illness might explain a single offense, but the repeti- tion of it at frequent intervals indicated the deliberate choice of a criminal career. She recalled with a thrill of satisfaction numerous heroes of fiction who had LONG SWEETENING 161 been driven into outlawry by the cruel injustice of organized society. Possibly that might account for his criminality, but it could not relieve her from the con- sequences of her own transgressions. Betty lay dry-eyed and sleepless pondering her sit- uation. How could she ever extricate herself from the horrible predicament into which her childish perver- sity and her romantic folly had plunged her? Should she go at once to her mother, tell her all and beg her forgiveness, her counsel and her advice ? She could en- dure reproaches, for she knew she had earned them, but she could not inflict suffering so undeserved. Should she wait till morning, make a clean breast of it to the Sheriff under a pledge of secrecy and earn immunity by giving timely and valuable information? The thought of betraying even a criminal was too repug- nant. Besides, his capture was assured without her in- tervention, and there was no certainty that the Sheriff would guarantee secrecy and immunity, for he might be forced to use her as a witness in order to procure a con- viction. And if she informed on the bandit, he would surely retaliate by making full disclosures concerning their relations. She could almost see the flaming head- lines in the San Franciso dailies : "Millionaire's Daugh- ter Pal of Daring Highwayman," followed by column upon column of the story, exaggerated and distorted into vulgarity, crammed with imaginary details and stuffed with damning insinuation and innuendo. A last desperate expedient occurred to her. She might go to him in the early morning — she could 162 LONG SWEETENING surely find him at breakfast beside the lake — warn him of his peril, assure him that she had respected the con- fidence he had reposed in her, and beg him to be equally magnanimous. He would certainly refrain from mak- ing disclosures that could not serve him and would ut- terly ruin her. Then it flashed upon her that he had cunningly plotted the whole thing, had deliberately snared her, either to take her and hold her as a hostage or to force her father under threats of exposure to come to his defense in case of capture. The fact that he had beguiled her always into taking the initiative would make it the more damning. But he might escape! Sheriffs were not infallible, and this man's cunning was incredible. He was a mas- ter of woodcraft, knew every nook and cranny of those hills and with the dogs once off the scent, could lie for days undiscovered on the summit of Eagle Peak or in the shelter of his conservatory. But his escape would be merely a reprieve. This thing would be left hang- ing over her head, giving her no rest, no peace, until his ultimate capture precipitated it. But he might be killed ! She seized the thought eagerly, hopefully, then shuddered at the horror of it, vividly depicted on her imagination. While Betty watched and waited for the dawn — the dawning of a day that would bring death to him or disgrace to her — she suffered all the mental tortures of a condemned man on the eve of his execution, scarcely daring to hope for an interposition of Provi- dence that would grant even a brief respite. At the LONG SWEETENING 163 first sign of its approach, the thump of the Sheriff's feet on his bed-room floor, she started up in terror, listened till she heard him puffing and splashing over his ablutions, then sank back on her pillow with a moan of anguish. She listened while the men made hurried prepartions for the gruesome work of the day, and suffered a nauseous, paralyzing chill when she heard them laughing over their breakfast. From be- hind her window-shade she watched the man-hunters ride along the trail at the West end of the lake, then turned her eyes to the point of rocks behind which the hunted wretch was probably reeling in a trout. Betty remained in bed till her mother's irritating solicitude and depressing apprehensions drove her to the lake and her canoe and a refuge in the shade of overhanging laurels. As the time he had fixed for the morning's meeting approached, her hopeless depres- sion and lassitude gave way to the feverish restlessness of one who finds a fixed habit suddenly interrupted. She glanced at her watch with increasing frequency, one moment assuring herself that he had neither in- tended to keep the appointment nor expected her to, and the next convincing herself that he would not only be awaiting her but would be vexed at her failure to keep faith with him. He had always kept faith with her, and how she had trusted him ! She blushed with shame when she recalled the reflections of the night and the Mephistophelian designs she had attributed to him. Force of circumstances may have aroused the primitive instinct to prey upon his fellow men, but it i64 LONG SWEETENING had not impaired his refined sense of chivalry. It may have created a bandit, but it had left a man. The least that she owed him was a sense of appreciation ; and it should be expressed. She would go to him; she still had time. But she might be seen with him. She could at least scribble a note, attract his attention, leave it where he could get it without exposing himself, and flee. But she could not go as she was, in a flimsy morn- ing-gown and high-heeled slippers, neither could she return to the house for suitable clothing, for her mother would never let her go. Why hadn't she gone in the early morning, when she could have found him at breakfast ? Now it was impossible. There was noth- ing to do but wait. As the time passed she pictured him lying in some shady covert watching for her coming, and wondered what his thoughts would be when she did not appear. Would he be disappointed ? Or would he attribute her absence to fear or loathing, and be resentful? He surely could not have intended to go grouse hunting, knowing that the discharge of a gun would inevitably attract immediate attention and pursuit. He must have made the appointment merely to tell her good- bye; and his daring, not only in trusting her, but in delaying his flight when in such peril, excited her ad- miration. In the late afternoon she heard a distant rifle shot and waited in an agony of suspense till at dusk she saw the posse returning with drooping horses and exhaust- ed dogs. She hurried to the gate to meet them and ask LONG SWEETENING 165 for news of the chase, and could hardly conceal her joy when she learned that it had been fruitless. The bloodhounds had found the trail and lost it again, the Sheriff explained. The bandit had apparently doubled back toward the scene of the robbery. But men and dogs were patroling the stage road to the South, the railroad to the East and the trails to the West; and look-outs had been posted on the tops of the surround- ing mountains with binoculars, to watch for the tell- tale smoke of a campfire or a glimpse of the fugitive skulking along the lower trails. A cordon had been drawn around him and his capture was only a matter of a few hours. CHAPTER XVIII. Carson lay in a manzanita thicket on the hillside watching the Warm Springs trail down which the Sher- iff and his men had ridden a couple of hours before, and along which Betty must pass to keep their appoint- ment. Glancing at his watch he noted that it was fifteen minutes past the hour and wondered, for always since that first tardiness she had been punctual to the minute. Probably her watch had gone wrong. He would give her another quarter of an hour, no longer, and he laid his open timepiece on the ground beside him. While waiting he heard the baying of hounds in a distant canyon and concluded some one must be running a bear or coyote, for it was unlawful to hunt deer with dogs. When the allotted time had passed, he picked up his watch, snapped it shut with impatience, and then decided to wait a few moments longer. It was possible that something unforeseen and unavoidable had de- layed her, and she might appear at any moment now. When the half hour he had already allowed her had stretched itself into an hour, he was irritated. He would wait no longer now, and not a minute in the fu- ture. If she couldn't be on time she would have to get along without him. As he climbed the hill toward his cave, he glanced back at frequent intervals, hoping he might be a spectator of her discomfiture and disap- pointment. He stopped at the top to rest for a moment and scanned the half mile of trail that lay in view, then (166) LONG SWEETENING 167 plunged down through the forest on the other side. All right. She would probably come hoo-hoo-ing up the lake in her canoe before long, but she would get no answer; and if she expected to find him at breakfast time, she would be disappointed. Her delinquency fur- nished a good excuse for avoiding her in the future, and, any way, it would teach her a lesson. Having no plans for the day Carson loitered about his cave, reading a little, fidgeting a great, deal, smok- ing constantly, and scanning the lake frequently with malicious expectancy. The hours dragged intermin- ably. It was just like a woman to spoil a man's whole day without compunction or even explanation — and his dinner, too, for he had counted on a young grouse broiled on pine charcoal. When, in the late afternoon, she had not appeared, he wondered if she were ill, or had met with an accident. Why hadn't he thought of that before and spared himself all that exasperation? He seized his cap, hurried away from his cave, stole through the pine forest to Cathedral Rock, and search- ed the bungalow and its surroundings through his glasses. He saw Mrs. Arnold and the servants, and there was the gamekeeper sitting on the veranda with a gun beside him, when he should have been drowsing in a laurel grove half a mile way. He watched for half an hour, and though he saw no sign of Betty he observed a bustle and stir, involving all but Williams, not at all in keeping with the usual afternoon tor- pidity, from which he concluded that something un- usual must have happened — and to her. He should 168 LONG SWEETENING have known Summins would have met him if it had been possible, and he felt a little conscience-smitten at having convicted her without a hearing. Hadn't she assured him that she would be there, if she were alive? Of course, it couldn't be as bad as that ; but what could have happened? Carson had ample time for reflection during and after his dinner of broiled cotton-tail. He was sur- prised to discover how swiftly the days had flown. And they had been very pleasant, for Summins had been a fine little companion, in fact, the only kind he could have tolerated ; and he would miss her during the last week of his stay there. Then it dawned upon him that his irritation of the morning had been due to disap- pointment From an annoyance she had developed in- to a habit. Well, he could easily cure himself of it — much more easily than he could give up his pipe. What did she mean in his life after all? Nothing whatever. It was her father that concerned him. John Arnold's daughter, like John Arnold's trout and rabbits, was purely incidental, and the satisfaction he had found in her company was of no more importance than his en- joyment of the fish and game. She had allowed him to remain on the preserve, and he had permitted her to share his expeditions, so they were quits. There was nothing in their association that constrained him to re- lax in his hostility toward her father — absolutely noth- ing. In fact, he had been sufficiently lenient in his dealings with one who had deliberately and continually compromised herself. But she had trusted him, and, LONG SWEETENING 169 anyway, he was not making war on women and chil- dren. But what could have happened to Summins ? he ask- ed himself over and over again, not that it really mat- tered, but it was puzzling and piqued his curiosity. Per- haps some urgent message had called them back to San Francisco, and they were preparing for a hurried departure. Still, that would not account for her non- appearance or neglect to notify him. Then, with a start of fear that quickly changed to anger, it flashed upon him that Arnold's downfall may have been accomplish- ed without his instrumentality. Was he fated to be cheated of his vengeance, just when it was within his grasp ? Still, this summons might be only forewarning of its imminence, and he might yet be in time to take a controlling hand. There was not a moment to be lost. Almost frantically Carson began gathering up his belongings. The morning train would leave Potterville at five-thirty, and it was not quite eight. He could easily make the twenty-one miles on his own feet in six hours, even at night. Perhaps it would be better to verify his surmises and relieve his suspense before he started. He could approach the bungalow unob- served by its occupants and get some clew through the conversation of the servants, or hail Williams under cover of darkness and the pretext of getting directions to Warm Springs. He snatched his cap, tightened his moccasins and hurried down to the lake, following the trail along the East side of it till the bungalow lights 170 LONG SWEETENING came in view, and then circling around through the forest back of it. To his relief he found the garage empty and no signs of any other conveyance. He was moving stealthily toward the bungalow when a loud snort in the darkness only a few feet away startled him. He was finally able to make out three tethered horses watching him with cocked ears, and on a log nearby were three Mexican saddles. He crept to the edge of the forest and peered toward the bungalow only a few feet away. Suddenly a frenzied pack of yelping hounds sprang from the veranda and strained at their leashes to get at him. He barely had time to jump behind a tree, when a man stepped out the door and gruffly ordered the dogs to keep quiet; and as he stole away into the underbrush he could hear them whimpering in their eagerness to pull him down. It was worse than useless to attempt any further in- vestigation under the conditions. Anyway, he was convinced that the Arnolds were not preparing to de- part. Either a party of the banker's friends had come up for a bear hunt, or these were the long-expected gamewardens. But why hadn't Summins warned him of their arrival ? It didn't occur to him that his resent- ment at her lack of loyalty was at all inconsistent, but he was able to explain it to his own satisfaction. Wil- liams had seen her signal him, and she was in dis- grace — possibly in confinement, but certainly under surveillance. Poor Little Summins! Well, there was nothing to be done about it, but if they intended to chase him off the place he would give them a run. LONG SWEETENING 171 Carson had just finished dressing after his swim the next morning when the deep baying of hounds up the lake attracted his attention. From the way they gave cry he knew they were on a fresh scent and wondered. He slipped out to the point of rocks and peered over. They were running on the trail he had followed the night before, and three horsemen with guns across their saddles were following at breakneck speed. "By George! They're after me!" he muttered, and he realized it would require quick action to escape them. He snatched a can of cayenne pepper as he ran through his outdoor kitchen and dashed up the moun- tain that flanked the