HBi 
 
: 
 
BEN BLAIR 
 
BEN, FORGIVE ME. I VE HURT YOU." 
 
 [Pa#e 114.] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 THE STORY OF A PLAINSMAN 
 
 BY 
 
 Will Lillibridge 
 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE IN FULL COLOR 
 
 BY 
 
 Maynard Dixon 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 1905 
 
COPYRIGHT BY 
 A . C. McCniRG & Co. 
 
 A. D. 1905 
 Entered at Stationers Hall, London 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Published October 21, 1905 
 
 Second Edition, October 28, 1905 
 
 Third Edition, November 29, 1905 
 
 Composition by the University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A. 
 Presswork by R. R. Donnelley & Sons Co., Chicago. U. S. A. 
 
To My Wife 
 
 M18907 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. IN RUDE BORDER-LAND 1 
 
 II. DESOLATION 9 
 
 III. THE |R RANCH 23 
 
 IV. BEN S NEW HOME 37 
 
 V. THE EXOTICS 44 
 
 VI. THE SOIL AND THE SEED 53 
 
 VII. THE SANITY OF THE WILD 66 
 
 VIII. THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN ... 74 
 
 IX. A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE 83 
 
 X. THE DOMINANT ANIMAL 94 
 
 XI. LOVE S AVOWAL 106 
 
 XII. A DEFERRED RECKONING 117 
 
 XIII. A SHOT IN THE DARK 134 
 
 XIV. THE INEXORABLE TRAIL . ... . . . 148 
 
 XV. IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW 164 
 
 XVI. THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 185 
 
 XVII. GLITTER AND TINSEL 193 
 
 XVIII. PAINTER AND PICTURE 204 
 
 XIX. A VISITOR FROM THE PLAINS 217 
 
 [vii] 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAPTER p AGE 
 
 XX. CLUB CONFIDENCES 230 
 
 XXI. LOVE IN CONFLICT 242 
 
 XXII. Two FRIENDS HAVE IT Our 258 
 
 XXIII. THE BACK-FIRE 270 
 
 XXIV. THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES 287 
 XXV. OF WHAT AVAIL? 304 
 
 XXVI. LOVE S SURRENDER ....... , 318 
 
BEN BLAIR 
 
 CHAPTER I r: 
 
 IN RUDE BORDER-LAND 
 
 EVEN in a community where unsavory reputations 
 were the rule, Mick Kennedy s saloon was of evil 
 repute. In a land new and wild, his establish 
 ment was the wildest, partook most of the unsubdued, 
 unevolved character of its surroundings. There, as irre 
 sistibly as gravitation calls the falling apple, came from 
 afar and near mainly from afar the malcontent, the 
 restless, the reckless, seeking instinctively gregarious 
 the crowd, the excitement of the green-covered table, 
 the temporary oblivion following the gulping of fiery 
 red liquor. 
 
 Great splendid animals were the men who gathered 
 there ; hairy, powerful, strong-voiced from combat with 
 prairie wind and frontier distance ; devoid of a super 
 fluous ounce of flesh, their trousers, uniformly baggy at 
 the knees, bearing mute testimony to the many hours 
 spent in the saddle ; the bare unprotected skin of their 
 hands and faces speaking likewise of constant contact 
 with sun and storm. 
 
 By the broad glow of daylight the place was anything 
 but inviting. The heavy bar, made of cottonwood, had 
 
 1 i 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 no more elegance than the rude sod shanty of the pioneer. 
 The worn round cloth-topped tables, imported at ex 
 travagant cost from the East, were covered with splashes 
 of grease and liquor; and the few fly-marked pictures 
 on the walls were coarsely suggestive. Scattered among 
 them haphazard, in one instance through a lithographic 
 print, were .round holes as large as a spike-head, through 
 which, by closely applying the eye, one could view the 
 world without. When the place was new, similar open 
 ings had been carefully refilled with a whittled stick of 
 wood, but the practice had been discontinued ; it was 
 too much trouble, and also useless from the frequency 
 with which new holes were made. Besides, although ac 
 cepted with unconcern by habitues of the place, they were 
 a source of never-ending interest to the " tenderfeet " 
 who occasionally appeared from nowhere and disappeared 
 whence they had come. 
 
 But at night all was different. Encircling the room 
 with gleaming points of light were a multitude of blazing 
 candles, home-made from tallow of prairie cattle. The 
 irradiance, almost as strong as daylight, but radically 
 different, softened all surrounding objects. The prairie 
 dust, penetrating with the wind, spread itself everywhere. 
 The reflection from cheap glassware, carefully polished, 
 made it appear of costly make ; the sawdust of the floor 
 seemed a downy covering ; the crude heavy chairs, an 
 imitation of the artistic furniture of our fathers. Even 
 the face of bartender Mick, with its stiff unshaven red 
 beard and its single eye, merciless as an electric head 
 light, its broad flaming scar leading down from the 
 
 [2] 
 
In Rude Border-land 
 
 blank socket of its mate, became less repulsive under the 
 softened light. 
 
 With the coming of Fall frosts, the premonition of 
 Winter, the frequenters of the place gathered earlier, re 
 mained later, emptied more of the showily labelled bottles 
 behind the bar, and augmented when possible their well- 
 established reputation for recklessness. About the soiled 
 tables the fringe of bleared faces and keen hawk-like eyes 
 was more closely drawn. The dull rattle of poker-chips 
 lasted longer, frequently far into the night, and even after 
 the tardy light of morning had come to the rescue of the 
 sputtering stumps in the candlesticks. 
 
 On such a morning, early in November, daylight 
 broadened upon a characteristic scene. Only one table 
 was in use, and around it sat four men. One by one the 
 other players had cashed out and left the game. One of 
 them was snoring in a corner, his head resting upon the 
 sawdust. Another leaned heavily upon the bar, a half- 
 drained glass before him. Even the four at the table 
 were not as upon the night before. The hands which 
 held the greasy cards and toyed with the stacks of chips 
 were steady, but the heads controlling them wavered 
 uncertainly ; and the hawk eyes were bloodshot. 
 
 A man with a full beard, roughly trimmed into the 
 travesty of a Vandyke, was dealing. He tossed out the 
 cards, carefully inclining their faces downward, and re 
 turned the remainder of the pack softly to the table. 
 
 " Pass, damn it ! " growled the man at the left. 
 
 " Pass," came from the next man. 
 
 "Pass," echoed the last of the quartette. 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Five blue chips dropped in a row upon the cloth. 
 
 " I open it." 
 
 The dealer took up the pack lovingly. 
 
 "Cards?" 
 
 The man at the left, tall, gaunt, ill-kempt, flicked the 
 pasteboards in his hand to the floor and ground them 
 beneath his heavy boots. 
 
 " Give me five." 
 
 The point of the Vandyke beard was aimed straight past 
 the speaker. 
 
 " Cards ? " repeated the dealer. 
 
 "Five! Can t you hear?" 
 
 The man braced against the bar looked around with 
 interest. In the mask of Mick Kennedy the single eye 
 closed almost imperceptibly. Slowly the face of the 
 dealer turned. 
 
 "I can hear you pretty well when you cash into the 
 game. You already owe me forty blues, Blair." 
 
 The long figure stiffened, the face went pale. 
 
 "You mean you " the tongue was very thick. 
 "You cut me out?" 
 
 For a moment there was silence ; then once more the 
 beard pointed to the player next beyond. 
 
 " Cards ? " for the third time. 
 
 Five chips ranged in a row beside their predecessors. 
 
 "Three." 
 
 A hand, almost the hand of a gentleman, went in 
 stinctively to the gaunt throat of the ignored gambler 
 and jerked at the close flannel shirt; then without a 
 word the owner got unsteadily to his feet and followed 
 
In Rude Border-land 
 
 an irregular trail toward the interested spectator at the 
 bar. 
 
 " Have a drink with me, pard," said the gambler, as he 
 regarded the immovable Mick. " Two whiskeys, there !" 
 
 Kennedy did not stir, and for five seconds Blair blinked 
 his dulled eyes in wordless surprise; then his fist came 
 down upon the cotton wood board with a mighty crash. 
 
 " Wake up there, Mick ! " he roared. " I m speaking 
 to you ! A couple of ryes for the gentleman here and 
 myself." 
 
 Another pause, momentary but effective. 
 
 " I heard you." The barkeeper spoke quietly but with 
 out the slightest change of expression, even of the eye. 
 " I heard you, but I m not dealing out drinks to dead- 
 beats. Pay up, and I "11 be glad to serve you." 
 
 Swift as thought Blair s hand went to his hip, and the 
 rattle of poker-chips sympathetically ceased. A second, 
 and a big revolver was trained fair at the dispenser of 
 liquors. 
 
 " Curse you, Mick Kennedy ! " muttered a choking 
 voice, " when I order drinks I want drinks. Dig up 
 there, and be lively ! " 
 
 The man by the speaker s side, surprised out of his 
 intoxication, edged away to a discreet distance ; but even 
 yet the Irishman made no move. Only the single head 
 light shifted in its socket until it looked unblinkingly 
 into the blazing eyes of the gambler. 
 
 "Tom Blair," commanded an even voice, "Tom Blair, 
 you white-livered bully, put up that gun ! " 
 
 Slowly, very slowly, the speaker turned, all but the 
 
 [6] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 terrible Cyclopean eye, and moved forward until his 
 body leaned upon the bar, his face protruding over it. 
 
 " Put up that gun, I tell you ! " A smile almost fiend 
 ish broke over the furrows of the rugged face. " You 
 would n t dast shoot, unless perhaps it was a woman, you 
 coward ! " 
 
 For a fraction of a minute there was silence, while over 
 the visage of the challenged there flashed, faded, recurred 
 the expression we pay good dollars to watch playing 
 upon the features of an accomplished actor ; then the yel 
 low streak beneath the bravado showed, and the menacing 
 hand dropped to the holster at the hip. Once again 
 Kennedy, who seldom made a mistake, had sized his man 
 correctly. 
 
 "What do I owe you altogether, Mick?" asked a 
 changed and subdued voice. "Make it as easy as you 
 can." 
 
 Kennedy relaxed into his lounging position. 
 
 "Thirty-five dollars. We ll call it thirty. You ve 
 been setting them up to everybody here for a week on 
 your face." 
 
 "Can t you give me just a little more credit, Mick?" 
 An expression meant to be a smile formed upon the hag 
 gard face. "Just for old time s sake? You know I ve 
 always been a good customer of yours, Kennedy." 
 
 " Not a cent." 
 
 " But I- ve got to have liquor ! " One hand, ill-kept, 
 but long of fingers and refined of shape, steadied the 
 speaker. " I can t get along without it ! " 
 
 " Sell something, then, and pay up." 
 
 [6] 
 
In Rude Border-land 
 
 The man thought a moment and shook his head. 
 
 " I have n t anything to sell ; you know that. It s the 
 wrong time of the year." He paused, and the travesty of 
 a mile reappeared. " Next Winter " 
 
 " You ve got a horse outside." 
 
 For an instant Blair s gaunt face darkened at the in 
 sult ; he grew almost dignified ; but the drink curse had 
 too strong a grip upon him and the odor of whiskey was 
 in the air. 
 
 " Yes, I ve a good horse," he said slowly. " What 11 
 you give for him?" 
 
 " Seventy dollars." 
 
 " He s a good horse, worth a hundred." 
 
 " I m glad of that, but I m not dealing in horses. I 
 make the offer just to oblige you. Besides, as you said, 
 it s an off season." 
 
 " You won t give me more ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Blair looked impotently about the room, but his former 
 companions had returned to their game. Filling in the 
 silence, the dull clatter of chips mingled with the drunken 
 snores of the man on the floor. 
 
 " Very well, give me forty s " he said at last. 
 
 " You accept, do you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Blair waited a moment. " Are n t you going to give 
 me what s coming?" he asked. 
 
 Slowly the single eye fixed him as before. 
 
 " I did n t know you had anything coming." 
 
 m 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " Why, you just said forty dollars ! " 
 
 There was no relenting in Kennedy s face. 
 
 " You owe that gentleman over there at the table for 
 forty blues. I ll settle with him."" 
 
 Instinctively, as before, Blair s thin hand went to his 
 throat, clutching at the coarse flannel. He saw he was 
 beaten. 
 
 " Well, give me a drink, anyway ! " 
 
 Silently Mick took a big flask from the shelf and set it 
 with a decanter upon the bar. Filling the glass, Blair 
 drained it at a gulp, refilled and drained it and then 
 again. 
 
 " A little drop to take along with me," he whined. 
 
 Kennedy selected a pint bottle, filled it from the big 
 flask, and silently proffered it over the board. 
 
 Blair took the extended favor, glanced once more 
 about the room, and stumbled toward the exit. Mick 
 busied himself wiping the soiled bar with a towel, if pos 
 sible, even more filthy. At the threshold, his hand upon 
 the knob, Blair paused, stiffened, grew livid in the face. 
 
 " May Satan blister your scoundrel souls, all of you ! " 
 he cursed. 
 
 Not a man within sound of his voice gave sign that he 
 had heard, as the opened door returned to its casing with 
 a crash. 
 
 [8] 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 DESOLATION 
 
 TEN miles out on the prairies, not lands plane 
 as a table, as they are usually pictured, but roll 
 ing like the sea with waves of tremendous ampli 
 tude stood a rough shack, called by courtesy a house. 
 Like many a more pretentious domicile, it was of composite 
 construction, although consisting of but one room. At 
 the base was the native prairie sod, piled tier upon tier. 
 Above this the superstructure, like the bar of Mick 
 Kennedy s resort, was of warping cottonwood. Built out 
 from this single room and forming a part of it was what 
 the designer had called a woodshed ; but as no tree the 
 size of a man s wrist was within ten miles, or a railroad 
 within fifty, the term was manifestly a misnomer. Wood 
 in any form it had never contained ; instead, it was filled 
 with that providential fuel of the frontiersman, found 
 superabundantly upon the ranges, buffalo chips. 
 
 From the main room there was another and much 
 smaller opening into the sod foundation, and below it, 
 a dog-kennel. Slightly apart from the shack stood 
 a twin structure even less assuming, its walls and roof 
 being wholly built of sod. It was likewise without 
 partition, and was used as a barn. Hard by was a corral 
 
 [9] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 covering perhaps two acres, enclosed with a barbed- 
 wire fence. These three excrescences upon the face of 
 nature comprised the "improvements " of the "Big B 
 Ranch." 
 
 Within the house the furnishings accorded with their 
 surroundings. Two folding bunks, similar in conception 
 to the upper berths of a Pullman car, were built end to 
 end against the wall ; when they were raised to give room, 
 four supports dangled beneath like paralyzed arms. A 
 home-made table, suggesting those scattered about country 
 picnic grounds, a few cheap chairs, a row of chests and 
 cupboards variously remodelled from a common foundation 
 of dry-goods boxes, and a stove, ingeniously evolved out of 
 the cylinder and head of a portable engine, comprised the 
 furniture. 
 
 The morning sunlight which dimmed the candles of 
 Mick Kennedy s saloon drifted through the single high-set 
 window of the Big B Ranch-house, revealing there a very 
 different scene. From beneath the quilts in one of the 
 folding bunks appeared the faces of a woman and a little 
 boy. At the opening of the dog-kennel the head of a 
 mottled yellow-and-white mongrel dog projected into the 
 room, the sensitive muzzle pointing directly at the occu 
 pied bunk. The eyes of woman, child, and beast were 
 open and moved restlessly about. 
 
 "Mamma," and the small boy wriggled beneath the 
 clothes, "Mamma, I m hungry."" 
 
 The white face of the woman turned away, more pallid 
 than before. An unfamiliar observer would have been at 
 a loss to guess the age of the owner. In that haggard, 
 
 [10] 
 
Desolation 
 
 non-committal countenance there was nothing to indicate 
 whether she was twenty-five or fo_ 
 
 " It is early yet, son. Go to sleep. 
 
 The boy closed his eyes dutifully, and for perhaps five 
 minutes there was silence ; then the blue orbs opened wider 
 than before. 
 
 " Mamma, I can t go to sleep. I m hungry ! " 
 
 " Never mind, Benjamin. The horses, the rabbits, the 
 birds, all get hungry sometimes." A hacking cough 
 interrupted her words. " Snuggle close up to me, little 
 son, and keep warm. " 
 
 " But, mamma, I want something to eat. Won t you 
 get it for me ? " 
 
 " I can t, son." 
 
 He waited a moment. " Won t you let me help myself, 
 then, mamma ? " 
 
 The eyes of the mother moistened. 
 
 "Mamma," the child repeated, gently shaking his 
 mother s shoulder, " won t you let me help myself ? " 
 
 "There s nothing for you to eat, sonny, nothing at 
 all." 
 
 The blue child-eyes widened; the serious little face 
 puckered. 
 
 " Why ain t there anything to eat, mamma ? " 
 
 " Because there is n t, bubby." 
 
 The reasoning was conclusive, and the child accepted it 
 without further parley ; but soon another interrogation 
 took form in his active brain. 
 
 " It s cold, mamma," he announced. " Are n t you going 
 to build a fire?" 
 
 [11] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Again the mother coughed, and a flush of red appeared 
 upon her cheeks. 
 
 " No," she answered with a sigh. 
 
 " Why not, mamma ? " 
 
 There was not the slightest trace of irritation in the 
 answering voice, although it was clearly an effort to speak. 
 
 " I can t get up this morning, little one." 
 
 Mysteries were multiplying, but the small Benjamin was 
 equal to the occasion. With a spring he was out of bed, 
 and in another moment was stepping gingerly upon the 
 cold bare floor. 
 
 "I m going to build a fire for you, mamma," he 
 announced. 
 
 The homely mongrel whined a welcome to the little 
 lad s appearance, and with his tail beat a friendly tattoo 
 upon the kennel floor; but the woman spoke no word. 
 With impassive face she watched the shivering little figure 
 as it hurried into its clothes, and then, with celerity born 
 of experience, went about the making of a fire. Suddenly 
 a hitherto unthought-of possibility flashed into the boy s 
 mind, and leaving his work he came back to the bunk. 
 
 " Are you sick, mamma ? " he asked. 
 
 Instantly the woman s face softened. 
 
 " Yes, laddie," she answered gently. 
 
 Carefully as a nurse, the small protector replaced the 
 cover at his mother s back, where his exit had left a gap ; 
 then returned to his work. 
 
 " You must have it warm here," he said. 
 
 Not until the fire in the old cylinder makeshift was 
 burning merrily did he return to his patient ; then, stand- 
 
 [12] 
 
Desolation 
 
 ing straight before her, he looked down with an air of 
 childish dignity that would have been comical had it been 
 less pathetic. 
 
 "Are you very sick, mamma? " he said at last, hesi 
 tatingly. 
 
 " I am dying, little son." She spoke calmly and imper 
 sonally, without even a quickening of the breath. The 
 thin hand, lying on the tattered cover, did not stir. 
 
 "Mamma!" the old- man face of the boy tightened, as, 
 bending over the bed, he pressed his warm cheek against 
 hers, now growing cold and white. 
 
 At the mouth of the kennel two bright eyes were watch 
 ing curiously. Their owner wriggled the tip of his muzzle 
 inquiringly, but the action brought no response. Then 
 the muzzle went into the air, and a whine, long-drawn and 
 insistent, broke the silence. 
 
 The boy rose. There was not a trace of moisture in his 
 eyes, but the uncannily aged face seemed older than be 
 fore. He went over to a peg where his clothes were hang 
 ing and took down the frayed garment that answered as 
 an overcoat. From the bunk there came another cough, 
 quickly muffled ; but he did not turn. Cap followed coat, 
 mittens cap ; then, suddenly remembering, he turned to 
 the stove and scattered fresh chips upon the glowing 
 embers. 
 