Hog's Back. At the summit he paused only long enough to sprinkle cayenne on the trail leading to his cave, then went on down the oppo- site side of the mountain. At the bottom of the canyon he doubled back and waded in the rivulet to the base of the Hog's Back. Carefully peppering his trail he clambered up the Southern face of the cliff by the steps he had cut years before and crawled through the concealed entrance to his cave. When he peered through the chaparral screen at the Northern end his pursuers had reached his kitchen and found his coffee boiling on the fire. The dogs, confused for the mo- ment by the cross trails, were running hither and thither, baying excitedly, while the men were investi- gating the camp. Carson could catch only occasional glimpses of them through the thick foliage, so he got his glasses, wonder- 172 LONG SWEETENING ing at the same time if he knew any of them. The dogs at last found the fresh scent leading up the hill and dashed away, yelping savagely. One of the men followed directly on foot, while the others, leading his horse, labored up the mountain by a more circuit- ous route. At one time they were all within two hun- dred yards of him, but he could get no clear view of their feaures, half concealed under their broad-brim- med hats. He smiled as he thought how easy it would be from his ambuscade to pick them off with a rifle, and yokels who entered the Arnold service as zeal- ously as though poaching were a capital offense really deserved nothing better. He watched till they disap- peared over the ridge, and then from the other end of his cave until he was satisfied that his ruse had led them far afield to the South. Then he settled down disgustedly to a breakfast of cold canned goods and pondered the latest developments. Neither the loss of his cooking utensils nor the con- fiscation of the few supplies kept at the spring would embarrass him, for he could make coffee in a tin can and broil bacon on a forked stick; and fortunately he had ordered butter and condensed cream from the stage driver. And this was the day he had promised to meet the stage to receive them. The fact that his pursuers were operating in the territory he would be compelled to traverse only rendered the undertaking more at- tractive by reason of its difficulties. To be appre- hended and identified as a trespasser on Arnold's pre- serve was unthinkable, but he was confident of his LONG SWEETENING 173 ability to outwit these blundering townsmen. He still had a couple of hours to spare, and in a spirit of brava- do he decided to go around by the bungalow and try to get a few words with Summins. The temporary ab- sence of the men and dogs and the habitual somno- lence of Williams rendered it ridiculously easy. If he could attract her attention by the bird call they had employed, she could undoubtedly slip out into the forest for a few minutes. And Summins would doubtless be glad to see him again and have a laugh over the wild- goose chase he had given the gamewardens. CHAPTER XIX. Carson clambered up among the tall suckers that screened the trunk of the giant redwood in which years before he had constructed a refuge. He crawled into the opening, felt for the steps and descended into its capacious hollow. By the flare of a match he saw that it remained unchanged, except that the wood-rats had carried away the jerked venison with which he had provisioned it, and time had rusted the vessels in which he had stored water. He climbed back to the opening, found a comfortable perch, parted the dense foliage and peered out. Williams, with his gun beside him, was sitting on the veranda of the bungalow scarcely seventy-five yards away. Within a few min- utes a slender girl in filmy white, bareheaded and carry- ing a book, appeared on the veranda, hesitated a mo- ment as though in doubt, and then, to Carson's annoy- ance, strolled languidly toward his hiding-place. If she intended to pass the forenoon reading in one of the hammocks not twenty feet away, he would not only have no opportunity of conversing with Betty, but would have to choose between the alternatives of re- maining a prisoner or revealing his presence and frightening her into hysterics. He was meditating a hasty retreat, trusting to the dense undergrowth and crackling of the dried leaves under her light tread for concealment, when something, he knew not what, struck a chord of recognition in his mind. He stared at her (174) LONG SWEETENING 175 in amazement as she approached, unconsciously com- paring the Summins he knew so well with the Betty Arnold he now saw for the first time. Summins, in her heavy tweed hunting-suit and big boots, was plump and short — only an inch or two over five feet in height. Beneath the broad brim of her deep-crowned, felt hat, drawn low over her forehead, he recalled a straggling lock of blonde hair, blue eyes with a decided snap to them, and a piquante, rather boyish face that was inclined to dimple mischievously; but if there had been anything more than a promise of feminine allure about her, he had never observed it. This Betty Arnold was as different as daylight from darkness, and as his eyes traveled from the mass of glowing hair piled high on her head to the wonder- fully small feet encased in black satin slippers, he wondered that he had recognized her at all. A certain dignity in her carriage seemed to make her older, taller, slenderer and infinitely more graceful, an im- pression that was heightened by the white filmy skirt that clung to her shapely ankles. And what hair she had! Where it was touched by the morning sun it gleamed, not brilliantly, but with the soft pure glow of California gold; and little truant tendrils that the breeze had loosened clung rebelliously to her full- curved throat. Her eyes seemed darker than he re- membered them, and the shadows beneath them lent a wistfulness that he never had seen before. Though her face and neck showed a faint trace of brown tan, through the lacy creaminess of her loose, short-sleeved 176 LONG SWEETENING blouse, he caught the gleam of white, rounded flesh. Her pallor, in marked contrast to the glow of health he had always seen, not only emphasized the delicacy and purity of outline, but added character to her face. Carson framed his lips to sound the familiar bird call, but an inexplicable diffidence checked him. He watched her while she settled herself listlessly in a hammock with her hands clasped behind her head, and felt a sense of annoyance that her long brown lashes con- cealed those wistful eyes fixed on the distance. There was something indefinable in her manner, or her ap- pearance — possibly in the tender, almost pathetic, curve of her full lips — that irresistibly stirred within him a feeling of deep compassion. At the sound of his whistle she started up, stared about her and listened. She had about decided that it was either a thrush or a trick of the imagination, when Carson repeated it, parted the foliage and waved a hand. She sprang from the hammock and started to run toward the gate, but stopped abruptly and stood staring at him with dilated eyes, her hands clutching at her heart and her breath coming in gasps. "You didn't expect to see me here, did you?" He smiled down on her. "I'm sorry to have startled you so." She had believed that immediately upon her failure to keep their appointment he had abandoned all ex- pectation of seeing her again, and had slipped away to the North. Now, at the very moment when he was foremost in her thoughts and at the same time the LONG SWEETENING 1 77 last person she expected to see, he was there before her. She was too confused, too bewildered, to speak. "What's the matter, Summins?" he asked gravely on seeing her agitation. "Why have you come here?" she gasped. "You didn't keep our appointment, and I haven't had so much as a glimpse of you since," he com- plained. "Didn't it occur to you that — that circumstances might have prevented?" There was no bitterness in her tone — only simple dignity. She was getting a grip on herself now. "Yes; that was my conclusion. Naturally, I was curious and a little anxious to learn what had hap- pened to you." "Nothing happened — to me," she replied very quietly. "Oh! I didn't know but that Williams had seen you signal to me, and — " He did not finish. "No." "Then why didn't you come?" "Do you think it would have been advisable — pos- sible — under the circumstances?" "No ; probably not," he admitted, though he was far from understanding the circumstances upon which she put such stress. "I came up here last night, but the dogs scented me and drove me away." She did not for a moment believe that he had jeop- ardized his life or liberty merely to satisfy an idle curiosity concerning one in whom he had shown no 178 LONG SWEETENING personal interest whatever, and she wondered what his motive could be. The thought that he had come to demand protection as the price of silence flashed into her mind again, but she put it resolutely aside. "What could possibly have happened to me that would justify you in taking such risks?" she asked gravely. "Oh, I am taking no particular risk — no more than I have been taking every day." "Don't you know that they are after you — with bloodhounds?" she asked in surprise. "How could I help knowing it?" He laughed. "They picked up my trail here this morning and came near catching me at breakfast," and he told her of the chase and the ruse that had sent them off toward Warm Springs, but his narration failed to gain the ap- proval and admiration he had expected. "I should have thought you would have made your escape at once instead of remaining here. Why don't you get away while they are looking for you down there?" "Because I want to stay here." "Stay here! That is impossible!" "Not so loud — please!" he cautioned with a glance toward the bungalow. "Why is it impossible?" "The Sheriff and his men will be back here this evening." "The Sheriff! Was that Sheriff Burke chasing me this morning?" "Yes; who did you think it was?" LONG SWEETENING 179 Carson was too astonished to reply. That his foster father, who had always expressed such bitter enmity toward Arnold, should have been corrupted by the banker was incredible. "What do you purpose doing now?" asked Betty anxiously. "I? Why, I intend to give that doddering old im- becile the chase of his life," declared Carson, blazing with resentment at the Sheriff's disloyalty. "But you will try to escape, won't you?" "Escape! Certainly. You don't think I intend to walk in and meekly surrender, do you?" She had waited, half expecting and altogether hop- ing he would declare his innocence, or at least offer some explanation of his crime, and his attitude puzzled her more and more. What could be back of it all ? She felt that she could stand the strain no longer. "We met under very unusual circumstances," she said at last, slowly and with obvious effort, "and though we became companions we remained strangers. I reposed implicit confidence in you, and you, for some reason that is not clear to me, have trusted me. I have never sought to pry into your personal affairs, and I have not betrayed you. Would you mind an- swering me one question?" Carson was both puzzled and surprised at the con- tinued gravity of her tone and manner. "Why — I — I will answer any question I can — un- less it is too personal." 180 LONG SWEETENING "Perhaps it is ; but if you think so, you needn't an- swer. Would you mind telling me why you did it?" Her eyes were more than wistful — they were pleading. "Why I did what?" he asked. A trace of disappointment passed over her face as she framed her reply. "Why you — violated the law?" He could not repress a smile, as he asked: "Why do you take it so seriously?" She looked at him in amazement. Even a hardened criminal must understand the abhorrence with which others regard his crimes. That he could think her capable of such complaisance stirred her resentment. "Is that the answer to my question — you have no sense of right and wrong?" "Well, I suppose I have shown what might be con- sidered a want of regard for the property rights of others," he admitted with a shrug, "but why have you become so suddenly scrupulous concerning an of- fense that you countenanced?" "That / countenanced?" She eyed him reproach- fully. "Yes — implicitly." "Did you think that I for a moment suspected who or what you really were? I believed what you chose to tell me concerning yourself — that you were nobody in particular in search of health. Did you think I was so sophisticated that I would, merely from your ret- icence and secrecy, divine the truth concerning your identity and ulterior motives?" LONG SWEETENING 181 Carson stared at her in speechless stupefaction. In some way — and it could only have been through Sher- iff Burke — she had discovered his identity and his whole scheme of revenge upon her father. What a fool he had been to expose himself to such a possi- bility! But who could have forseen Burke's perfidy? The rage blazing under his slowly gathering frown began to focus upon the nearest object — the girl who had unmasked him. "And what reason had you to believe," she continued evenly, "that I, surmising the truth, could possibly countenance — the robbery of a stage?" If Carson had not been firmly seated the shock of the reaction would have shaken him from the tree. Instead of being identified as Wade Carson, the attor- ney, he was merely a mysterious stranger suspected of a stage robbery. Through some blunder his trail had been followed, and the Sheriff's posse was pur- suing him instead of the real bandit. As he began to realize the ridiculous side of the situation, a grin spread over his face, and he could hardly suppress a roar of laughter that would have startled Williams from his doze. "You evidently consider it a joke," said Betty in- dignantly. "I do," he admitted cheerfully, "and so will you when you understand it." "How can you expect me to understand it, when you don't explain it ?" she asked hopefully. 182 LONG SWEETENING For a moment Carson was undecided whether to undeceive her at once or keep her in suspense a little longer to punish her for her suspicions. Besides, he reflected, it might be more prudent to leave her con- victions unshaken and her curiosity as to his identity unsatisfied for the present. "Under the circumstances, I don't think I can ex- plain it — just now," he said. "I'm sorry. I had hoped that you could." She showed her disappointment. "You will probably understand it very soon." "I hope so. I suppose, of course, you know," she added after a pause, "that you are in great danger. The Sheriff has given orders to take you dead or alive, and I don't think his men will be particular." "Then I shall have to be a little more careful," he replied flippantly. Carson pondered the situation. In the interests of justice and for his old benefactor's official reputa- tion, Burke should be notified at once that he was on a false scent. There was a possibility that he might encounter the Sheriff somewhere on the trip to or from the stage road, but he would have to exercise great caution, or some nervous deputy might let his gun go off before he saw the hands raised in amity and surrender. "Unless you consider it your duty to take me into custody, I think I shall be moving on," he said with a smile. "Where are you going now?" LONG SWEETENING 183 "Down to meet the stage and get the supplies I or- dered." Betty was dumfounded. The man must be insane to think of walking deliberately into deadly peril and committing another crime! "The road is guarded, and you will surely be cap- tured or killed/ ' she warned him. "And you don't want to have me killed ?" "I don't like to hear of any one being killed." "Or captured?" She hesitated before she replied: "I think I would rather you were captured, or even killed, than that you should commit another robbery." "What if I promise that I will not commit another robbery ?" "I would be glad to believe that you meant it." He meditated. "Suppose I surrender to the Sheriff and make a clean breast of it," he suggested. "That is a matter between you and your own con- science. I would not have the presumption to advise you, even if I knew all the circumstances. If this were your first offense — " She paused. "Will you believe me if I tell you the truth?" "Yes; if you say it is the truth." "This is the first time I have even been suspected of crime." "Isn't that a little equivocal? One may commit many crimes without ever being suspected." "I have not." "Not committee! — many?" i8 4 LONG SWEETENING. "Not one." "Didn't you rob this stage before?" "No; I didn't even know it had been robbed." "Then who did it?" she asked doubtfully. "I don't know. If I did, I would tell you." "Is this really your first offense ?" she asked eagerly. "You know the full extent of my criminality." "If you escape this time, will you really try to re- form, or will it simply encourage you to a repetition ?" "I promise that I will trv to be an upright and honest citizen." "Upon your word of honor ?" "Upon the word and honor of one who has always been regarded as a gentleman until now." "Then I do hope you get away." "I won't, if I don't start soon." and he climbed down to the ground. "Why are you carrying that?" asked Betty, point- ing to the revolver on his hip. "I thought I might need it." "Promise me that you will not use it, won't you?" she pleaded. "If you are surrounded please surren- der, for resistance can only result in your death, or the murder of men who are only doing their duty." "I promise, but if you have any doubts or fears I will leave it with you." "No ; I believe in putting people on their honor and trusting them." "Thank you. I'm sorry I haven't any more pepper, LONG SWEETENING 185 for the trail I am leaving may cause you some em- bar rassment." "Wait, and I'll get you some," and she started to- ward the bungalow. "Do you think that would be wise? You are not criminally liable, so long as you remain silent and pas- sive, but the moment you give me any active assistance you make yourself my accomplice." Betty hesitated only an instant. "Well, I don't care," she decided. "It amounts to the same thing in the end." She started away, then stopped. "Will you — " She hesitated, perplexed. "Won't you need some money? I can lend you some." "Oh, no; thank you. I have plenty." He smiled. "But you can't use — that," she! protested. "I will not use a cent that I have not earned." As she hurried toward the bungalow Carson's eyes followed her with genuine admiration. Though he had always recognized her courage and intelligence, her feminine charm and quick sympathies were revela- tions; and, as he reflected on the distress she must have suffered and the discomfort he was still inflict- ing, his conscience smote him. He should end the mis- erable joke at once and relieve her of all further anx- iety. When she returned, almost breathless, with a large can of cayenne pepper, she was glowing with excite- ment and filled with solicitude. "If you escape write to me and tell me how you are getting on," she enjoined him. "The knowledge that i86 LONG SWEETENING my confidence in your ultimate success h&s not been misplaced will more than compensate me for anything I may have done; and if you should be captured and sent to the penitentiary, there is still hope. Mother is vice-president of a convict's aid association, and my father will do anything he — " "Thank you, but I shall be able to get along with- out their help," he interrupted, rather ungraciously, she thought. "Good-bye." He started to leave her abruptly, but her out- stretched hand checked him. "Good-bye." "I didn't think you would care to shake hands with a highwayman." "That is past; you're an honest man now. And I want you to feel always that I — I enjoyed our brief friendship — and am still your friend." Carson slunk away feeling more a criminal than ever in his life before. CHAPTER XX. Carson selected a route that would permit him to travel with reasonable ease and directness, and at the same time enable him to keep well under cover. He avoided all trails and openings whenever possible, being careful to leave no tracks and plenty of pepper when- ever compelled to cross one, and stopped often to lis- ten for any sound that would reveal the approach of his pursuers. He was hurrying down a manzanita-covered ridge ending abruptly in a rocky point around which the stage road wound, when he heard a rustle in the brush below. He crouched instantly behind a cluster of manzanita, watching and listening, and a moment later saw a stranger cautiously making his way to- ward the road. The fellow had a revolver dangling at his hip, and from one shoulder hung a pair of field glasses. "Must be one of Burke's men," muttered Carson. "Confoundedly awkward to run into him here." The stranger hurried to the pile of rocks, unslung his glasses and focused them on the stretch of road below. Carson was about to turn back toward a point further down, where he could intercept the stage un- observed, when the stranger drew his revolver, ex- amined it critically and laid it on the rock beside him. "I wonder if he expects me on the stage," mused Carson. (187) 188 LONG SWEETENING As the crack of the drivers whip echoed up the canyon, the man behind the rock looked through the glasses again, and, apparently satisfied, drew a grain sack from beneath his coat and pulled it over his head. "By George! He's going to hold it up!" muttered Carson. The highwayman had selected the spot with strategic care. It afforded an uninterrupted view of the road for a quarter of a mile and the opportunity to learn in advance what passengers it carried, and whether or not a shotgun messenger rode with it. If the condi- tions should appear unsatisfactory, the bandit could slip back into the brush and let the stage pass un- molested. Carson could hear the rattle of the harness and the creak of the coach as the team labored up the grade. Dropping on his hands and knees he began crawling noiselessly through the manzanita toward the high- wayman, who was crouching behind the rock with his back to him. He was within thirty yards of the fellow when he heard the command : "Throw out the box!" "Whoa!" shouted the driver, as he yanked at the reins and threw on his brake. He was employed to drive a stage — not to battle with highwaymen — and experience had taught him that his safety lay in prompt compliance. He stooped down, lifted the heavy express box, and as he straight- ened up to drop it by the roadside saw Carson stand- ing erect and signaling him. LONG SWEETENING 189 "Throw out the mail-bag !" ordered the bandit, whose attention was riveted on the work before him. "Which bag do you want?" asked the driver, man- oeuvering to gain time. "You know damned well. And be quick about it!" "Whoa!" bellowed the driver, as he jerked on the reins of the patient horses and thumped the soles of his heavy boots on the dash-board. "You're not very sociable," he grumbled. "Seems to me we ought to be kind of acquainted by this time." He took all the time and made all the noise possible in getting out the mail-bag, while the bandit kept him covered with his revolver. "Drive on!" he ordered, when the bag had been thrown out. "Git up!" the driver shouted at his horses, and re- leased his brake with a bang and a clatter. Carson could have touched the highwayman's feet, as he raised himself directly behind him. He took one quick step and brought the barrel of his revolver down on his skull with a crash. The fellow dropped like a log, his weapon exploding and sending a bullet whistling harmlessly over the driver's head. "Good work!" he shouted, as he reined in, wrapped the lines around the brake and clambered down into the road. They tied the bandit hand and foot, and then pulled the sack from his head. "Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed the driver. "Do you know him?" asked Carson. i 9 o LONG SWEETENING "Know him ? Why, that's Hank Brown. He lives in a cabin down the canyon there. He's the fellow that's been holding up this stage about once a month for the last year, and then going out with the Sheriff to hunt the robber. The nerve of him!" "Well, I guess it's up to you to put him on the passenger list and deliver him at the county jail. I'll notify Burke tonight. He and his men are up around the lake." After they had tied the hands and feet of the still unconscious robber, they bundled him into the coach and prevailed upon the single passenger, who had been crouching in a corner inside, to sit guard over him with a cocked revolver. Carson took the supplies he had ordered and started on the return trip, well satisfied with the events of the day. There was now no urgency about communicating with Burke, and he was well enough acquainted with the Sheriff's methods to forecast his movements. When he found he had been outwitted he would beat slowly back toward the lake, end the day's search around the Hog's Back where the chase had been the hottest, and put up for the night at the bungalow, with the hope of being able to pick up the trail again the next morning. By proceeding leisurely he would keep behind the returning posse and reach his cave after they had abandoned the pursuit for the day. Then, under cover of darkness, he would slip up to the bungalow and have a laugh at the expense of the old man. CHAPTER XXI. Sheriff Burke returned from the day's chase more puzzled and perplexed than ever before in his long ex- perience as a tracker of criminals. The repeated rob- bery of the stage and the invariable escape of the highwayman had cost him some criticism, many sleep- less nights, and a great deal of chagrin. Heretofore the fellow had disappeared as mysteriously as he had come, leaving no trace behind him, but this time he had left a trail that Burke himself admitted was as broad as a wagon road. When it led to the very door of his headquarters he had attributed it con- fidently to the blundering attempts of a desperate out- law to obtain food ; but the ease with which the Sheriff had been outwitted almost convinced him that it was a challenge. "If we don't look out," he confided to one of his deputies in disgust, "that fellow will be holding us up, taking our guns away from us and sicking our own dogs on us." "It couldn't be that gamekeeper, could it?" "No; I thought of that," replied Burke. "The dogs know their man when they scent him, and they don't pay any attention to him." But the Sheriff's keen eyes had discovered seme facts and circumstances so peculiar in their nature that they required explanation before he confided to any one the shrewd suspicion they had aroused. This (191) 192 LONG SWEETENING was the thought uppermost in his mind as he walked toward the veranda where Mrs. Arnold, Betty, Wil- liams and the other servants were awaiting news of the day's chase. "We haven't got him yet," he told them, "but we're mighty close to him." He glanced narrowly over the group to note the effect. "Last night he was here within a rod of this house!" Even the lethargic Williams manifested surprise, and Mrs. Arnold became hysterical. Betty alone showed anything like composure, as she tried to soothe and reassure her mother, and Burke observed that she seemed to have recovered completely from the decided indisposition of the previous day. He watched an op- portunity to engage her in apparently casual conver- sation. "Pretty lonesome up here, isn't it ?" he observed. "No; not when one likes seclusion," she replied. "Haven't had any visitors lately, have you?" "No; we have no guests." "And no neighbors." "None nearer than Warm Springs. Besides, I un- derstand we are not considered neighborly." She laughed. "Most girls would be afraid to wander around much alone up here." It was an obvious tribute to her fear- lessness. "I suppose I should be, but I never have been — until this — this thing happened." "Gave you quite a turn, didn't it?" LONG SWEETENING 193 "Yes; it is annoying to have robbers all over the place." "And this fellow's been *making his headquarters around here for some time. Weren't you ever afraid of running into him?" "Oh, I scarcely gave it a thought, I suppose, be- cause it was never brought so close home before." "And, besides, this is the first time you ever actually saw him." "And I wouldn't have known he was a robber then, if you hadn't told me." "But you've been bothered a lot by trespassers, your father told me." "Oh, that is mostly in Williams's and mother's im- agination. He is always trying to frighten us away." "Don't you ever see any?" "Oh, possibly once or twice in a season I see some stranger on our land." "Seen any lately ?" Betty was growing uneasy despite the Sheriff's casu- al manner and tone. "Why, Williams reported about two weeks ago that one had killed a deer, but I didn't see the fellow." "Now, why do you think Williams is trying to frighten you all away?" The Sheriff's tone was con- fidential, and his eyes were twinkling shrewdly. "Oh, I suppose he regards us as disturbers of his peace and quiet." The Sheriff glanced about cautiously and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Dc you reckon he might 194 LONG SWEETENING possibly want to get you away from here so he could hold up that stage?" Burke's suspicion was so ridiculous that Betty laughed outright. "Why, he's too lazy to hold him- self up," she declared. The Sheriff appeared disappointed, crestfallen, al- most grieved. "Well, I didn't know." He meditated a moment, then brightened with a new idea. "He might be in cahoots with the robber, though, and give him a hiding place in exchange for a share of the money. Did they appear to know one another when you saw them together?" "I didn't see them together. As Williams says, they were about two hundred yards apart." "You didn't happen to see Williams doing anything that might look like signaling, did you?" "No; he was just watching." "Well, its mighty peculiar." "What is?" "That Williams has never seen this fellow before. I don't suppose you have either." The Sheriff evi- dently expected an answer. "Why, I — I hardly ever see anybody — even at a dis- tance, and as far as recognizing him is concerned — I think I shall have to go look after mother now. She is terribly upset." The Sheriff stooped and picked up something from the ground as Betty turned to go. "Is this yours, Miss Arnold ?" He held out a tortoise shell hairpin for her inspection. LONG SWEETENING 195 "Yes; it must have dropped out of my hair." "Isn't that funny, now ? How do you suppose that ever found its way to the robber's camp?" "At his camp!" "Yes." "Why, you just picked it up." "Well, I dropped it as I took it out of my pocket." "Oh, I suppose I must have dropped it somewhere. I'm shedding hairpins all over the place." "When were you there last?" "First tell me where his camp was." Betty con- gratulated herself upon her acumen. "By the spring, just beyond that point of rocks." "Oh, let me see! I was there two or three days before the