 " Good-bye, mamma," said the boy. 
 
 The mother had been watching him, although she gave 
 no sign. " Where are you going, sonny ? " she asked. 
 
 "To town, mamma. Someone ought to know you re 
 sick." 
 
 [13] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 There was a moment s pause, wherein the mongrel 
 whined impatiently. 
 
 " Are n t you going to kiss me first, Benjamin ? " 
 
 The little lad retraced his steps, until, bending over, his 
 lips touched those of his mother. As he did so, the hand 
 which had lain upon the coverlet shifted to his arm 
 detainingly. 
 
 " How were you thinking of going, son ? " 
 
 A look of surprise crept into the boy s blue eyes. A 
 question like this, with its obvious answer, was unusual 
 from his matter-of-fact mother. He glanced at her 
 gravely. 
 
 " I m going afoot, mamma." 
 
 "It s ten miles to town, Benjamin." 
 
 " But you and I walked it once together. Don t you 
 remember ? " 
 
 An expression the lad did not understand flashed over 
 the white face of Jennie Blair. Well she remembered that 
 other occasion, one of many like the present, when she and 
 the little lad had gone in company to the settlement of 
 which Mick Kennedy s place was a part, in search of some 
 one whom after ten hours delay they had succeeded in 
 bringing home, the remnant and vestige of what was 
 once a man. 
 
 " Yes, I know we did, Bennie." 
 
 The boy waited a moment longer, then straightened 
 himself. 
 
 " I think I d better be starting now." 
 
 But instead of loosening its hold, the hand upon the 
 boy s shoulder tightened. The eyes of the two met. 
 
 [14] 
 
Desolation 
 
 " You re not going, sonny. I m glad you thought of 
 it, but I can t let you go." 
 
 Again there was silence for so long that the waiting 
 dog, impatient of the delay, whined in soft protest. 
 
 " Why not, mamma ? " 
 
 " Because, Benjamin, it s too late now. Besides, there 
 wouldn t be a person there who would come out to help 
 me." 
 
 The boy s look of perplexity returned. 
 
 "Not if they knew you were very sick, mamma?" 
 
 " Not if they knew I was dying, my son." 
 
 The boy took off hat, mittens, and coat, and returned 
 them to their places. Never in his short life had he 
 questioned a statement of his mother s, and such heresy 
 did not occur to him now. Coming back to the bunk, he 
 laid his cheek caressingly beside hers. 
 
 "Is there anything I can do for you, mamma? * he 
 whispered. 
 
 " Nothing but what you are doing now, laddie." 
 
 Tired of standing, the mongrel dropped within his 
 tracks flat upon his belly, and, his head resting upon his 
 fore-paws, lay watching intently. 
 
 When the door of Mick Kennedy s saloon closed with an 
 emphasis that shook the very walls, it shut out a being 
 more ferocious, more evil, than any beast of the jungle. 
 For the time, Blair s alcohol-saturated brain evolved but 
 one chain of thought, was capable of but one emotion 
 hate. Every object in the universe, from its Creator to 
 himself, fell under the ban. The language of hate is 
 
 [15] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 curses ; and as he moved out over the prairie there dripped 
 from his lips continuously, monotonously, a trickling, 
 blighting stream of malediction. Swaying, stumbling, 
 unconscious of his physical motions, instinct kept him 
 upon the trail ; a Providence, sometimes kindest to those 
 least worthy, preserved him from injury. 
 
 Half way out he met a solitary Indian astride a faded- 
 looking mustang, and the current of his wrath was tem 
 porarily diverted by a surly " How ! " Even this measure 
 of friendliness was regretted when the big revolver came out 
 of the rancher s holster like a flash, and, head low on the 
 neck of the mustang, heels in the little beast s ribs, the 
 aborigine retreated with a yell, amid a shower of ill-aimed 
 bullets. Long after the figure on the pony had passed 
 out of range, Blair stood pulling at the trigger of the 
 empty repeater and cursing louder than before because it 
 would not " pop." 
 
 Two hours later, when it was past noon, an uncertain 
 hand lifted the wooden latch of the Big B Ranch-house door, 
 and, heralded by an inrush of cold outside air, Tom Blair, 
 master and dictator, entered his domain. The passage of 
 time, the physical exercise, and the prairie air, had some 
 what cleared his brain. Just within the room, he paused 
 and looked about him with surprise. With premonition 
 of impending trouble, the mongrel bristled the yellow hair 
 of his neck, and, retreating to the mouth of his kennel, 
 stood guard ; but otherwise the scene was to a detail as it 
 had been in the morning. The woman lay passive within 
 the bunk. The child by her side, holding her hand, did 
 not turn. The very atmosphere of the place tingled with 
 
 [ 16 ] 
 
Desolation 
 
 an ominous quiet, a silence such as one who has lived 
 through a cyclone connects instinctively with a whirling 
 oncoming black funnel. 
 
 The new-comer was first to make a move. Walking 
 over to the centre of the room, he stopped and looked 
 upon his subjects. 
 
 " Well, of all the infernally lazy people I ever saw ! " he 
 commented, " you beat them, Jennie ! Get up and cook 
 something to eat ; it s way after noon, and I m hungry." 
 
 The woman said nothing, but the boy slid to his feet, 
 facing the intruder. 
 
 "Mamma s sick and can t get up," he explained as im 
 personally as to a stranger. "Besides, there isn t any 
 thing to cook. She said so." 
 
 The man s brow contracted into a frown. 
 
 " Speak when you re spoken to, young upstart ! " he 
 snapped. " Out with you, Jennie ! I don t want to be 
 monkeyed with to-day ! " 
 
 He hung up his coat and cap, and loosened his belt a 
 hole ; but no one else in the room moved. 
 
 "Didn t you hear me?" he asked, looking warningly 
 toward the bunk. 
 
 " Yes," she replied. 
 
 Autocrat under his own roof, the man paused in sur 
 prise. Never before had a command here been disobeyed. 
 He could scarcely believe his own senses. 
 
 " You know what to do, then," he said sharply. 
 
 For the first time a touch of color came into the wo 
 man s cheeks, and catching the man s eyes she looked into 
 them unfalteringly. 
 
 [ 17 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " Since when did I become your slave, Tom Blair ? " she 
 asked slowly. 
 
 The words were a challenge, the tone was that of some 
 wild thing, wounded, cornered, staring death in the face, 
 but defiant to the end. " Since when did you become my 
 owner, body and soul ? " 
 
 Any sportsman, any being with a fragment of admira 
 tion for even animal courage, would have held aloof then. 
 It remained for this man, bred amid high civilization, 
 who had spent years within college halls, to strike the 
 prostrate. As in the frontier saloon, so now his hand 
 went involuntarily to his throat, clutched at the binding 
 collar until the button flew ; then, as before, his face 
 went white. 
 
 " Since when ! " he blazed, " since when ! I admire 
 your nerve to ask that question of me ! Since six 
 years ago, when you first began living with me. Since 
 the day when you and the boy, and not a preacher 
 within a hundred miles " Words, a flood of words, 
 were upon his lips ; but suddenly he stopped. Despite 
 the alcohol still in his brain, despite the effort he 
 made to continue, the gaze of the woman compelled 
 silence. 
 
 "You dare recall that memory, Tom Blair?"" The 
 words came more slowly than before, and with an intensity 
 that burned them into the hearer s memory. " You dare, 
 knowing what I gave up for your sake ! " The eyes 
 blazed afresh, the dark head was raised on the pillows. 
 " You know that my son stands listening, and yet you dare 
 throw my coming to you in my face ? n 
 
 [18] 
 
Desolation 
 
 White to the lips went the scarred visage of the man, 
 but the madness was upon him. 
 
 " I dare ? " To his own ears the voice sounded un 
 natural. " I dare ? To be sure I dare ! You came to 
 me of your own free-will. You were not a child ! " His 
 voice rose and the flush returned to his face. "You 
 knew the price and accepted it deliberately, deliber 
 ately, I say ! " 
 
 Without a sound, the figure in the rough bunk quiv 
 ered and stiffened; the hand upon the coverlet was 
 clenched until the nails grew white, then it relaxed. 
 Slowly, very slowly, the eyelids closed as though in sleep. 
 
 Impassive but intent listener, an instinct now sent the 
 boy Benjamin back to his post. 
 
 " Mamma," he said gently. " Mamma ! " 
 
 There was no answer, nor even a responsive pressure of 
 the hand. 
 
 " Mamma ! " he repeated more loudly. " Mamma ! 
 Mamma ! " 
 
 Still no answer, only the limp passivity. Then sud 
 denly, although never before in his short life had the little 
 lad looked upon death, he recognized it now. His mamma, 
 his playmate, his teacher, was like this ; she would not 
 speak to him, would not answer him ; she would never 
 speak to him or smile upon him again ! Like a thunder 
 clap came the realization of this. Then another thought 
 swiftly followed. This man, one who had said things that 
 hurt her, that brought the red spots to her cheeks, this 
 man was to blame. Not in the least did he understand the 
 meaning of what he had just heard. No human being had 
 
 [ 19] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 suggested to him that Blair was the cause of his mother s 
 death ; but as surely as he would remember their words as 
 long as he lived, so surely did he recognize the man s 
 guilt. Suddenly, as powder responds to the spark, there 
 surged through his tiny body a terrible animal hate for 
 this man, and, scarcely realizing the action, he rushed at 
 him. 
 
 " She s dead and you killed her ! " he screamed. 
 "Mamma s dead, dead!" and the little doubled fists 
 struck at the man s legs again and again. 
 
 Oblivious to the onslaught, Tom Blair strode over to 
 the bunk. 
 
 "Jennie," he said, not unkindly, "Jennie, what s the 
 matter?" 
 
 Again there was no response, and a shade of awe crept 
 into the man s voice. 
 