stage was robbed." "Why, he must have been there then!" "Do you think he could have been hiding and watch- ing me?" she asked with well-simulated perturbation. "That's quite possible. What in the world were you doing there?" "Oh, I went there frequently — to have breakfast — trout just ouj of the lake and broiled on coals, you know." "And you never saw any one there — or any signs that some one else had been there?" "I never saw the slightest thing that was calculated to excite my suspicion or distrust," she declared. "Of course, I knew you'd tell me if you had," ob- served the Sheriff confidentially, "but I didn't know 196 LONG SWEETENING but what there might be some little thing that you had forgotten or considered unimportant." Sheriff Burke pursued the subject no further, for he did not intend to let Betty know that her evasions had verified his suspicions. He had merely given her an opportunity to tell voluntarily all she knew about the fellow, and if she would not do so, he knew noth- ing would wring it from her. If she would shield him, she must have a deep interest in him, and that interest could be counted on to lead to the highway- man's capture, if the immediate chase prived unsuc- cessful. That she knew him and had been his com- panion, he was certain, for he had found their tracks in several different places, and the manner in which first his and immediately afterwards hers superim- posed showed that they must have been together. The Sheriff was now confident that the fellow had come to the bungalow the previous night to get into com- munication with her, and felt assured that he would come again, if the opportunity offered itself. If the exciting chase deteriorated into cheap detective work., all he had to do was to get back to first principles and keep an eye on the girl in the case. The Sheriff's reflections were interrupted by the sound of a distant rifle shot. He located it and waited for two more — the signal that would summon every man within hearing. "Some fool hunter gumming things up," he decided, but within a couple of minutes he heard the pound of horse's hoofs, and a moment later could make out a LONG SWEETENING 197 horseman approaching at a furious gallop by the Warm Springs trail. Everybody rushed from the bungalow to await his coming and learn the cause of his excitement. It was one of the Sheriff's deputies. "I think I got him!" he shouted, as he spurred up to the fence and sprang from his horse. "Where?" asked Burke. "About half a mile below the lake — five minutes ago. I saw him dart across a little opening and took a pot shot at him. It was too dark to tell exactly, but I saw him stagger into the brush." "Why didn't you go in after him?" demanded the Sheriff in anger and disgust. "Well, if he's dead, we'll find him there; if he ain't, you'd 'a' found me there. I'd rather be here." "I can see that." "He's in that patch of chaparral just East of the main trail." "Call in the men, surround the place and keep him there," ordered the Sheriff. "I'll be there at daylight with the dogs, and we'll fetch him out dead or alive — and I don't care which it is." The men scurried away, one to the East, the other to the West, and when the Sheriff turned to look for Betty she was gone. There was nothing to do but to wait and watch. If the bandit had been killed or severely wounded, they would find him in the morning ; if he were still able to travel, the cordon tightening around him would drive him toward the lake and prob- ably to the bungalow. CHAPTER XXII. It was only by the exercise of all her self-control that Betty was able to maintain a show of composure through the interminable meal that the Sheriff insisted on referring to as "supper." She felt that she could not eat, yet she must; that she could not remain, yet she had to; that she could no longer endure the con- versation, all on one topic, yet she must not miss a word of it. While he was lying out there in the darkness, dead, dying or facing death, she was compelled to* sit and listen to Burke's cheerful garrulity and Mrs. Arnold's reiterated predictions and warnings, with a pretense of sympathetic interest, smiling with the Sheriff and shuddering with her mother, until she was almost frantic. "Well, I guess we've got him this time," said the Sheriff, beaming with satisfaction. "Charlie's one of the best snap shots in this part of the country, and it isn't likely that he missed. But if he did, the fellow can't get away. And I calculate you'll feel a mite safer." "Indeed, I shall, Mr. Burke." "The idea of sharing your country place with a stage robber isn't exactly gratifying, is it?" "By no means!" "And he's surely been making himself at home here for a long time." (198) LONG SWEETENING 199 "I have had a premonition of something of the sort for a long time, Mr. Burke, and I have been so fear- ful for my daughter. She is absolutely reckless, and in spite of all my warnings she has been away alone from morning to night. What a terrible thing it would have been if she had encountered this outlaw !" "Terrible! Terrible!" echoed the Sheriff, looking at Betty as though marveling at her presence in the flesh. "And she had a mighty narrow escape, Mrs. Arnold, as I was just telling her." "Narrow escape ! Why, what do you mean ?" "That fellow had his camp up at the other end of the lake, where — " "Won't you have some of the wild bee honey, Mr. Burke?" interrupted Betty. "No, thank you." "It's delicious — wild lilac and red clover blossoms." "Thank you, but I never seem to take to honey on meat or potatoes. As I was — " "Williams got this out of a bee tree. Did you ever trail wild bees to their hive, Mr. Burke?" "No; bees always seem to get on my trail first, and I'm the one that has to make tracks. As I was say- ing, Mrs. Arnold, that fellow had his camp right where Miss Arnold has been cooking her trout for breakfast." "Trout — for breakfast!" Mrs. Arnold looked at Betty in surprise. "You never told me you cooked trout for your breakfast, Betty." "No ; I was afraid you would disapprove of it — and I like them broiled on coals." 2oo LONG SWEETENING "And he was probably hiding in the brush watching her/' continued the Sheriff, "like a panther watch- ing a cow, when he's afraid the game is too dangerous for him." The inapposite simile was lost by Mrs. Arnold in the excitement of a new alarm. "And you never saw or heard him, Betty — or even suspected any one was near! It makes me shudder to think of it!" "Oh, he was a slick one — wore moccasins and knew how to keep out of sight," explained Burke. "Are there many trout in the lake?" "Oh, yes; it's full of them." "I suppose I could shoot a sucker, if it was in a tub and I had a scatter-gun, but I never could catch trout. How do you do it ?" He turned to Betty. "With a rod — and artificial flies." "But you haven't had your rod out since we came •up," said Mrs. Arnold. "When you haven't a rod you can use any kind of a pole," Betty informed Burke. "If I had known it was that easy, I'd have asked you to catch some for my supper." "I will catch a nice one for your breakfast, if you wish," offered Betty eagerly. "I hardly think you'll be up early enough." "I can catch one tonight." "Oh, that would be too much trouble." "No trouble at all, I assure you. I'll just take my canoe and paddle up the lake where the water is shal- low, and — " LONG SWEETENING 201 "No; I don't think it would be safe for you to go paddling around in the dark just now." "Why? The stage robber hasn't a boat." "No ; but my men have guns. I can't let you run such chances just to get me some fish. Maybe I can hook a can of sardines out of your pantry. They'll answer just as well." Sheriff Burke was a practical psychologist, even though he had once repudiated the suggestion with some heat, declaring that he had never ridden one in his whole life, and, while they might be all right in town, a pacing mule was the only thing for the moun- tains. Naturally shrewd and intuitive, many years of official experience with secretive and evasive criminals, witnesses and litigants had rendered his judgment of character and motive almost unerring. During the progress of the meal he had watched Betty narrowly, weighing every word, noting every mental reaction, analyzing every physical reflexion, and as he sat on the veranda puffing his pipe he summed up his conclu- sions concerning her. "She's all right," he decided, "but she's headed wrong." Her evident distress excited his quick compassion and stirred his paternal sympathies. While her loy- alty commanded his admiration it aroused his appre- hensions, and he resolved to protect her against herself. All of which roused as much resentment as he was ca- pable of harboring against the man who had involved her and would not hesitate to incriminate her. 202 LONG SWEETENING "I hope he's dead," he mused, "so I won't feel called on to kill him, just to keep her out of it." He considered such drastic action as well within the duties of a self-appointed chaperone. But even Sheriff Burke had failed to plumb the full depths of Betty's misery. Lying on the bed in her darkened room, her whirling", whirring brain reeled off the pictures impressed upon her sensitized imagination, pictures that were fleeting, indistinct, but horrible. She closed her eyes, but again and again they were pro- jected upon the phantasmic screen, each time more clearly and distinctly, until every gruesome and uncen- sorable detail was exposed. She saw her companion rigid in death with staring eyes fixed uncomprehend- ingly upon infinity ; she saw him lying in a covert ter- ribly wounded and trying feebly to staunch the flow of blood; she saw the bloodhounds tracking him to his hiding-place and tearing him with their fangs as he lay helpless and dying; she saw him shackled and in the striped garb of a convict, a sullen, cowering brute, breaking rock under a blistering sun. Betty sprang from the bed in desperation. Something must be done. Why should a single misstep condemn a man to death or penal servitude? He had told her this was his first offense, and she believed it; he had promised to lead an honest life, and she had faith in him. If he were still alive he should have a chance to retrieve himself. And at that very moment he might be dying for the want of the simplest first-aid treatment. LONG SWEETENING 203 Again she thought of confessing everything to the Sheriff and begging him to accompany her in a search for the fugitive, give him assistance if he were wound- ed and persuade him to surrender if he were not. His camp must be very near his kitchen, and could not be far from the place where he had last been seen. If he were alive and heard the bird call, he would answer. But there was still the possibility that he would be able to make his escape, if he had not already done so ; then her disclosures would involve her without serving him. And if he surrendered, there were no assurances that he would receive the clemency usually shown a first of- fender. If she could only know that he was either dead or beyond danger, or if she could see him alive and speak with him, she felt that she could endure the long night before her. Betty raised a window-shade and looked out. The moon had not risen. The lake showed only a faint glimmer where it was not shrouded by the black shad- ows of overhanging forests. A canoe gliding noise- lessly in those shadows would escape the keenest ob- server. With quick determination Betty changed to khaki, puttees, a dark cap and rubber-soled shoes. She tiptoed to the dining-room, stuffed her pockets with napkins for bandages, filled a strapped flask with cognac, slung it over her shoulder, slipped out the back door and picked her way through the laurel grove to the boat landing. The canoe was gone! Even the oars of the light boats had been carried away! Anger succeeded dismay. If that doddering old imbecile of a 204 LONG SWEETENING Sheriff thought — yes, that was what he had called him. She returned to the bungalow, stripped off the khaki, donned her bathing-suit and threw a dark cape around her. In the shadow of the laurels she dropped the cape, tied her shoes together, hung them around her neck and slipped into the water. With swift and silent strokes she headed straight across the lake, the pine- covered mountain looming against the sky-line giving her her course. She had no difficulty in reaching the little cove at its Western base, or in finding the deer trail that led from it — the trail she had followed the day she was snared. In order to avoid the deputies she must keep to the forest, but in its inky darkness she had to feel her way. She stumbled over rocks and logs and struggled through a tangled maze of hazel, startled by the sudden scurry of small animals from beneath her feet, or by the unexpected hoot of a horned owl just above her head. Once she heard the scream of a pan- ther in the distance and stopped, shivering with terror that urged her to turn back ; but she battled on through thickets of webbed huckleberry and spiny nutmeg scrub that tore her unprotected face and bare arms and legs until they bled. True to her unerring sense of direc- tion, she finally emerged from the forest and entered the matted chaparral that flanked it, crawling upon her bruised hands and knees until she emerged near the Hog's Back. Betty paused a moment to get her breath, gave a She repeated it a little louder, and still there was no tremulous whistle and waited anxiously for an answer. LONG SWEETENING 205 response. He must be dead, or so desperately wound- ed that he could not come to her, she thought. Where could she search for him? She looked about her — into the dark abyss f on either side of her, at the forbidding forest through which she had come, and at the great stretch of chaparral reaching up and away to the East. The full moon peeped over the top of the range, warning her that she could not remain there outlined against the sky without being observed. She gave the bird call once more, and strained her ears to catch the faintest answer, but only the croaking of frogs in the meadow below, the shriek of a nighthawk and the bleating of a fawn broke the stillness of the night. She sat down for a moment to rest and collect her thoughts, and was crying softly when a shadow appeared be- side her. She started, uttered a smothered cry of alarm and saw him standing before her. "Why — Summins !" he exclaimed, as he raised her to her feet. "What's the matter ?" "Are you safe ?" she sobbed. "Why — yes — of course. What has happened? Your face and arms are bleeding. You're hurt !" "Oh, it's nothing — just a few scratches. I thought you had been wounded, and I — I just had to come." "There — don't cry. But why did you do this?" "The deputy said he hit you, and I couldn't bear t j think of you dying out here alone. And they're going to surround you tonight, and kill or capture you in the morning." "And you swam the lake to warn me?" 2o6 LONG SWEETENING "Yes; I couldn't get a boat." Betty was trembling with excitement, and her teeth were chattering with cold, for the night was chill. "You shouldn't have done it," he said reprovingly. "It's all a great mistake — but we mustn't stand here in the moonlight — you're freezing! Come to my cave and get warm. I can .start a fire and screen it with a blanket." "No; I can't. I must get back, or I may be missed." "Then wait just a moment," and throwing his coat around her shoulders he turned away. "What are you going to do ?" "Take you home." "No — you must not — you'll be captured!" "I'm not going to let you go back alone." He scrambled down the face of the precipice to his cave, quickly put on his bathing-suit beneath his khaki, seized a blanket and hurried back to her. With his hunting knife he cut a slit in the middle of the blanket and put it over her head. "There you are ! That will protect you and keep you warm. Come on." Carson's first surprise, admiration and contrition were succeeded by a deep sense of irritation at his own fatuity. Now, he would have to explain the ridiculous misunderstanding that he might in the beginning have prevented with a word ; he would be compelled to tell a loyal, courageous and trusting friend that all the mental distress and physical discomfort she had suffer- ed, all the dangers to which she had exposed herself LONG SWEETENING 207 in order to serve him, had been useless and needless. But first, it was of paramount importance that she should be returned to her home without suffering any worse consequences from exposure or discovery. He picked the way for her through the chaparral, she fol- lowing close behind him, but when they entered the forest, through which no moonlight could filter, he had to take her hand and lead her. Twice they heard the thud of horses' hoofs and the muffled voices of the deputies as they rode in the night, and paused to listen and let them pass, Betty tense with excitement and clutching his hand anxiously. Once she stumbled and he caught her in his arms, held her for an instant while he whispered a solicitous inquiry and led her on. "Now you must get away as quickly as you can," she said, as they came to the edge of the lake. He made no reply but stepped into the shadows of the forest, stripped to his bathing-suit and stood out beside her. "Come on," he ordered. "This is foolhardy!" she protested impatiently, as she dropped the blanket and slid into the water with him. "Let me tow you," he suggested. "No ; I am able to swim it easily." She swept along by his side measuring strokes with him. "Slip away while you can," she urged him in a muffled tone. "I'll get some of father's old clothes and some food for you. Leave your moccasins, and I'll make tracks enough to keep them here till you are beyond pursuit." 208 LONG SWEETENING "Sh-h-h!" he cautioned. "Voices carry far on the water." The moon had risen until its rays struck the middle of the lake, and they were compelled to keep close in the shadow of the trees on the Western shore, and only a few yards from the narrow trail above. They were within a hundred yards of the boat-landing when Betty uttered a sharp exclamation of pain and began to splash. "What's the matter ?" Carson asked, as he seized her arm and supported her. "I've got a cramp!" He threw an arm around her body, drew her close to him and held her firmly. "Where is it?" "In my calf." Me raised her in the water till her face was even with his. "Put your arms around my neck and hold tight." She clung to him moaning with pain, her cheek against his rough beard, her body pressed to his. "Draw up your foot and place the sole of it on my knee." He found her groping foot and placed it firm- ly against his leg. "Now press hard!" With both hands and one foot free he had no diffi- culty in sustaining both until the cramped muscles re- laxed. "I'm all right, now," she said. "Don't let go," he warned. He turned in her arms, and with her resting on his broad shoulders towed her toward the shore. They LONG SWEETENING 209 were only a few yards from it when Burke stepped off the veranda and walked toward the landing. Carson stopped and held Betty with one arm while he tread water. "Let me go now," she whispered. "Are you sure you can make it alone?" he asked anxiously. "Yes; I'm all right. But you—" "Don't worry!" he said as he drew her to him with a slight pressure. "I didn't commit that robbery. I'll explain it all tomorrow." He continued by her side for a few strokes, then stopped and watched her progress. The slight but un- usual ripple of the water had not escaped the Sheriff, and as he walked rapidly down to the shore he was watching and listening. He spied Betty before she could reach the shelter of the laurels, and intercepted her. "Why, hello! Where have you been?" he asked in surprise. "Swimming." "Well, well, well! Isn't it a mite coldish?" "No ; it's very soothing when one can't sleep." "Yes — yes; I reckon it is." He watched her while she slipped on her wet shoes, but without comment, and fell into step behind her as she went toward the bungalow. "But where have you been?" he asked, as the light from the window fell on her. "In the lake." "Yes; to be sure! Did the lake scratch you?" 210 LONG SWEETENING She glanced at the scratches on her arms from which blood was flowing, ready to cry with vexation that she had forgotten her cloak by the lakeside, then look- ed into his face with pathetic, pleading eyes. "There — there!" He took her hand and patted it reassuringly. "It's all right. Don't tell me a thing if you really think you oughtn't to. I'm not going to tangle you up in this thing, if I can help it." If Betty had not turned and fled she would have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him. Al- most ready to collapse from the long sustained exer- tion and excitement, she had barely strength enough to tear ofl? her wet bathing-suit, throw on a bath-robe, and fling herself upon her bed. Confused, bewildered, whirled in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, she lay trembling and moaning in a paroxysm of suppressed hysteria, till a flood of relieving tears swept her away and left her completely exhausted, only half conscious. CHAPTER XXIII. Sheriff Burke was so astonished at the unexpected encounter with Betty that it did not occur to him till after she had left him that the outlaw might have ac- companied her. He hurried back to the boat-landing and stood with his hand on his revolver peering about and listening. "I surrender!" As the Sheriff whirled he drew his revolver. In the boat-house door not three feet from him stood a tall, bearded man in a bathing-suit and holding both hands above his head. "Put up your gun, Daddy. It might go off !" "Who in hell—" The Sheriff fell back a step or two, fumbled in his pockets for a match, struck one, held it up and squinted through the glare of it. Carson laughed, lowered his hands and stepped out. "Wade Carson !" It was between a gasp and a wail. "Sh-h-h! Not so loud!" "What have you been doing — tell me!" "Just taking a little vacation — and a swim. It oc- curred to me, from the way you and your men have been chasing me around with bloodhounds and shoot- ing at me, that possibly you might want to see me." "My God, Wade! You didn't hold up that stage! Y-,u couldn't have done it." "Yes— I held it up." "Then you're crazy — stark, staring crazy!" (211) 212 LONG SWEETENING "I was pretty near it that day." "Why did you do it?" "I wanted some tobacco." "Tobacco!" "Yes; I stopped the driver at that rock point and borrowed some. Your robber held up the stage at the other rock point half a mile nearer the springs. You put your dogs on my trail by mistake and have been chasing me ever since." "Then, why in the devil didn't you tell me? Here you've been letting me waste my time chasing you, while that fellow was getting away." "It's all right, Daddy. He's safe in the county jail." "In the County Jail!" "Where are the oars ? I'll tell you about it as soon as I get some clothes on." The Sheriff brought the hidden oars, and Carson rowed him across the lake, donned his khaki and moc- casins, picked up his blanket and led the way up the trail toward the cave. "Say ! We're liable to get plugged if we go saunter- ing around here too careless like," Burke warned. "Can't you call your men off?" The Sheriff drew his revolver and fired three shots. In a couple of minutes they heard a deputy riding to- ward them. Burke hailed him and got an answer. "I've got him!" he shouted. "Call in the men and tell them to go home." Lying by a fire in the cave and puffing at their pipes jlONG SWEETENING 213 Burke listened to Carson's sketchy narration of events leading up to the capture of the outlaw. "That's all mighty gratifying but not entirely satis- fying/' observed the Sheriff, when Carson's continued 'Silence told him the tale was ended. "Where does the girl come in?" "Oh, she's just an incident," replied Carson. "Yeah?" The Sheriff eyed him with suspicion. "I thought, maybe, she was entitled to honorable men- tion." Carson's beard concealed a flush that persisted dur- ing the time it took him to knock the ashes from his pipe, refill it and light it again. "Daddy, I have always been what you used to term 'gal shy' ; but if all girls are like her, why I — " "They're not!" interrupted the Sheriff. "Anyway, I believe I have missed a great deal in my life." "I had a mule once that would always shy at a nice bale of hay but would break down a bob-wire fence to get into a bunch of cactus. He died a bachelor, too." "Neither have I been a fence-breaker; so you can understand why the daughter of John Arnold can never be anything more than an incident in my life — a pleasant one, to be sure, but still only an incident." "Yeah ; but how'd she happen to take such a shine to you?" Carson told him of their acquaintance from the time she bobbed up in the lake and ordered him off the 2i 4 LONG SWEETENING place till she crawled out of it again, after risking her life to serve him. "She's certainly a humdinger !" That, Carson knew, was the Sheriff's superlative tribute. "Yes; and it's up to me to see her tomorrow and ex- plain that I am not an outlaw, but still — nobody in particular." "Catch the afternoon stage into town, will you? I may need you as a witness." "All right." "Then I guess I'll be toddling along." Burke firmly put aside all of Carson's persuasions to stay the night with him, or even at the bungalow. He had been away from his office for three days, and such dawdling was, to the zealous old official, unconscion- able. A tramp through a rugged wilderness at mid- night and a three hours' ride into town was only the natural finish of a good day's work that would give him an early start for the next. He roused Williams sufficiently to get him to understand that the bandit had been captured, saddled his horse and rode away in the darkness, humming the interminable "Come-all- ye" with which an unforgettable grandmother had crooned him to sleep in his infancy — hummed it till he slumbered and, gently rocking in his saddle, dreamed the miles away. Betty was awakened, none too early, Dy the excited babble of the household, from which she gathered that the highwayman had been caught, and his captors had departed. Had he been captured, or had he surrender- LONG SWEETENING 215 ed? Anyway, he had escaped death, and he was guilt- less — he had told her so. But was he? In the morn- ing he had admitted his guilt and promised to reform; in the evening he had protested his innocence and promised to explain. How could his admissions — and the evidence — be explained ? Then came the sick- ening thought that he had denied the crime merely to reassure her, to relieve her fears and to save her further anxiety or exertion in his behalf. But for her interven- tion and influence he might have escaped ; then, again, he might have killed or been killed. Anyway, he had promised to reform, and his behavior justified her faith. Time alone would tell whether or not it had all been for the best. Matters of more immediate con- cern claimed Betty's attention. She must conceal or explain the scratches on her face and arms, and she must rout the disgruntled gamekeeper, who was mak- ing a last stubborn stand behind the reckoning that the robber "must of had a pardner that was still hangin' around somewheres." Carson had breakfast by the lake at the usual hour, expecting that Betty would be there looking for him. When she did not appear he returned to his cave and watched for her until it was time for him to leave for the stage road, lingered a little longer, and then hur- ried away. He would be returning the next day, ard if she was not eager to hear his explanation, she could wait for it. In Potterville he was amused at the failure of old residents to recognize him under his beard and tan, 216 LONG SWEETENING until one grizzled pioneer stopped him, peered into his face and exclaimed: "By hokey! Ef it ain't Tar-heel !' " The next morning the highwayman pleaded guilty in the Superior Court, and received a sentence of twenty years at hard labor. The Sheriff was preparing to take him to the penitentiary, and Carson was ready to return to the lake, when Jim Cole, the old County Treasurer, accosted him. "Mind steppin' into my office a minute, Wade? I'd like to have a talk with you." "Certainly." Carson followed him in. "Set down." Cole lighted his pipe and puffed in si- lence, gazing out the window and wrinkling his brow while he tried to frame the communication he had to make. "Anything wrong ?" "You're a friend of Tom Burke's, ain't you ?" "A friend! You know that he has been almost a father to me." "Then, I guess I can talk to you." "Certainly. Anything that concerns him is of the greatest interest to me." "Well — there's trouble a-brewin' for Tom." "What is it— political?" "Worse'n that." "Financial?" "Yes — an' criminal." "Criminal! Look here, Cole! Don't you try to tell LONG SWEETENING 217 "Now, don't get r'iled, Wade. Wait till I tell you—" "You can't tell me, or any one else in this county, anything of that sort, Cole. ,, "Say! Look a here, Wade! Tom and me have been friends — the clostest kind o' friends — for more'n forty year, an' nobody knows him any better'n I do." "Then you know that a more honest or upright man never lived." "I'm ready to allow that he's the best man an' the worst bookkeeper on the face of the earth." "Then it's simply clerical errors." "That's what I'd call it, but the grand jury might call it embezzlement. He's short in his accounts. I've known it for years, an' I've protected him as long as I can, but I can't cover it up any longer, an' something has got to be did — an' that mighty damn quick ! Hit's this way: as Sheriff and ex-officio Tax Collector all the county's money passes through his hands. For years he has been usin' it, not for himself, but for the county. If he had to go after a murderer or a stage robber, he just took the county money an' never ren- dered an account or filed a claim with the Board of Supervisors. If anyone died an' didn't leave enough to bury him, Tom paid the expense. If an orphan or widow was in distress, he helped 'em out without hav- ing their names put on the list of county indigents. An at the end o' the year he jes turned into the treasury what money he had left. Whenever I jacked him up about it he'd laugh an' say: , 218 LONG SWEETENING " 'Jim, the public money I spend all goes for public business, an' I throw in what's left o' my salary for good measure. If I ain't a-kickin' about what the county owes me, I guess nobody else has any kick a-comin'/ "No grand jury ever experted his books. But things have been changin' since you left here. A lot o' new set- tlers have been a-comin' in an' a-meddlin'. I had a hard time stavin' off the last grand jury, an' now another one's in session. An' they're a-goin' to expert his books. They'll find him short, an' they'll indict him. O' course they can't convict him in this county, but he'll have to resign, an' it'll break his heart. It'll kill