 " Jennie ! Jennie ! Answer me ! " A hand fell upon 
 the woman s shoulder and shook it, first gently, then 
 roughly. " Answer me, I say ! " 
 
 With the motion, the head of the dead shifted upon 
 the pillow and turned toward the man, and involuntarily 
 he loosened his grasp. He had not eaten for twenty-four 
 hours, and in sudden weakness he made his way to one of 
 the rough chairs, and sat down, his face buried in his 
 hands. 
 
 Behind him the boy Benjamin, his sudden hot passion 
 over, stood watching intently, his face almost uncanny 
 in its lack of childishness. 
 
 For a time there was absolute silence, the hush of a 
 death-chamber ; then of a sudden the boy was conscious 
 
 [20] 
 
Desolation 
 
 that the man was looking at him in a way he had never 
 looked before. Deep down below our consciousness, far 
 beneath the veneer of civilization, there is an instinct, 
 relic of the vigilant savage days, that warns us of personal 
 danger. By this instinct the lad now interpreted the 
 other s gaze, and knew that it meant ill for him. For 
 some reason which he could not understand, this man, 
 this big animal, was his mortal enemy ; and, in the manner 
 of smaller animals, he began to consider an avenue of 
 escape. 
 
 " Ben," spoke the man, " come here ! " 
 
 Tom Blair was sober now, and wore a look of determi 
 nation upon his face that few had ever seen there before ; 
 but to his surprise the boy did not respond. He waited a 
 moment, and then said sharply : 
 
 " Ben, I m speaking to you. Come here at once ! " 
 
 For answer there was a tightening of the lad s blue eyes 
 and an added watchfulness in the incongruously long 
 childish figure; but that was all. 
 
 Another lagging minute passed, wherein the two re 
 garded each other steadily. The man s eyes dropped first. 
 
 " You little devil ! " he muttered, and the passion began 
 showing in his voice. " I believe you knew what I was 
 thinking all the time ! Anyway, you 11 know now. You 
 said awhile ago that I was to blame for your mother being 
 as she is. You re liable to say that again." A horror 
 greater than sudden passion was in the deliberate explana 
 tion and in the slow way he rose to his feet. " I m going 
 to fix you so you can t say it again, you old-man imp ! " 
 
 Then a peculiar thing happened. Instead of running 
 [21] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 away, the boy took a step forward, and the man paused, 
 scarcely believing his eyes. Another step forward, and 
 yet another, came the diminutive figure, until almost 
 within the aggressor s reach ; then suddenly, quick as a cat, 
 it veered, dropped upon all fours to the floor, and head 
 first, scrambling like a rabbit, disappeared into the open 
 mouth of the dog-kennel. 
 
 Too late the man saw the trick, and curses came to his 
 lips, curses fit for a fiend, fit for the irresponsible being 
 he was. He himself had built that kennel. It extended 
 in a curve eight feet into the solid sod foundation, and to 
 get at the spot where the boy now lay he would have to 
 tear down the house itself. The temper which had made 
 the man what he now was, a drunkard and fugitive in a 
 frontier country, took possession of him wholly, and with 
 it came a madman s cunning ; for at a sudden thought he 
 stopped, and the cursing tongue was silent. Five minutes 
 later he left the place, closing the door carefully behind 
 him ; but before that time a red jet of flame, like the 
 ravenous tongue of a famished beast, was lapping at a 
 hastily assembled pile of tinder-dry furniture in one corner 
 of the shanty. 
 
 [22] 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE [R- RANCH 
 
 MR. RANKIN moved back from a well-discussed 
 table, and, the room being conveniently small, 
 tilted his chair back against the wall. The pro 
 testing creak of the ill-glued joints under the strain of his 
 ponderous figure was a signal for all the diners, and five 
 other men likewise drew away from around the board. 
 Rankin extracted a match and a stout jack-knife from the 
 miscellaneous collection of useful articles in his capacious 
 pocket, carefully whittled the bit of wood to a point, and 
 picked his teeth deliberately. The five " hands," sun- 
 browned, unshaven, dissimilar in face as in dress, waited 
 in expectation ; but the housekeeper, a shapeless, stolid- 
 looking woman, wife of the foreman, Graham, went me 
 thodically about the work of clearing the table. Rankin 
 watched her a moment indifferently ; then without turning 
 his head, his eyes shifted in their narrow slits of sockets 
 until they rested upon one of the cowboys. 
 
 " What time was it you saw that smoke, Grannis ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 The man addressed paused in the operation of rolling a 
 cigarette. 
 
 " Bout an hour ago, I should say. I was just thinking 
 of coming in to dinner." 
 
 t 23 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The lids met over Raukin s eyes, then the narrow slit 
 opened. 
 
 " It was in the northwest you say, and seemed to be 
 quite a way off?" 
 
 Grannis nodded. 
 
 " Yes ; I could n t make out any fire, only the smoke, and 
 that did n t last long. I thought at first maybe it was a 
 prairie fire, and started to see ; but it was getting thinner 
 before I d gone a mile, so I turned round and by the time 
 I got back to the corral there was n t nothing at all to 
 see." 
 
 Two of the other hands solemnly exchanged a wink. 
 
 " Think you must have eaten too many of Ma Graham s 
 pancakes this morning, and had a blur over your eyes," 
 commented one, slyly. " Prairie fires don t stop that sud 
 den when the grass is like it is now." 
 
 The portly housewife paused in her work to cast a look 
 of scorn upon the speaker, but Grannis rushed into the 
 breach. 
 
 " Don t you believe it. There was a fire all right. 
 Somebody stopped it, or it stopped itself, that s ail." 
 
 Tilting his chair forward with an effort, Rankin got to 
 his feet, and, as usual, his action brought the discussion 
 to an end. The woman returned to her work ; the men 
 put on hats and coats preparatory to going out of doors. 
 Only the proprietor stood passive a moment absently draw 
 ing down his vest over his portly figure. 
 
 " Graham," he said at last, " hitch the mustangs to the 
 light wagon." 
 
 "All right" 
 
 [24] 
 
The [R Ranch 
 
 And, Graham " 
 
 The man addressed paused. 
 
 " Throw in a couple of extra blankets." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Out of doors the men took up the conversation where 
 they had left off. 
 
 "You better begin to hope the old man finds some 
 thing that s been afire up there, Grannis," said the joker 
 of the house. " If he don t, you ve cooked your goose 
 proper." 
 
 Grannis was a new-comer, and looked his surprise. 
 
 " Why so ? " he asked. 
 
 "You ll find out why," retorted the other. "Fire 
 here s most as uncommon as rain, and the boss don t 
 like them smoky jokes." 
 
 " But I saw smoke, I tell you," reiterated Grannis, 
 defensively ; " smoke, dead sure ! " 
 
 " All right, if you re certain sure." 
 
 "Marcom knows what he s talking about, Grannis," 
 said Graham. " He tried to ginger things up a bit when 
 he was new here, like you are ; found a litter of coyotes 
 one September thought they were timber wolves, I 
 guess, and braced up with his story to the old man." The 
 speaker paused with a reflective grin. 
 
 " Well, what happened ? " asked Grannis. 
 
 "What happened? The boss sent me dusting about 
 forty miles to get some hounds. Nearly spoiled a good 
 team to get back inside sixteen hours, and they found 
 out Bill here in the next thirty minutes, that was all ! " 
 Once more the story ended in a grin. 
 
 F 25 1 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " What d Rankin say ? " asked Grannis, with interest. 
 
 " How about it. Bill ? " suggested Graham. 
 
 The big cowboy looked a trifle foolish. 
 
 " Oh, he did n t say much ; t ain t his way. He just 
 remarked, sort of off-hand, that as far as I was concerned 
 the next year had only about four pay-months in it. 
 That was all." 
 
 Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing at once. 
 This was the motto of the master of the [j^ Ranch. In 
 ten minutes time Rankin s big shapeless figure, seated in 
 the old buckboard, was moving northwest at the steady 
 jog-trot typical of prairie travel, and which as the hours 
 pass by annihilates distance surprisingly. Simply a fat, 
 an abnormally fat, man, the casual observer would have 
 said. It remained for those who came in actual contact 
 with him to learn the force beneath the forbidding ex 
 terior, the relentless bull-dog energy that had made 
 him dictator of the great ranch, and kept subordinate the 
 restless, roving, dissolute men-of-fortune he employed, 
 the deliberate and impartial judgment which had made 
 his word as near law as it was possible for any mandate to 
 be among the motley inhabitants within a radius of fifty 
 miles. Had Rankin chosen he could have attained honor, 
 position, power in his native Eastern home. No barrier 
 built of convention or of conservatism could have with 
 stood him. Society reserves her prizes largely for the man 
 of initiative ; and, uncomely block as he was, Rankin was 
 of the true type. But for some reason, a reason known 
 to none of his associates, he had chosen to come to the 
 
 [26] 
 
The [R Ranch 
 
 West. Some consideration or other had caused him to 
 stop at his present abode, and had made him apparently 
 a fixture in the midst of this unconquered country. 
 
 There was no road in the direction Rankin was travel 
 ling, only the unbroken prairie sod, eaten close by the 
 herds that grazed its every foot. Even under the direct sun 
 light the air was sharp. The regular breath of the mustangs 
 shot out like puffs of steam from the exhaust of an engine, 
 and the moisture frosted about their flanks and nostrils. 
 But the big man on the seat did not notice temperature. 
 He had produced a pipe from the depths beneath the wagon 
 seat, and tobacco from a jar cunningly fitted into one 
 corner of the box, both without moving from his place, 
 the seat being hinged and divided in the centre to facili 
 tate the operation. More a home to him than the ranch- 
 house itself was that battered buckboard. Here, on an 
 average, he spent eight hours out of the twenty-four, and 
 that seat-box was a veritable storehouse of articles used in 
 his daily life. As the jog-trot measured off the miles he 
 replenished the pipe again and again, leaving behind him 
 the odor of strong tobacco. 
 