him, Wade!" "Who's behind this thing?" "Oh, nobody in partic'lar — unless it's that city bank- er, John Arnold. He's sore because Tom wouldn't app'int his gamekeeper a deputy. An' he's got the Dis- trict Attorney a-stirrin' things up." "Does the old man know anything about it?" "Not a word. I just heard it to-day from one o' my friends on the grand jury. They're at work now on the Assessor's books, an' will get around to Tom next." "How long will it take them to get through with the Assessor's books?" "About a week. They're paid by the day an* are soldierin'." "Is the Assessor friendly?" "Yes." "Will you stand by the Sheriff?" LONG SWEETENING 219 "Well — I guess, maybe, you can count on me helpin' out — a leetle — so long as it ain't anything that would reflect on me. Do you calcalate it would help out if I robbed my own safe, or burnt my books, or some little thing like that?" "No ; let me have time to think it over." "Well — all right. But don't wait too long, or fire's liable to break out right here in my office." Carson saw the Sheriff off on the afternoon train with his prisoner, then wired his San Francisco office to have the Chief of Police intercept Burke on his re- turn and detain him a week under any pretext that could be devised. He also wired for a corps of expert accountants. The next night, assisted by the Assessor and Carson, they went to work secretly checking up the books of the office. After they had tabulated the as- sessments, they turned to the delinquent tax sales. The difference would show the amount that had been col- lected by the Sheriff. It was while they were working on these that one of the accountants said : "Here's a sale of the property of Caleb Carson. Any, relative of yours, Mr. Carson?" "My father used to own some land up here," replied Carson, who was deeply engrossed with some figures. When they had finished with the Assessor's books they took up the license stubs in the Sheriff's office, to ascertain the amount that had been collected for coun- ty licenses. That completed, they examined the ac- counts of the Treasurer, showing what had been paid in, and finally reported that Sheriff Burke, in the 220 LONG SWEETENING thirty-five years he had been in office, had collected eighty-five thousand dollars more than he had paid into the treasury. Carson immediately drew upon his San Francisco bank for the amount, paid it to the treasurer and awaited developments. The dilatory experts of the grand jury plodded along laboriously through the same accounts and in time got approximately the same results. "Just as I expected/' observed the foreman of the grand jury. "Tom Burke's short in his accounts." "No! You don't say so!" exclaimed the Treasurer. "How much?" "About eighty-five thousand dollars." "You haven't counted the money in the vault yet." "It isn't necessary. Your books show it." "Better count it. My books might be wrong." Together they counted all the coin in sight, and the result corroborated the report of the experts. "Just as I told you," observed the foreman. "Why, the dirty old thief !" The Treasurer sat down, dazed and bewildered. "I jes can't believe it. There must be something wrong somewheres." "The money isn't here." "No; but now I come to think of it, maybe it is," and his face brightened with hope. He rushed into the vault and rolled out an old nail keg covered with dust. "Maybe it's here." He knocked the head out with a hatchet and found it nearly full of gold. "By Ginger! Here it is!" LONG SWEETENING 221 They counted the contents and found $85,000. "How does that money happen to be here, when there is no record of it on your books ?" demanded the foreman. "Well, now, ain't that peculiar," and the Treasurer scratched his puzzled head. Why, I guess that must be the contingent fund." "Contingent fund! I didn't know there was such a fund." "Well, I guess nobody else did, either, for the Sup- ervisors haven't drawn against it since I been in office." "Where does it appear on your books?" "Why, it don't appear. Probably that's the reason it's been overlooked. Must be bad bookkeeping, or may- be the book got lost before I tuck office." "It's very peculiar." "Darned if it ain't!" When Sheriff Burke returned he learned that his books had been experted and found to be correct to a cent, but his system of bookkeeping had been unquali- fiedly condemned. "Now, what do you think of that?" he demanded indignantly. "Criticizing bookkeeping that is absolutely perfect! And I've always been skittish about it, too. If the money is all there, what difference does it make how or where the figures are put down — or wheth furniture and servants — and the recently detached Williams. "I have waited a long time for this day," said Car- son, as they disappeared — "the day when I should be restored to absolute and undisputed possession of the old place." "Yes; you've licked him — good and plenty. How long you going to stay ?" asked the Sheriff. "Only a few days this time — possibly a week — just long enough to realize that all my dreams have come LONG SWEETENING 277 "They never do, son," declared the Sheriff gravely. "I had one that lasted nearly forty years, and then turned out to be a nightmare. Two years ago I heard that the little, blue-eyed, red-headed girl that made a bachelor out of me was a widow, and I went all the way back to Missouri to get her. I found her old enough to be my mother and teaching one of her grandsons to smoke a corncob pipe. When she said: 'Torn, hit seems like I ain't the girl I used ter be/ I thought : 'No, and you never was, either/ " "So you didn't get her." "I took one draw at her pipe for old time's sake, and that was plenty." "But nature is always young and beautiful — only people change." "That's true, son. Well, I guess I'll get that fellow to turn on the gas and blow me into town, while you sit here, by your happy fireside humming the old song Bill Parton always sings when he gets a full hand: " 'Backwards! Turn back'ards, oh, Time in thy flight, An' make me a boy ag'in, jist fur ter- night/ " "So long!" After the Sheriff's departure Carson stood frowning at the empty bungalow, the only thing that remained to remind him of John Arnold. He knew he could never occupy it and was seized with the impulse 10 burn it. But that could not be done without destroy- ing the trees around it, and he recalled that he had once said he would feel like a vandal if he burned a single shrub. He would wait, have it torn down at 278 LONG SWEETENING his leisure and have every trace of it removed. He turned and entered the cabin. For a full minute he stood gazing around at the old familiar place. Ap- parently not a single piece of the rude furniture fash- ioned by his father had been moved an inch. Even the old buffalo robe and bear skins, now almost denuded of hair, lay in a heap on one of the bunks. The smok- ed rafters were festooned with sooty cobwebs, the floor black and grimy and the whole place inexpres- sibly squalid; but it was home — his home — the only home he had ever acknowledged — the home to which nostalgic memory had clung tenaciously through all these years. But something was missing — something that should have warmed and welcomed him. His eyes searched the place again. "Old Tom" and "Betsy," the faithful companions of his boyhood, were missing from the antlered rack over the mantel ; on the hearth, where a cheerful fire should be blazing and crackling, only a heap of ashes smouldered. Carson changed to khaki and moccasins, rolled in a backlog and started a fire. Then he picked up the light rifle he had brought with him and took the trail to the evening feeding-grounds of the deer. Within half a mile a startled buck sprang out into the open eighty yards away and stood broadside gazing at him in astonishment. He threw the rifle to his shoulder, took deliberate aim, pressed the trigger and — missed! Four more ineffectual shots followed the deer as it went bounding away. LONG SWEETENING 279 "I'm a hell of a hunter," Carson muttered in dis- gust, as he turned homeward. After supper of canned goods instead of the deer liver and bacon he had counted on, Carson threw a fresh log on the fire, filled his pipe, drew up a stool and seated himself for an evening of tranquil felicity. At last in soothing solitude he could find the perfect rest and blissful repose that had so long been denied him, a solitude unbroken by strife, contention! and clamor. Not even a disturbing thought could intrude itself here. For nearly seventeen years he had labored, not in patient confidence as Jacob had toiled for Rachel, but in torment, torture and hatred, as Samson had slaved for the Philistines. But he had pulled the temple down upon the head of his enemy alone and had es- caped triumphant. No ; others had been hurt — but that had been unavoidable. Confound it ! The fireplace smoked. Carson recalled that it had always done so, that he and his father be- fore him had often threatened to fix it, but had never got around to it. And that lazy Williams had endured it for fifteen years ! He shifted his stool, which creaked dismally with the slightest movement, and folded a blanket for a cushion. Now, the indeterminate sentence of seventeen years had expired, and he was free to begin life again where John Arnold had interrupted it — not the life of the uncouth, shiftless and illiterate mountaineer, but the idyllic life of the successful man of affairs, whose sense of appreciation has been perfectly developed by con- 280 LONG SWEETENING tact with the world, whose capacity for enjoyment has been enlarged to the limit by long deprivation and keen anticipation — forty years of it stretching before him, with nothing, absolutely nothing, to restrict his en- joyment of it to the utmost. Perhaps, after all, it had been for the best. Carson's thoughts turned to his old enemy, John Arnold, crushed, impoverished, despised, hiding up there in the wilderness, too cowardly to face the in- evitable, too decrepit to flee from it. Prosecution — conviction — imprisonment — death ! Each following the other swiftly, for it was certain that he could not long survive the disgrace and torture of the jute mill. Car- son pictured him pausing at the threshold of the peni- tentiary, a broken, hopeless old man, looking for the last time upon the blue sea, inhaling for the last time the perfume of flowers, hearing for the last time the song of wild birds — looking as he had that day when he turned his gaze for the last time upon the peaceful refuge from which he had been driven. How could he have the courage to wait? Why didn't he end it at once with a shot ? Carson sprang from his stool and walked twice the length of the cabin before he opened the door and stepped out into the moonlight. How beautiful it was — but how still! He stood for a moment straining his ears for some companionable sound, and was grateful when a cicada resumed its interrupted chirping, when disturbed nestlings in the honeysuckle twittered sleep- ily, when a frog in the distance began croaking lustily. LONG SWEETENING 281 He strolled slowly to the lakeside and watched the gleam of the moonlight upon its rippling surface. The gentle lapping of the water on the pebbled beach, the soft purling and plashing of the little cascade, the faint rustle of leaves stirred by pine-scented zephyrs were ineffably sweet and soothing. Under the spell of Nature's lullaby, luring him into forgetfulness of every depressing thought and care, Carson stood motionless, enthralled. The sense of discomfort and oppression im- posed upon him by the four walls of the gloomy old cabin fell away, and he felt himself stirred, thrilled, lifted into a state of ecstatic exaltation. He turned his face to the stars; the frown that had become almost habitual disappeared; his lips parted in a smile that they had never known; his fingers clutched his throat that was swelling with emotions he had never felt. Ah ! This was his Long Sweetening — all his — his alone — his paradise restored! This was his hour of triumph! The melancholy hoot of a great horned owl recalled him. He turned slowly toward the forest whence it came, letting his gaze linger for an instant upon the lonely and deserted bungalow standing like a mauso- leum under the brooding trees. Then, limned in moon- light upon the dark curtain of the forest, he seemed to see the figure of an old man, faltering, sinking and swaying ! A convulsive tremor reminded Carson of the chill in the night air, and as he turned toward his cabin the night seemed to darken, descend and envelop him in a sense of unutterable weariness. He stumbled to 282 LONG SWEETENING the door, groped his way to a bunk and flung himself upon it. He slept, not long and dreamlessly, but in- termittently and restlessly, waking often with a start and sleeping again only after long intervals in which reflections and dreams mingled in fantastic confusion. At daybreak he packed up his outfit and carried it to the cave. Everything there remained untouched ex- cept by Time. The blankets and clothing he had left a year before were mildewed and rotten; the old traps hidden the day he was driven from the lake were a heap of rust; only the fishing rod, protected by its canvas covering, retained its usefulness. For two days he wandered aimlessly about the lake, avoiding even a glance in the direction of the bungalow after the silent reproach it seemed to harbor had driv- en him from Cathedral Rock. Though he followed the familiar trails he found himself stopping often to ques- tion the old landmarks, and even they seemed strangely altered in some indefinable way. At intervals he found himself in one of his favorite haunts, high on a sun- lit mountain or deep in some sheltered glen, but felt neither satisfaction nor a desire to linger. The thoughts of Betty Arnold that they prompted he impatiently put behind him as he hurried on. After his first disgusting attempt he tried no more hunting. Neither did he set any snares. Only trout from the lake and the few handfuls of berries he gath- ered from time to time varied the monotony of bacon and canned goods. When the third night came, and with it a nerve-racking insomnia, he was ready to sur- LONG SWEETENING 283 render to the depression with which he had been bat- tling. "The trouble is that I am too tired to play, too weary to enjoy anything," he told himself. At midnight he kicked himself free of his blankets, pulled on his moccasins and climbed to the Hog's Back. For an hour, clad only in light pajamas, he walked to and fro on the moonlit path at the summit. "No use talking — this damned place is getting on my nerves," he confessed. "Fll have to get away from it." He clambered back to the cave, dressed with feverish haste, seized his rifle and fled up the trail that lay like a silver thread twisting away to to the top of the chemissal-covered mountain. A covey of quail, sud- denly starting from his path with a startling rustle and whir, set him tingling with the chill of involuntary fear; from time to time deer, browsing high in the light of the full moon, went bounding away into the dark depths of the canyons below. No other sounds broke the perfect stillness of the night. Carson had passed the fork of the trail and had reached the summit of the main ridge before he paused to rest his labored breathing. The spot was familiar. He had rested on that rock before. Only then did he realize that he was traveling the same trail he had taken seventeen years before, then burning with the thirst of vengeance, now — . His thoughts flew back over the long hard road he had traversed, and he smiled with grim satisfaction as he reflected that no obstacle had swerved him, no phantasy had beguiled him, no 284 LONG SWEETENING mirage had lured him from the path that stretched across that blazing desert of hatred ; but, with eyes ever fixed on the limpid pool in the distance, he had gone straight to his goal — and had drunk his fill. And now, like the traveler refreshed — was it McTeague who sud- denly discovered — Carson felt himself slowly enveloped by a chill of nausea. The cool water with which he had gorged him- selt was bitter — foul — horrible ! At the bottom of that placid pool lay carrion — the bloated corpse of the man he had hunted down — and had driven to his death ! CHAPTER XXX. "Miss Arnold, I'm afraid nothing can be done with the lake property," her father's attorney informed her, "so you may as well join your parents in the country." "Is it so — very important?" asked Betty. "Yes; I'm afraid it was — vitally important." "Is it — does it involve anything that is unlawful?" She could not employ the word "criminal," used so lavishly by the newspapers. "I'm very much afraid it does — nothing exactly criminal," he hastened to explain, "but a technical vio- lation of the law." "Why can nothing be done?" "The abstract shows that your father never had a clear title. The property belongs to Wade Carson, of Pierce, Barton & Carson." "But you told me he had promised that everything would be all right," LONG SWEETENING 285 "Yes; he misled me — deliberately and maliciously. For some reason he has no friendly feeling toward your father." "What explanation does he give?" "I have not been able to see him. He is out of town. Please tell your father that I have done, and am still doing, everything in my power." At Potterville, Sheriff Burke, watching as usual the arrival and departure of all strangers, recognized Bet- ty under her heavy veil as she stepped from the morn- ing train. She would have avoided him, but he inter- cepted her. "Your father and mother are not at the lake," he informed her. "Where are they ?" She made no attempt to conceal her anxiety. "At Warm Springs." "Why have they gone there? Is my father ill?" "No — no worse than he was. They'll tell you all about it." "But why didn't they write me — or wire me ?" The Sheriff began to shrink and shrivel. He shifted from one foot to the other, fumbling in his coat pockets and finally rescuing from a bundle of old subpoenas and receipts a soiled and crumpled envelope. "I — I'm very sorry," he stammered, "but, do you know, I plumb forgot all about this letter your ma gave me to mail. I can't remember when I ever forgot anything — " 286 LONG SWEETENING Betty snatched it from his hand and read a hurried note telling her of her parents' destination. "It's all right," she broke in on the Sheriff's excuses and apolo- gies, "But it's fortunate I saw you, or I would have been on my way to the lake." "You'd surely had some surprise when you got there," he observed, as he helped her to the stage ready to depart for the resort. The Sheriff spent the rest of the day speculating on the possibilities of Betty's situation if he had chanced to let her pass unrecognized, now chuckling, now frowning, as his imagination evolved different solu- tions of the problem. He was still pondering it when he fell asleep that night, and it recurred to him when he woke at daybreak. His cogitations, however, were disturbed by a peremptory knocking at his door. He hastened to open it and found Wade Carson leaning on his rifle, as he had 'seventeen years before. "Hello! Where did you come from?" "From the lake." "Come in." The Sheriff noted the drawn and hag- gard face. "Anything gone wrong?" he asked. "Yes." "What?" "Everything," replied Carson — as he had seventeen years before. A frown of perplexity gathered on the old man's face, but the quick scrutinizing glances he threw Carson as he drew on his clothing soon dispelled it. With a cunning twinkle in his shrewd eyes he started the in- LONG SWEETENING 287 consequential gabble that invariably heralded his ar- rival at a solution of some knotty problem. "Guess I overslept a little this morning. I was just in the middle of a funny dream, when you woke me up — dreaming of Bulger. You never knew Bulger, and I hadn't thought of the old dog for years. He was just a conceited pup when he chased a neighbor's chick- en scratching in my garden, and killed it. Course I tied it around his neck. First off he acted as though he thought I had pinned a medal on him, but later on he realized that he was in what you might call bad odor. He would try to run away from it till he drop- ped, and as soon as he got another sniff he'd let out a howl and run some more. Before he got rid of it he had lost all his self respect, and always afterwards he just hated the sight of a chicken." "I'll bet you sicked him on it in the beginning," growled Carson. "Well, come to think of it, maybe I did — but only to encourage the pup. I never thought the poor mongrel had it in him to ketch it or kill it." After a pause. "By the way, you come mighty nigh having a visitor out at the lake yesterday." "Who?" inquired Carson listlessly. The Sheriff deliberately turned his back before he answered : "That little Arnold girl." "Betty Arnold!" "Yeah." The old man winked at himself in his mir- ror. "Why— how did that happen ?" 288 LONG SWEETENING "Now, ain't it peculiar? I've got as many as three handkerchiefs, and I never can find a clean one." It required ten minutes of the finest cross-examina- tion of his life for Carson to drag the simple facts out of the garrulous old man — who gathered in half that time more than Carson himself suspected. "When's that warrant coming for Arnold's arrest?" he inquired in his most casual tone. As expected the inquiry met with no response. "Well, let's go up town and get some breakfast. Then you can tell me all about it.- And I suppose you have some business to at- tend to." "I have— a lot of it." It was mid-afternoon, Carson's business had been completed, and he, in a machine, was on his way back to the lake. He dismissed it at the pond in the forest, having already decided to take the trail over the moun- tain to his cave and avoid the bungalow. He paused and turned aside at his conservatory. The lady-slip- pers were in full bloom among the maiden-hair fern, and though he had never before touched a single blos- som he suddenly found his hands full of the dainty orchids he had plucked. His first impulse was to fling them down and trample them into the mold. Instead, he spread his handkerchief, laid the blossoms on a bed of wet moss and fern, gathered up the corners, carried it to the cascade by the lake side and placed them on a mossy bank where the spray would keep them fresh. Then he went to his cave, rolled himself in his blan- kets and slept for eighteen hours. LONG SWEETENING 289 That Wade Carson had taken possession of his prop- erty never occurred to Betty Arnold, and it was not until she reached Warm Springs that her anxiety con- cerning her father's condition was allayed. "Your father is only very tired — and despondent," Mrs. Arnold said, in response to eager questioning. "Then why did you come here?" "We had to leave the lake, and we had no other place to go." "Why did you have to leave?" "Wade Carson, the attorney, owns the property now, and he drove us off at a moment's notice!" "The brute! But how does he happen to own it?" "It belonged to his father, who died, and your father bought it when the estate was settled up. Through some legal blunder the title was defective, and Carson has recovered it." "Didn't he consent to the sale of it?" "No; he threatened to shoot your father, when we took possession, though we offered to let him remain there permanently as guide and keeper." "What became of him then?" "He disappeared, and we never heard of him again — until he began this persecution. He is behind it all." "Was that the boy who gave father 'long sweet'nLl , and pulled me out of the lake?" "Yes." "I understand, now." "What?" 290 LONG SWEETENING "His enmity toward father." "Why should he feel such hostility ?" "To be driven from that heavenly spot, with no hope of ever seeing it again?" Her eyes, rilled with tears, were fixed yearningly and hopelessly on the North. Carson, preparing his belated breakfast by the lake side, found himself glancing toward the point of rocks, half expecting to see a canoe glide into view. As he sipped his coffee he heard distinctly the plash of a pad- dle. Nonsense ! It must have been a turtle slipping into the water. At a rustle in the laurels behind him he turned his head. It was his little companion of the previous year, now a full grown squirrel, timidly offer- ing to renew their old acquaintance. He tossed it a bit of bread and watched it while it sat flirting its tail gratefully with every nibble. Then Carson heard the call of the sickle-bill thrush. As he started to his feet the squirrel scampered away. Pshaw! Nothing but a confounded bird! Again he heard it — somewhere in the tangled undergrowth of the hillside above him. To assure himself that it was really a bird and not merely a hallucination he stood up and peered in the direction whence it came. He neither saw nor heard anything flitting among the leaves, though he knew the sickle-bill thrush was never still an instant. He repeated the call, hoping to lure it closer, and then, from behind a rock appeared a blonde head and a smiling face. "Summins!" 'LONG SWEETENING 291 Carson, dum founded, stupefied, remained transfixed while she clambered down the declivity. "I could hardly believe it was you," she said as she went toward him with outstretched hand, "until you looked up. Then I was sure it wasn't — till you an- swered. You know I have never before seen you with- out a beard," she reminded him. For several seconds that seemed to stretch themselves into minutes they stood with clasped hands, each study- ing the other's face. No; she was not the same little Summins who had trotted trustfully at his heels from morning to night; neither was she the Betty Arnold who had pleaded for his reformation, pledged her friendship and redeemed it at the first opportunity. She was neither — yet both, fused into one by the al- chemy of Time. As the familiar frown faded from Carson's face Betty shrank from him with the embarrassment one feels on discovering that one has grasped the hand of a stranger. Surely she had never seen that smile, either in those dark, glowing eyes or on those fine, sensitive lips. And that deep dimple, almost a cleft, in the firm but finely moulded chin was unfamiliar. She dropped her eyes and withdrew her hand from his. "I am very glad to see you again," he said. "You were the last person I expected to see — her'-," she said, "Aren't you taking rather desperate chances ?" "In what way?" "In coming back here — where they will be watch- ing for you?" 292 LONG SWEETENING "Who ?" he asked, frankly puzzled. "Why, the officials. If they catch you, they will surely take you back — to the penitentiary/ ■ "Why, I was never in the penitentiary!" "Never — never — " Betty gasped and eyed him with obvious incredulity. "No; I thought you knew." Betty sat on a stone and listened to his recital of the comedy of errors with a growing resentment that blazed into hot indignation at its completion. "Why did you let me believe you were a criminal and a fugitive?" she demanded, as she sprang to her feet. "It was unmanly! Cruel! Contemptible!" "You are quite right — it was," he confessed gravely. "And still my offense was not without mitigating cir- cumstances. No — please, listen, Summlns !" he plead- ed, as she started toward the trail leading into the forest. She stopped, turned and stamped her foot imperi- ously. "Don't call me that!" "I beg your pardon — not only for that but for — everything else. Listen to me — please! I know you will understand — I hope you will forgive." "I have already heard enough — too much." "But you have convicted me without a hearing, and that was the beginning of our misunderstanding. Am I not entitled to it now in order that it may not con- tinue?" It was true — she had. The innate sense of justice that had questioned the fairness of her judgment, even LONG SWEETENING 293 in the face of convincing evidence, told her that she had been at fault, and she did not attempt to excuse herself. "It is only fair," she admitted and resumed her seat. He told her, as fully as he could, the motives that had prompted him to leave her undeceived in the be- ginning and recalled the events that had prevented an explanation just at the moment he had chosen to make it — of the Sheriff's unexpected appearance by the lake ; of his declaration then that he had not committed the robbery and his promise to explain the following day ; of her failure to give him the opportunity he had! sought, and of the sudden recall to San Francisco that had prevented his return to the mountains. "And all this time you have believed me guilty, though I had assured you of my innocence," he con- cluded. "But I could not possibly think of resenting it. I am too grateful for the unfaltering trust and confi- dence you reposed in me and unwavering friendship you have shown me, even while believing me to be a fugitive, a criminal, an outcast." He paused. Before his steady gaze she dropped her eyes to the fingers nervously intertwining themselves in her lap. He stepped to her side and bent over her. "Am I forgiven?" he asked. Betty slowly raised her eyes and found them caught by his, searching her face with burning eagerness for her answer. Her lips parted in a half smile, wistful and fleeting, but, under the compelling magnetism of his eyes, she could not trust herself to speak. 