 Not until he was within a mile of the " Big B " prop 
 erty, and a rise in the monotonous roll of the land 
 brought him in range of vision, did Rankin show that he 
 felt more than ordinary interest in his expedition ; then, 
 shading his eyes, he looked steadily ahead. The sod barn 
 stood in its usual place ; the corral, with its posts set close 
 together, stretched by its side; but where the house had 
 stood there could not be distinguished even a mound. 
 The hand on the reins tightened meaningly, and in sympa- 
 
 [ 27 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 thy the mustangs moved ahead at a swifter pace, leaving 
 behind a trail of tobacco-smoke denser than before. 
 
 When the little Benjamin Blair, fugitive, had literally 
 taken to the earth, it was with definite knowledge of 
 the territory he was entering. He had often explored its 
 depths with childish curiosity, to the distress of his mother 
 and the disgust of the rightful owner, the mongrel dog. 
 Retreating to the farther end of the cave, the instinct 
 of self-preservation set hands and feet to work like the 
 claws of a gopher, filling with loose dirt the narrow pas 
 sage through which he had entered. Panting and per 
 spiring with the effort, choked with the dust he raised, all 
 but suffocated, he dug until his strength gave out ; then, 
 curling up in his narrow quarters, he lay listening. At 
 first he heard nothing, not even a sound from the dog ; 
 and he wondered at the fact. He could not believe that 
 Tom Blair would leave him in peace, and he breathlessly 
 awaited the first tap of an instrument against his retreat. 
 A minute passed, lengthened to five to ten and with 
 the quick impatience of childhood he started to learn the 
 reason of the delay. His active little body revolved in 
 its nest. In the darkness a wiry arm scratched at the 
 recently erected barricade. A head with a tousled mass 
 of hair poked its way into the opening, crowded forward 
 a foot two feet, then stopped, the whole body quivering. 
 He had passed the curve, and of a sudden it was as though 
 he had opened the door of a furnace and gazed inside. 
 Instead of the familiar room, a great sheet of flame walled 
 him in. Instead of silence, a roar as of a hurricane was 
 
 [28] 
 
The [R Ranch 
 
 in his ears. Never in his life had he seen a great fire, but 
 instantly he understood. Instantly the instinctive animal 
 terror of fire gripped him ; he retreated to the very 
 depths of the kennel, and burying his small head in his 
 arms lay still. But not even then, child though he was, 
 did he utter a cry. The endurance which had made 
 Jennie Blair stare death impassively in the face was part 
 and parcel of his nature. 
 
 For the space of perhaps a minute Ben lay motionless. 
 Louder than before came to his ears the roar of the fire. 
 Occasionally a hot tongue of flame intruded mockingly 
 into the mouth of his retreat. The confined air about 
 him grew close, narcotic. He expected to die, and with 
 the premonition of death an abnormal activity came to 
 the child-brain. Whatever knowledge he possessed of 
 death was connected with his mother. It was she who 
 had given him his vague impression of another life. She 
 herself, as she lay silent and unresponsive, had been the 
 first concrete example of it. Inevitably thought of her 
 came to him now, practical, material thought, crowding 
 from his brain the blind terror that had been its predeces 
 sor. Where was his mother now ? He pictured again the 
 furnace into which he had gazed from the mouth of the 
 kennel. Though perhaps she would not feel it, she would 
 be burned burned to a crisp destroyed like the fuel 
 he had tossed into the makeshift stove ! Instinctively he 
 felt the sacrilege, and the desire to do something to pre 
 vent it. Something yes, but what? He was himself 
 helpless ; he must seek outside aid but where ? Sud 
 denly there occurred to the child-mind a suggestion appli- 
 
 [29] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 cable to his difficulty, an adequate solution, for it involved 
 everything he had learned to trust in life. He remem 
 bered a Being more powerful than man, more powerful 
 than fire or cold, a Being whom his mother had called 
 God. Believing in Him, it was necessary only to ask for 
 whatever one wished. For himself, even to save his life, 
 he would not call upon this Being ; but for his mamma ! 
 In childish faith he folded his hands and closed his eyes in 
 the darkness. 
 
 " God, 1 he prayed, " please put out this fire and save 
 my mamma from burning ! " 
 
 The small hands loosened and the lips parted to hear 
 the first diminution in the growl of the flame. But it 
 roared on. 
 
 " God ! " The hands were clasped again, the voice 
 vibrant with pleading. " God, please put out the fire ! 
 Please put it out ! " 
 
 Silence again within, but without only the steady roar 
 ing crackle. Could it be possible the petition had not 
 been heard ? The childish hands met more tightly than 
 before. The small body fairly writhed. 
 
 " God ! God ! " he implored for the third time. "Listen 
 to me, please ! Save my mamma, my mamma ! " 
 
 For a moment the little figure lay still. Surely there 
 would be an answer now. His mamma had said there 
 would be, and whatever his mamma had told him had al 
 ways come true. The air about him was so close he could 
 scarcely breathe; but he did not notice it. Reversing 
 head and feet, he started out of the kennel. It was cer 
 tainly time to leave. The roar he had heard must have 
 
 [30] 
 
The IR Ranch 
 
 been of the wind. Assuredly God had acted before this. 
 Head first, gasping, he moved on, reached the curve, and 
 looked out. 
 
 Indignation took possession of the little figure. The 
 fingers clinched until the nails bit deep into the soft 
 palms. The whole body trembled in impotent anger and 
 outraged self-respect. Upon the face of the small man 
 was suddenly written the implacable defiance which one 
 sees in carnivora when wounded and cornered intensi 
 fied as an expression can only be intensified upon a human 
 face as, almost unconsciously, he returned to the hollow 
 he had left, and fairly thrust his tousled head into the 
 kindly earth. 
 
 How long he remained there he did not know. The 
 stifling atmosphere of the place gradually overcame him. 
 Anger, wonder, the multitude of thoughts crowding his 
 child-brain, slowly faded away ; consciousness lapsed, and 
 he slept. 
 
 When he awoke it was with a start and a vague wonder 
 as to his whereabouts. Then memory returned, and he 
 listened intently. Not a sound could he distinguish save 
 his own breathing, as he slowly made his way to the mouth 
 of the kennel. Before him was the opposite sod wall of 
 the house standing as high as his head ; above that, the 
 blue of the sky ; upon what had been the earthen floor, a 
 strewing of ashes ; over all, calm, glorious, the slanting 
 rays of the low afternoon sun. A moment the boy lay 
 gazing out ; then he crawled to his feet, shaking off the 
 dirt as a dog does. One glance about, and the blue eyes 
 halted. A moisture came into them, gathered into drops, 
 
 [31] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 and then, breaking over the barrier of the long lashes, 
 tears flowed through the accumulated grime, down the 
 thin cheeks, leaving a clean pathway behind. That was 
 all, for an instant; then a look terrible in a mature 
 person and doubly so in a child came over the long 
 face, an expression partaking of both hate and ven 
 geance. It mirrored an emotion that in a nature such as 
 that of Benjamin Blair would never be forgotten. Some 
 day, for some one, there would be a moment of reckoning ; 
 for the child was looking at the charred, unrecognizable 
 corpse of his mother. 
 
 A half-hour later, Rankin, steaming into the yard of 
 the Big B Ranch, came upon a scene that savored much 
 of a play. It was so dramatic that the big man paused in 
 contemplation of it. He saw there the sod and ashes of 
 what had once been a home. The place must have burned 
 like tinder, for now, but a few hours from the time when 
 Grannis had first given the alarm, not an atom of smoke 
 ascended. At one end of the quadrangular space enclosed 
 by the walls stood the makeshift stove, discolored with the 
 heat, as was the length of pipe by its side. Near by was 
 a heap of warped iron and tin cooking utensils. At one 
 side, covered by an old gunny-sack and a boy s tattered 
 coat, was another object the form of which the observer 
 could not distinguish. 
 
 In the middle of the plat, standing a few inches below 
 the surface, was a small boy, and in his hands a very large 
 spade. He wore a man s discarded shirt, with sleeves 
 rolled up at the wrist, and neck-band pinned tight at one 
 
 [32] 
 
The [R Ranch 
 
 side. Obviously, he had been digging, for a small pile of 
 fresh dirt was heaped at his right. Now, however, he was 
 motionless, the blue eyes beneath the long lashes observing 
 the new-comer inquiringly. That was all, save that to the 
 picture was added the background of the unbroken silence 
 of the prairie. 
 
 The man was the first to break the spell. He got out 
 of the wagon clumsily, walked around the wall, and entered 
 the quadrangle by what had been the door. 
 
 " What are you doing ? " he asked. 
 
 " Digging," replied the boy, resuming his work. 
 
 " Digging what ? " 
 
 The boy lifted out a double handful of dirt upon the 
 big spade. 
 
 "A grave." 
 
 The man glanced about again. 
 
 "For some pet?" 
 
 The boy shook his head. 
 
 " No sir," the latter word coming as an after-thought. 
 His mother had taught him that title of respect. 
 
 Rankin changed the line of interrogation. 
 
 " Where s Tom Blair, young man ? " 
 
 " I don t know, sir." 
 
 " Your mother, then, where is she ? " 
 
 " My mother is dead." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 The child s blue eyes did not falter. 
 
 " I am digging her grave, sir." 
 
 For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the 
 stubbly beard the great jaws closed, until it seemed the 
 3 [ 33 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 pipe-stem must be broken. His eyes narrowed, as when, 
 before starting, he had questioned the cowboy Grannis; 
 then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon 
 the worker s shoulder. He understood at last. 
 
 " Stop a minute, son," he said. " I want to talk with you." 
 
 The lad looked up. 
 
 " How did it happen the fire and your mother s 
 death?" 
 
 No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look. 
 
 Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly. 
 
 Ben Blair calmly removed the man s hand from his 
 shoulder and looked him fairly in the eyes. 
 
 " Why do you wish to know, sir ? " he asked. 
 
 The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to 
 know ? What answer could he give ? He paced back 
 and forth across the narrow confines of the four sod walls. 
 Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, not 
 as one looks at a child but as man faces man ; then, tramp, 
 tramp, he paced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, 
 he halted, and glanced sidewise at the uncompleted grave. 
 
 "You re quite sure you want to bury your mother 
 here ? " he asked. 
 
 The lad nodded silently. 
 
 "And alone?" 
 
 Again the nod. 
 
 " Yes, I heard her say once she wished it so." 
 
 Without comment, Rankin removed his coat and took 
 the spade from the boy s hand. 
 
 " I ll help you, then." 
 
 For a half-hour he worked steadily, descending lower 
 [34] 
 
The [R Ranch 
 
 and lower into the dry earth ; then, pausing, he wiped the 
 perspiration from his face. 
 
 " Are you cold, son ? " he asked directly, 
 
 " Not very, sir." But the lad s teeth were chattering. 
 
 "A bit, though?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," simply. 
 
 " All right, you ll find some blankets. out in the wagon, 
 Ben. You d better go out and get one and put it around 
 you." 
 
 The boy started to obey " Thank you, sir," he said. 
 
 Rankin returned to his work. In the west the sun 
 dropped slowly beneath the horizon, leaving a wonderful 
 golden light behind. The waiting horses, too well trained 
 to move from their places, shifted uneasily amid much creak 
 ing of harness. Within the grave the digger s head sunk 
 lower and lower, while the mound by the side grew higher 
 and higher. The cold increased. Across the prairie, a 
 multitude of black specks advanced, grew large, whizzed 
 overhead, then retreated, their wings cutting the keen air, 
 and silence returned. 
 
 Darkness was falling when at last Rankin clambered 
 out to the surface. 
 
 " Another blanket, Ben, please." 
 
 Without a glance beneath, he wrapped the object under 
 the old gunny-sack round and round with the rough wool 
 winding-sheet, and, carrying it to the edge of the grave, 
 himself descended clumsily and placed it gently at his feet. 
 The pit was deep, and in getting out he slipped back 
 twice ; but he said nothing. Outside, he paused a moment, 
 looking at the boy gravely. 
 
 [35] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " Anything you wish to say, Benjamin ?" 
 
 The lad returned the gaze with equal gravity. 
 
 " I don t know of anything, sir." 
 
 The man paused a moment longer. 
 
 " Nor I, Ben," he said gently. 
 
 Again the spade resumed its work ; and the impassive 
 earth returned dully to its former resting-place. Dusk 
 came on, but Rankin did not look about him until the 
 mound was neatly rounded ; then he turned to where he 
 had left the little boy so bravely erect. But the small 
 figure was not standing now ; instead, it was prone on the 
 ground amid the dust and ashes. 
 
 " Ben ! " said Rankin, gently. " Ben ! " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Ben ! " he repeated. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 For a moment a small thin face appeared above the 
 dishevelled figure, and a great sob shook the little frame. 
 Then the head disappeared again. 
 
 " I can t help it, sir," wailed a muffled voice. " She was 
 my mamma ! " 
 
 361 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 BEN S NEW HOME 
 
 SUPPER was over at the [II Ranch. From the 
 tiny lean-to the muffled rattle of heavy table-ware 
 proclaimed the fact that Ma Graham was putting 
 things in readiness for breakfast. Beside the sheet-iron 
 heater in the front room, her husband, carefully swaddled 
 in a big checked apron with the strings tied in a bow under 
 his left ear, was busily engaged in dressing the half-dozen 
 prairie chickens he had trapped that day As fast as he 
 removed the feathers he thrust them into the stove, and 
 the pungent odor mingled with the suggestive tang of the 
 bacon that had been the foundation of the past supper, 
 and with the odor of cigarettes with which the other four 
 men were permeating the place. 
 
 Graham critically held up to the light the bird upon 
 which he had just been operating, removed a few scattered 
 feathers, and, with practised hand, attacked its successor. 
 
 " If I were doing this job for myself, 1 " he commented, 
 " I d skin the beasts. Life is too blamed short to waste it 
 in pulling out feathers ! " 
 
 Grannis, the new-comer from no one knew where, smiledo 
 
 " It would look to me that you were doing it," he re 
 marked. " I d like to ask for information, who is if you 
 ain t?" 
 
 [37] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The clatter of dishes suddenly ceased, and Graham s 
 labor stopped in sympathy 
 
 66 My boy," he asked in reply, " were you ever married ? " 
 
 Beneath its coat of tan, Grannis s face flushed ; but he 
 did not answer. 
 
 A second passed ; then the plucking of feathers was 
 continued. 
 
 " I reckon you Ve never been, though,*" Graham went 
 on, " else you d never ask that question." 
 
 During the remainder of the evening, Grannis sought 
 no further information ; and to Ma Graham s narrow life 
 a new interest was added. 
 
 Ordinarily the cowboys went to their bunks in an ad 
 joining shed almost directly after supper, but this evening, 
 without giving a reason, they lingered. The housekeeper 
 finished her work, and, coming into the main room, took a 
 chair and sat down, her hands folded in her lap. The 
 grouse dressed, Graham ranged them in a row upon the 
 lean-to table, removed the apron, and lit his pipe in 
 silence. The cowboys rolled fresh cigarettes and puffed 
 at them steadily, the four stumps close together glowing 
 in the dimness of the room. As everywhere upon the 
 prairie, the quiet was almost a thing to feel. 
 
 At last, when the silence had become oppressive, the 
 foreman took the pipe from his mouth and blew a short 
 puff of smoke. 
 
 "Seems like the boss ought to ve got back before this," 
 he said with a sidelong glance at his wife. 
 
 Ma Graham nodded corroboration. 
 
 " Yes; must have found something wrong, I guess." 
 [38] 
 
Ben s New Home 
 
 She refolded her hands, and once more relapsed into 
 silence. 
 
 It was the breaking of the ice, however. 
 
 "Where d^ye suppose the trouble could have been, 
 Graham ? " It was another late-comer, Bud Buck, young 
 and narrow of hips, who spoke. 
 
 "At Blair s," was the answer. "The Big B is the 
 closest." 
 
 "Blair?" The questioner puffed at his cigarette 
 thoughtfully. " Guess I never heard of him." 
 
 " Must be a stranger in these parts, then," said Marcom. 
 " Most everybody knows Tom Blair." He paused to give 
 an all-including glance. " At least well enough to get a 
 slice of his dough," he finished with a sarcastic laugh. 
 
 " Does he handle the pasteboards ? " asked Buck, with 
 interest. 
 
 " Tries to," contemptuously. 
 
 The curiosity of the youthful Bud was now thoroughly 
 aroused. 
 
 " What kind of a fellow is he, anyway ? " he went on. 
 " Does he go it alone up at his ranch ? " 
 
 At the last question Bill Marcom, discreetly silent, 
 shifted his eyes in the direction of the foreman, and, 
 following them, Bud surprised a covert glance between 
 Graham and his wife. It was the latter who finally 
 answered. 
 
 Buck was not without intuition, and he shifted to safer 
 ground. 
 
 " Got much of a herd, has he ?" 
 [39] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Marcom rolled a fresh cigarette skilfully, and drew the 
 string of the tobacco pouch taut with his teeth. 
 
 "He did have, one time, but I don t believe he s got 
 many left now. There s been a bunch lost there every 
 storm I can remember. He don t keep any punchers to 
 look after em, and he s never on hand himself. The 
 woman and the kid," with a peculiar glance at the stout 
 housekeeper, " saved em part of the time, but mostly 
 they just drifted." The speaker blew a great cloud of 
 smoke, and the veins at his temples swelled. "It s a 
 shame, the way he neglects his stock and lets em starve 
 and freeze!" 
 
 The blood coursed hot in the veins of Bud Buck. 
 
 " Why don t somebody step in ? " 
 
 There was a meaning silence, broken at last by 
 Graham. 
 
 " We would Ve with a rope if it had n t been for 
 the boss. He tried to help the fellow ; went over there 
 lots of times himself weather colder than the devil, too, 
 and with the wind and sleet so bad you could n t see the 
 team ahead of you until one time last Winter Blair 
 came home full, and caught him there." The narrative 
 paused, and the black pipe puffed reminiscently. "The 
 boss never said much, but I guess they must have had 
 quite a session. Anyway, Rankin never went again, and 
 from the way he looked when he got back here, half froze, 
 and the mustangs beat out, I reckon Blair never knew 
 how close he come to a necktie party that day." 
 
 Again silence fell, and remained unbroken until Graham 
 suddenly sprang to his feet, and with " That s him now ! 
 
Ben s New Home 
 
 I could tell that old blackboard if I was in my grave ! " 
 hurried on coat and hat and disappeared into the night. 
 A minute more and the door through which he had 
 passed opened slowly, and the figure of a small boy, 
 wrapped like an Indian in a big blanket, stepped timidly 
 inside and stood blinking in the light. 
 
 In anticipation of a very different arrival the house 
 keeper had risen to her feet, and now in surprise, arms 
 akimbo, she stood looking curiously at the stranger. In 
 this land at this time the young of every other animal 
 native thereto was common, but a child, a white child, 
 was a novelty indeed. Many a cow-puncher, bachelor 
 among bachelors, could testify that it had been years since 
 he had seen the like. But Ma Graham was not a bach 
 elor, and in her the maternal instinct, though repressed, 
 was strong. It was barely an instant before she was at the 
 little lad s side, unwinding the blanket with deft hands. 
 
 " Who be you, anyway, and where d you come from ? " 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 The child observed her gravely. 
 
 "Benjamin Blair s my name. I came with the man." 
 
 The husk was off the lad ere this, and the woman was 
 rubbing his small hands vigorously. 
 
 " Cold, ain t you ? Come right over to the fire ! " her 
 self leading the way. "And hungry I ll bet you re 
 hungrier than a wolf ! " 
 
 The lad nodded. " Yes, ma am." 
 
 The woman straightened up and looked down at her 
 charge. 
 
 " Of course you are. All little boys are hungry." She 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 cast a challenging glance around the group of interested 
 spectators. 
 
 " Fix the fire, one of you, while I get something hot for 
 the kid,"" she said, and ambled toward the lean-to. 
 
 If the men thought to have their curiosity concerning 
 the youngster satisfied by word of mouth, however, they 
 were doomed to be disappointed; for when Rankin himself 
 entered it was as though nothing out of the ordinary had 
 happened. He hung up his coat methodically, and, with 
 the boy by his side, partook of the hastily prepared meal 
 impassively, as was his wont. It could not have escaped 
 him that the small Benjamin ate and ate until it seemed 
 marvellous that one stomach could accommodate so much 
 food ; but he made no comment, and when at last the boy 
 succumbed to a final plateful, he tilted back against the 
 wall for his last smoke for the day. This was the usual 
 signal of dismissal, and the hands put on their hats and 
 filed silently out. 
 
 Without more words the foreman and his wife prepared 
 for the night. The dishes were cleared away and piled in 
 the lean-to. From either end of the room bunks, broad 
 as beds, were let down from the wall, and the blankets 
 that formed their linings were carefully smoothed out. 
 Along the pole extending across the middle of the room, 
 another set was drawn, dividing the room in two. Then 
 the two disappeared with a simple " Good-night." 
 
 Rankin and the boy sat alone looking at each other. 
 From across the blanket partition there came the muffled 
 sound of movement, the impact of Graham s heavy boots 
 as they dropped to the floor, and then silence. 
 
 [ 42 ] 
 
Ben s New Home 
 
 " Better go to bed, Ben," suggested Rankin, with a nod 
 toward the bunk. 
 
 The boy at once went through the process of disrobing, 
 and, crawling in between the blankets, pulled them up about 
 his chin. But the blue eyes did not close. Instead, they 
 rested steadily upon the man s face. Rankin returned the 
 look, and then the stubby pipe left his mouth. 
 
 "What is it, Ben?" 
 
 The boy hesitated. " Am I to to stay with you ? " 
 he asked at last. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 For an instant the questioner seemed satisfied ; then 
 the peculiar inquiring look returned. 
 
 " Anything else, son ? " 
 
 The lad hesitated longer than before. Beneath the 
 coverings his body moved restlessly. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I want to know why nobody would come to 
 help my mamma if she d sent for them. She said they 
 would n t." 
 
 The pipe left Rankin s mouth, his great jaws closing 
 with an audible click. 
 
 " You wish to know what did you say, Ben ?" 
 
 The boy repeated the question. 
 
 For a minute, and then another, Rankin said nothing ; 
 then he knocked the ashes from the bowl of his brier and 
 laid it upon the table. 
 
 " Never mind now why they would n t, son." He 
 arose heavily and drew off his coat. " You 11 find out for 
 yourself quickly enough too quickly, my boy. Now 
 go to sleep." 
 
 [ 43 ] 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE EXOTICS 
 
 SOME men acquire involuntary prominence by being 
 democratic amid aristocratic surroundings. Others, 
 on the contrary, but with the same result, continue 
 to live the life to which they were born, even when placed 
 amid surroundings that make their actions all but gro 
 tesque. An example of this latter class was Scotty Baker, 
 whose ranch, as the wild goose flies, was thirteen miles 
 west of the [R. 
 
 Scotty was a very English Englishman, with an inborn 
 love of fine horse-flesh and a guileless nature. Some years 
 before he had fallen into the hands of a promoter, and 
 had bartered a goodly proportion of his worldly belong 
 ings for a horse-ranch in Dakota, to be taken possession 
 of immediately. Long indeed was the wail which went up 
 from his home in Sussex when the fact was made known. 
 Neighbors were fluent in denunciation, relatives insistent 
 in expostulation ; his wife, and in sympathy their baby 
 daughter, copious in the argument of tears ; but the die 
 was irrevocably cast. Go he would, not from voluntary 
 stubbornness, but because he must. 
 
 The actual departure of the Bakers was much like the 
 sailing of Columbus. Probably not one of the friends 
 
 [44] 
 
The Exotics 
 
 who saw them off for their new home expected ever to see 
 the family again. Indians they were confident were ram 
 pant, and frantic for scalps. Should any by a miracle 
 escape the savages, the tremendous herds of buffalo, run 
 ning amuck, here and there, could not fail to trample the 
 survivors into the dust of the prairie. By comparison, 
 war was a benignant prospect; and sighs mingled until 
 the sound was as the wailing of winds. 
 
 Scotty was very cheerful through it all, very encourag 
 ing even in the face of incontestibly unfavorable evidence, 
 until, with the few remnants of civilization they had 
 brought with them, the family arrived at the wind-beaten 
 terminus, a hundred miles from his newly acquired prop 
 erty. Then for the first time he wilted. 
 
 " I ve been an ass," he admitted bitterly, as he glanced 
 in impotent contempt at the handful of weather-stained 
 buildings which on the map bore the name of a town ; 
 " an ass, an egregious, abominable, blethering ass ! "" 
 
 But, notwithstanding his lack of the practical, Scotty 
 was made of good stuff. It was not an alternative but a 
 necessity that faced him now, and he arose right manfully 
 to the occasion. Despite his wife s assertion that she 
 " never, never would go any farther into this God-forsaken 
 country," he succeeded in getting her into a lumber-wagon 
 and headed for what he genially termed "the interior. 1 
 At last he even succeeded in making her smile at his efforts 
 to make the disreputable mule pack-team he had secured 
 move faster than a walk. 
 
 Once in possession of his own, however, he returned to 
 his customary easy manner of life. It took him a very 
 
 [45] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 short time to discover that he had purchased a gold 
 brick. Horses, especially fine horses, were in no demand 
 there ; but this fact did not alter his course in the least. 
 A horse-ranch he had bought, a horse-ranch he would 
 run, though every man west of the Mississippi should 
 smile. He enlarged his tiny shack to a cottage of three 
 rooms ; put in floor and ceiling, and papered the walls. Out 
 of poles and prairie sod he fashioned a serviceable barn, and 
 built an admirable horse paddock. Last of all he planted 
 in his dooryard, in artistic irregularity, a wagon-load of 
 small imported trees. The fact that within six months 
 they all died caused him slight misgiving. He at least 
 had done what he could to beautify the earth ; that he 
 failed was nature s fault, not his. 
 
 Once settled, he began to make acquaintances. Methodi 
 cally, to the members of one ranch at a time, he sent invita 
 tions to dinner, and upon the appointed date he confronted 
 his guests with a spectacle which made them all but doubt 
 their identity, the like of which most of them had never 
 even seen before. Fancy a cowboy rancher, clad in flannel 
 and leather, welcomed by a host and hostess in complete 
 evening dress, ushered into a room which contained a carpet 
 and a piano, and had lace curtains at the windows ; seated 
 later at a table covered with pure linen and set with real 
 china and cut-glass. The experience was like a dream to 
 the visitor. Temporarily, as in a dream, the evening 
 would pass without conscious volition upon the latter s 
 part ; and not until later, when he was at home, would the 
 full significance of the experience assert itself, and his won 
 der and admiration find vent in words. Then indeed 
 
 [46] 
 
The Exotics 
 
 would the fame of Scotty Baker, his wife, and little daugh 
 ter, be heard in the land. 
 
 Early in his career, Scotty began to cultivate the im 
 passive Rankin. He fairly bombarded the big rancher 
 with courtesies and invitations. No holiday (and Scotty 
 was an assiduous observer of holidays) was complete un 
 less Rankin was present to help celebrate. No improve 
 ment about the ranch was definitely undertaken until 
 Rankin had expressed a favorable opinion concerning the 
 project. Gradually, so gradually that the big man him 
 self did not realize the change, he fell under Scotty s 
 influence, and more and more frequently he was to be 
 found headed toward the cosey Baker cottage. Now, for 
 a year or more, scarcely a Sunday had passed without one 
 or the other of the men finding it possible to traverse the 
 thirty miles intervening between them, to spend a few 
 hours in each other s company. 
 
 It was in pursuance of this laudable intention that on the 
 second morning following Ben Blair s adoption into the 
 |^ Ranch a Sunday the Englishman hitched a team of 
 his best blooded trotters to the antiquated phaeton, which 
 was the only vehicle he possessed, and started across country 
 at a lively clip. Thus it came to pass that about two 
 hours later, having tied his team at the barn and started 
 for the ranch-house, the visitor saw squarely in his path 
 upon the sunny south doorstep an object that made him 
 pause and blink his near-sighted eyes. Under the concen 
 tration of his vision, the object resolved itself into a small 
 boy perched like a frog upon a rock, his fingers locked 
 across his shins, his chin upon his knees. For an instant 
 
 [47] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 the Englishman hesitated. Courtesy was instinctive with 
 him. 
 
 " Can you tell me whether Mr. Rankin is at home ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 The lad calmly disentangled himself and stood up. 
 
 " You mean the big man, sir ? " 
 
 Again Scotty was guilty of a breach of etiquette, lie 
 stared. 
 
 " Certainly," he replied at last. 
 
 Ben Blair stepped out of the way. 
 
 "Yes, sir, he is." 
 
 Within the ranch-house Scotty dropped into the nearest 
 chair. 
 
 " Tell me, Rankin," he began, " who is the newcomer, 
 and where did you get him ? " A long leg swung com 
 fortably over its mate. " And, by the way, while you Ye 
 about it, is he six or sixty ? By Jove, I could n t tell ! " 
 
 The host looked at his visitor quizzically. 
 
 " Ben, I suppose you mean ? " 
 
 " Ben, or Tom, I don t know. I mean the gentleman 
 on the front steps, the one who did n t know your name, 11 
 and the Englishman related the recent conversation. 
 
 The corners of Rankin s eyes tightened into an un 
 wonted smile as he listened, and then contracted until 
 the corner of the large mouth drew upward in sympathy. 
 
 " I m not surprised, Baker, 11 he admitted, " that you re 
 in doubt about Ben^ age. He "s eight ; but I \I be 
 uncertain myself if I did n t absolutely know. As to his 
 not knowing my name it ""s just struck me that I Ve 
 never introduced myself to the little fellow." 
 
 [48] 
 
The Exotics 
 
 " But how did you come to get him ? This is n t a 
 country where one sees many children roaming around." 
 
 "No," the big mouth dropped back into its normal 
 shape; " that s a fact. He did n t just drop in. I got him 
 by adoption, I suppose ; least ways, I asked him to come 
 and live with me, and he accepted." The speaker turned 
 to his companion directly. " You knew Jennie Blair, did 
 you?" 
 
 Scotty looked interested. 
 
 " Knew of her, but never had the pleasure of an ac 
 quaintance. I always " 
 
 " Well," interrupted Rankin impassively, " Ben s her 
 son. She died awhile ago, you remember, and somehow it 
 seemed to break Blair all up. He would n t stay here any 
 longer, and did n t want to take the kid with him, so I took 
 the youngster in. As far as I know, the arrangement will 
 stick." 
 
 For a minute there was silence. Scotty observed his 
 host shrewdly, almost sceptically. 
 
 " That s all of the story, is it ? " he asked at last. 
 
 " All, as far as I know." 
 
 Scotty continued his observation a moment longer. 
 
 " But not all the kid knows, I judge." 
 
 The host made no comment, and in a distinctively ab 
 sent manner the Englishman removed his glasses and 
 cleaned the lenses upon the tail of his Sunday frock-coat. 
 
 " By the way," Scotty returned the glasses to his nose 
 and sprung the bows over his ears with a snap, " what 
 day was it that Blair left ? Did it happen to be Friday ?" 
 
 " Yes, Friday." 
 * [49] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 w And he does n t intend ever to return ? " 
 
 " I believe not." 
 
 The visitor s eyes flashed swiftly around the room. 
 The two men were alone. 
 
 " I think, then, I see through it." The voice was 
 lower than before. " One of my best mares disappeared 
 night before last, and I have n t been able to get trace of 
 a hoof or hair since." 
 
 " What ? " Rankin was interested at last. 
 
 Scotty repeated the statement, and his host eyed him a 
 full half minute steadily. 
 
 " And you just tell of it ? " he said at last. 
 
 The Englishman shifted uneasily in his seat. 
 
 " Yes." Forgetting that he had just polished his 
 glasses, he took them off and went through the process 
 again. 
 
 " Yes, I may as well be honest, I Ve seen a bit of these 
 Westerners about here, and I don t really agree with their 
 scheme of justice. They Ve apt to put two and two 
 together and make eight where you know it s only four." 
 For the second time he sprung the bows back over his ears. 
 " And when they find out their beastly mistake why 
 oh it s too late then, perhaps, for some poor devil ! " 
 
 For another half minute Rankin hesitated; then he 
 reached over and grasped the other man by the hand. 
 
 " Baker," he said, " you ain t very practical, but you re 
 dead square." And he shook the hand again. 
 
 Of a sudden a twinkle came into the Britisher s eyes 
 and he tore himself loose with an effort. 
 
 " By the way," he said, " I d like to ask a question for 
 [50] 
 
The Exotics 
 
 future guidance. What would you have done if you d 
 been in my place ? " 
 
 Rankin stiffened in his seat, and a color almost red 
 surged beneath the tan of his cheeks ; then, as suddenly as 
 his companion had done, he smiled outright. 
 
 "I reckon I d have done just what you did, 1 he ad 
 mitted ; and the two men laughed together. 
 
 " Seriously, though," said Scotty, after a moment, " and 
 as long as I ve told you anyway, what ought I to do under 
 the circumstances ? Should I let Blair off, do you think ? " 
 
 For a moment Rankin did not answer ; then he faced 
 his questioner directly, and Scotty knew why the big man s 
 word was so nearly law in the community. 
 
 " Under the circumstances,"" he repeated, " I d let him 
 go ; for several reasons. First of all, he s got such a start 
 of you now that you could n t catch him, anyway Then 
 he s a coward by nature, and it 11 be a mighty long time 
 before he ever shows up here again. And last of all," the 
 speaker hesitated, "last of all," he repeated slowly, " though 
 I don t know, I believe you were right when you said the 
 boy could tell more about it than the rest of us ; and if 
 what we suspect is true, I think by the time he comes 
 back, if he ever does come, Ben will be old enough to take 
 care of him." Again the speaker paused, and his great 
 jowl settled down into his shirt-front. " If he does n t, I 
 can t read signs when I see em." 
 
 For a moment the room was silent ; then Scotty sprang 
 to his feet as if a load had been taken off his mind. 
 
 " All right," said he, " we 11 forget it. And, speaking 
 of forgetting, I ve nearly got myself into trouble already. 
 
 [51] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 I have an invitation from Mrs. Baker for you to take 
 dinner with us to-day. In fact, I was sent on purpose 
 to bring you. Not a word, not a word ! " he continued, 
 at sight of objections gathering on the other s face; "a 
 lady s invitations are sacred, you know. Get your coat ! " 
 
 Rankin arose with an effort and stood facing his visitor. 
 
 " You know I m always glad to visit you, Baker," he 
 said. " I was n t thinking of holding off on my own ac 
 count, but I ve got someone else to consider now, you 
 know. Ben " 
 
 " Certainly, certainly ! " Scotty s voice was eloquent of 
 comprehension. " Throw the kiddie in too. He can play 
 with Flossie; they re about of an age, and she ll be 
 tickled to death to have him." 
 
 Rankin looked at his friend a moment peculiarly. " I 
 know Ben s going would be all right with you, Baker," he 
 explained at last, " but how about your wife ? Consider 
 ing everything she might object." 
 
 The smile left the Englishman s face, and a look of 
 perplexity took its place. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he said, " you re right ! I never thought of 
 that." He shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. " But, 
 pshaw ! What s the use of saying anything whatever about 
 the boy s connections ? He s nothing but a youngster, 
 and, besides, his mother s actions are no fault of his." 
 
 Rankin took his top-coat off its peg deliberately. 
 
 "All right," he said. "I ll call Ben." At the door 
 he paused, looking back, the peculiar expression again 
 upon his face. "As you say, the faults of Ben s mother 
 are not his faults, anyway." 
 
 [52] 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE SOIL AND THE SEED 
 
 WITHIN the Baker home three persons, a 
 woman and two men, were sitting beside a 
 well-discussed table in the perfect content that 
 follows a good meal. Strange to say, in this frontier land, 
 the men had cigars, and their smoke curled slowly toward 
 the ceiling. Intermittently, with the unconscious attitude 
 of indifference we bestow upon happenings remote from 
 our lives, they were discussing the month-old news of the 
 world, which the messenger from town, who supplied at 
 stated intervals the family wants, had brought the day 
 before. 
 
 Out of doors, in the warm sunny plat south of the barn, 
 a small boy and a still smaller girl were engaged in the 
 fascinating occupation of becoming acquainted. The little 
 girl was decidedly taking the initiative. 
 
 " How s it come your name is Blair ? " she asked, open 
 ing fire as soon as they were alone. 
 
 The boy pondered the question. It had never occurred 
 to him before. Why should he be called Blair? No 
 adequate reason suggested itself. 
 
 " I don t know," he admitted. 
 
 The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought. 
 [53] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 "It s funny, isn t it?" she said. "Now, my papa s 
 name is Baker, and my name s Florence Baker. You 
 ought to be Ben Rankin but you are n t." She stroked 
 a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger. " It s funny," 
 she repeated. 
 
 " Oh ! " commented Benjamin. He understood now, 
 but explanations were not a part of his philosophy. 
 "Oh!" and the subject dropped. 
 
 " Let s play duck on the rock," suggested Florence. 
 
 The boy s hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets. 
 
 " I don t know how." 
 
 " That "s nothing." The small brunette had the air of 
 one to whom difficulties were unknown. " I 11 show you. 
 Papa and I play, and it s lots of fun only he beats me." 
 She looked about for available material. 
 
 " You get that little box up by the house," she directed, 
 " and we 11 have that for the rock." 
 
 Ben did as ordered. 
 
 " Now bring two tin cans. You 11 find a pile back of 
 the barn." 
 
 Once more the boy departed, to return a moment later 
 with a pair of " selects," each bearing in gaudy illumina 
 tion a composite picture of the ingredients of succotash. 
 
 " Now watch me," said Florence. 
 
 She carried the box about a rod away and planted it 
 firmly on the ground. " This is the rock," she explained. 
 On the top of the box she perched one of the cans, open 
 end up. " And this is the duck my duck. Do you see ?* 
 
 The boy had watched the proceedings carefully. " Yes,, 
 I see," he said. 
 
 [54] 
 
The Soil and the Seed 
 
 Florence came back to the barn. " Now the game is for 
 you to take this other can and knock my duck off. Then 
 we both run, and if you get your can on the box ahead of 
 me, I m it, and I 11 have to knock off your duck. Are 
 you ready ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " All right.*" And the sport was on. 
 
 Ben poised his missile and carefully let fly. 
 
 " He, he ! " tittered Florence. " You missed I * 
 
 He retrieved his duck without comment. 
 
 " Try again ; you ve got three chances." 
 
 More carefully than before Ben took aim and tossed 
 his can. 
 
 " Missed again ! " exulted the little brunette. "You Ve 
 only one more try." And the brown eyes flashed with 
 mischief. 
 
 For the last time Ben stood at position. 
 
 " Be careful ! you re out if you miss." 
 
 Even more slowly than before the boy took aim, swung 
 his arm overhead clear from the shoulder, and threw with 
 all his might. There was a flash of gaudy paper through 
 the air, a resounding impact of tin against wood, and 
 the make-believe duck skipped away as though fearful of 
 danger. 
 
 For a moment Florence stood aghast, but only for a 
 moment ; then she stamped a tiny foot imperiously. 
 
 " Oh, you naughty boy ! " she exclaimed. " You 
 naughty, naughty boy ! " 
 
 Once more Ben s hands were in his pockets. " Why ? w 
 he asked innocently. 
 
 [55] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 ** Because you don t play right ! " 
 
 " You told me to knock the duck off, and I