294 LONG SWEETENING "Tell me!" he ordered. Without a word Betty gave him her hand — a hand that was soft, warm and confiding — and at its touch he felt himself engulfed by a wave of paralyzing weak- ness. He swayed toward her and grasped her hand in both of his, half drowned in the first flood of his emo- tions. A sigh escaped him, and with the inrush of his suspended breath he felt himself lifted, buoyant, reani- mated, electrified. He drew her slowly to her feet and toward him, while her eyes searched his face for an answer to the question that hovered on her lips. She threw out a fending hand, and while her eyes held his felt the quickened beating of his heart. "Tell me — Nubbidy — " It was not a question — it was a hesitant plea that faltered and was lost in a sigh. "What?" She stood silent, still searching his face. "What is it, Summins? ,, "Who— are you?" Carson dropped her hand as though he had been stung. She saw his firm jaws clench and the frown be- gin to gather on his forehead, but she held his eyes reso- lutely. From the moment he had seen her face smiling down upon him he had forgotten that John Arnold or Wade Carson existed. There had been but two people in the world — Summins and Nubbidy — and they were about to be driven from their little Eden. "Don't you know?" he asked, knowing that she couldn't have given him her hand in friendship if she had even suspected. LONG SWEETENING 295 "No; tell me." "I am— Wade Carson !" "Wade— Carson!" He saw the light die in her eyes and the color fade from her cheeks ; he saw the convulsive shudder as she shrank from him with loathing and horror, and threw out a protesting hand. "Don't touch me!" she almost screamed. "You're a worse man than — than I ever believed you to be!" "Summins!" "Don't you dare call me that!" She whirled and fled up the trail, stumbling, half fallings regaining her feet and with one backward glance of terror stumbling on again — till she disap- peared in the forest. CHAPTER XXXI. John Arnold, bolstered in a big chair and wrapped in a hopelessness that was almost extinction, sat at an open window of the resort hotel, his lack-lustre eyes fixed on the extreme distance, his confused mind grop- ing in the remote past — sat waiting for the inevitable. He neither saw Betty emerge from the nearby forest, nor heard Mrs. Arnold go to meet her. In his lethargy of despair all time had ended, all movement had ceased — only to begin again, at first, with faltering hesitancy, and then with quickening certitude. Arnold roused himself and collected his faculties. He had heard a shout, and now — yes, a man was walk- ing toward him, his feet marking time — one — two — one — two. Vaguely he was conscious of a familiarity in the appearance of this man, who was coming toward him — one — two — one — two. Why, of course! It was that doddering old Sheriff, with his ridiculous walk that never varied, never faltered, but carried him straight toward him — one — two — one — The Sheriff — coming — straight to him! He sprang from his chair and fell crashing to the floor. He struggled to his feet and fumbled frantically among the cushions in his chair, watching the door in fascinated terror. It flew open and his wife rushed in. She screamed and threw herself upon him. She was trying to take it from him — trying to rob him of his only means of escape! He fought desperately — as men fight for their lives — strik- (296) LONG SWEETENING 297 ing, cursing — and yearning for a single shot in the ear to still those torturing screams. He felt the pistol wrenched from his hand and him- self flung backward into his chair. He heard someone saying: "Don't get excited! Everything's all right!" and laughed, as he thought of a half-nude fat man with a handful of cigarettes. "Please — please, ladies!" pleaded the Sheriff. "Everything's all right. It was all a mistake. I wouldn't have blamed Mr. Arnold much if he had killed me," he added, as he slammed the door in the intruding faces of curious guests and servants. Quietly but surely he soothed their excitement, al- layed their fears and relieved their anxieties. "I'm not here in my official capacity," he reassured them, "but merely on an errand of mercy. I saw the other day that Mr. Arnold was a mighty sick man and that you were a mighty anxious woman, so I thought I'd just bring out a little jelly and chicken, to restore his ap- petite and relieve your mind." They stared at the simple-minded old man in amaze- ment, unable to decide whether to laugh or to order him from the room. Without waiting for an invita- tion he drew up a chair, seated himself, hunched one shoulder and crossed his legs. "By the way, that fellow Carson was in town yes- terday," he observed. "That — beast!" exclaimed Betty. "Yeah. He sent a wire to the District Attorney in San Francisco." Arnold started up, but his wife re- 2 9 8 LONG SWEETENING strained and soothed him. "Thought you'd like to know about it," continued the Sheriff, glancing from one to another of them. "Will that man stop at nothing?" demanded Betty. Burke shook his head hopelessly. "Not till he fin- ishes everything he ever started," he assured her. "He showed me the telegram. Let's see — I got a copy of it somewhere." He dumped the contents of his capacious pockets on his knees, found his spectacles, polished them elabor- ately and searched deliberately through the heap, while they watched him in exasperated anxiety. "Yes; here it is." He unfolded a slip of yellow paper and read : "Prosecution of John Arnold — " he paused and frowned as though unable to decipher it — "all a terrible mistake." With a sigh that was almost a moan Mrs. Arnold clutched at the back of her husband's chair, while he sat motionless, dazed and unable to comprehend, for the moment, the full import of it. Tears unrestrained rolled down Betty's cheeks. "That's the jelly — here's the chicken," the Sheriff continued, and resumed his reading: "Mrs. Coleman's bonds found in old vault." "Found!" Arnold almost shouted. "How — how could they have been found?" "Well, now, that's exactly what I asked Carson my- self. He just laughed and said they had been put in the contingent fund and overlooked." "I — can't understand it," said Arnold. LONG SWEETENING 299 "Neither do I," admitted the Sheriff. "Anyway, it clears you." "When did he send that telegram ?" asked Betty. "Yesterday morning." "Why didn't he come to my father like a man and — and — " she paused to estimate the full measure of reparation due. "Well, I guess maybe he thought he wouldn't be wel- come here, and as long as he had made everything all right, telling about it wouldn't make it any righter." "Made everything all right!" Betty's eyes blazed with indignation. "He ruins my father, heaps humilia- tion upon our heads and drives us from our home, and when exposure threatens he tries to disguise his malignity as shear stupidity! I suppose he asked you to — express his regrets!" "No — no !" protested Burke, fidgeting under the un- expected onslaught. "That was all my own idea. I hope my gossiping hasn't done any harm," he pleaded. His evident discomfiture! disarmed Betty at once. Before he could raise a protecting hand she had flung her arms around his neck and kissed him squarely on his whimsical old lips. He sprang from his chair and fled out the door and down the stairs. "By the great geeminentally Jermiah Jinks!" he muttered, when! he had collected sufficient breath. "That's the first time in my life I ever run from man, woman or beast ! I've a damn good notion to go right straight back and ask her what in the hifalutin' herry- tickle hell she meant by it !" 300 LONG SWEETENING John Arnold still sat in his chair, his eyes again fixed on the extreme distance, but his mind, bewildered by the unexpected turn of events, groping for a solu- tion of the puzzle. "It's all right now, John," murmured Mrs. Arnold. "There's nothing more to worry about." "But I can't understand it," he replied, petulantly. "Why Carson found those missing bonds. It was all a mistake." When she kissed his forehead a tear rolled unheeded down his cheek. "No — it wasn't a mistake," he said. "He never found those bonds, Elizabeth." "But he says he did." "He is lying — to save me! Why?" "He probably feels that it is the only reparation he can make after ruining you," she said, after a mo- ment's reflection. "No, Elizabeth; he didn't do that. The foundation I laid was never sound, and the fire left only a ram- shackle ruin that collapsed before the first breeze. I can see all that — now. But why has he saved me — at his own expense — when he had me at his mercy ? And after all I did to him — when he was — only a child !" "Then we should be very grateful." "Grateful! Please leave me — for a time." A great sob shook his heavy frame. "I am — overwhelmed !" Mrs. Arnold found Betty on her bed in a darkened room, suffering from one of her rare but obstinate headaches. "No, mother — really — there's nothing you can do LONG SWEETENING 301 for me," she insisted. "It will wear itself off with a little rest and quiet. Go back to father." "He doesn't want me, either," complained Mrs. Ar- nold. "He was just telling me about Mr. Carson." "Oh, mother ! I don't want to hear anything — even think of that — " she searched for a suitable epithet — "that — Carson !" she ended lamely. "Don't be so bitter, Betty. Your father tells me we should be very grateful for what Mr. Carson has done." "Mother!" Betty bobbed up in her bed like an elec- trified puppet. "What did he say?" "Why — I don't understand it all — but your father is — is quite overcome by his generosity." "Generosity! In dropping a malicious and unwar- ranted prosecution after he had ruined us financially?" Betty fell back on her pillow. "But your father says his failure was inevitable. Carson had nothing to do with it — it was the fire." Mrs. Arnold left Betty, already surfeited, more food for thought. That the bank had been wrecked and her father's fortune swept away ; that Carson, inspired by hatred and a desire for revenge, had been instru- mental in precipitating the calamity; that he had been behind an impending prosecution of her father for at least a technical violation of law; that her father, in despondency and desperation, had attempted suicide ; and that Carson, for some unknown reason, had re- lented, was all perfectly clear. That her father had committed any crime, she could not believe; that he had been in imminent peril, she could not doubt; and 3 o2 LONG SWEETENING that he had been the victim of circumstances cunning- ly contrived by Carson was highly probable. But her father's gratitude was beyond her comprehension, un- less he measured it by the depth of the despair from which Carson's indulgence had raised him. But why had Carson, nursing resentment for years, suddenly relented — at the very moment when his ven- geance would be complete ? Had he in some way over- reached himself, or had pity finally touched his con- science? Or had it been prompted by the gratitude he had expressed to her that day? As she recalled the incidents of the morning — her father's deadly enemy holding her hand and looking into her eyes — she flush- ed with humiliation and anger, and flung the recollec- tion from her. But she must know the truth of it all. She could never rest until she did. It was hopeless to expect any- thing from her mother, she could not ask her father, and she would not believe Carson, even if she could bring herself to question him. But her father's attorney must know. She would return to San Francisco at once and demand the truth from him. She sprang from her bed, hastily removed the traces of tears, then hurried to the hotel office to ascertain the quickest means of reaching the railroad, and al- most collided with Sheriff Burke, just departing. "Well, good-bye, Miss Arnold," he said, manoeuvr- ing to get beyond the reach of her arms. "Hope you're feeling better." "Are you going into town?" she asked, eagerly. LONG SWEETENING 303 "Yes'm." "May I ride in with you? I want to return to San Francisco at once." "Well— now, I'll tell you," he hesitated. "I'm per- fectly willing, you understand — glad to give anybody a lift any time — but that little mule of mine might ob- ject. He's never packed double." "Oh! I thought you had a machine." "No — no ; I still stick to the old hay-burner. But the regular stage leaves in time to connect with the early morning train." It was morning in the mountains. High in the bright blue ether a pair of eagles balanced, plunged and dip- ped their pinions in the flashing sunlight. Far beneath them the higher peaks glowed under the golden flood that slowly wound its way to the lower levels, like streams of molten lava. At its approach the purple shad- ows retreated into the depths of the great forest, leav- ing the hilltops rosily opalescent, the meadows violet- hued and the streams mere threads of flashing silver. And there all was bustle and activity — the dawn of a new day, in which the alarms and perils of yesterday were forgotten. Grouse were drumming in the pines and quail, callingKn the lower meadows, were answered from the higher glades. Squirrels were chattering in the laurels, and a pair of redwing blackbirds were flut- tering in shallow water at the edge of the lake. A dainty wren, taking her morning shower under the spray of a cascade, paused to cock a wondering eye at 304 LONG SWEETENING the man who, in this little paradise filled with the joy of life, had buried himself in brooding. Wade Carson could not have told whether he, with the rest of the world, was waking to a new and beau- tiful day, or whether he still lay in the grip of a hor- rible nightmare ; whether he was alive or dead, and his tortured soul already plunged in the depths of darkest hell. Nor did he care. For an instant he had lived, and the next instant he had died. All had been chaos, all would soon be oblivion. For that, and only that, he waited, not knowing he was waiting. A pebble rolled down from the hillside and past his feet; a crested jay shrieked a shrill warning from the maple above his head ; a squirrel, that had been sitting beside him watching him expectantly, scampered up a tree and added its petulant bark to the cries of the jay — all unheeded. Dimly he was consqious of a touch on his shoulder, and faintly he heard someone call his name. It might have been the call to judgment for all he knew or cared. "Mr. Carson !" Slowly he turned his face and raised his eyes — and saw beside him a dim vision of Betty Arnold, the only woman he had ever loved, the only woman he had ever known, and as he stared in stupid fascination he saw it shrink, recede and then approach again. Once more he felt the touch upon his shoulder, and slowly, doubt- fully, raised his hand until his groping fingers tremu- lously touched hers. "Mr. Carson! I came back — " LONG SWEETENING 305 It was no illusion or hallucination. It was Summins — returned to him. He stumbled to his feet and stood staring at her, while he tried to collect his bewildered faculties. Yes, it was she — not the scornful Betty Ar- nold who had left him a moment, or an eternity, be- fore, nor the wistful and confiding Summins he had known somewhere in a previous incarnation, but a new Summins, with all the gentle tenderness of a mini- stering angel and all the radiant beauty of virginal womanhood. "I have come back — to ask your forgiveness," she said, "for doubting — even a moment — your humanity." Carson stood transfixed, his dark eyes clinging to her, straining desperately to hold her against the mo- ment when she would recede into the darkness from which she had emerged. "I didn't know what you had suffered — through my father — or what you had done — for him. I believed it was you who had driven him to destruction — when it was you who had saved him from it." Carson was conscious of her voice, murmuring, mu- sical and infinitely soothing, and waited breathlessly for the moment when it would die away somewhere in the distance, leaving not the faintest echo. "But for Daddy Burke I might never have known — all. Won't you — forgive me?" It was little more than a fluttering sigh. He threw out a hand to catch her — hold her — for another in- stant. A mighty sob shook his whole frame. "Don't leave me, Summins!" 3 o6 LONG SWEETENING It was a cry wrenched from the depths of a soul steeped in the bitterness of despair. He drew her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "Don't leave me!" He felt her unresisting form pressed against him, her heart beating on his own; he felt her arms steal about his neck and a tendril of golden hair brush his cheek ; he saw her limpid eyes, brimming with tears, looking deep into his own. Then, with all the pent-up passion of a loveless life, he drank from the lips that met his own the nectar of their youth and beauty, ineffably sweet and soul-satisfying. THE END. LIBRARY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. THIS BOOK IS DUE BEFORE CLOSING TIME ON LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW ULUEa 5 73 '1 PM LD62A-30m-2,'71 (P2003sl0)9412A-A-32 General Library University of California Berkeley LD 21-100m-8,'34 VB 32338 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY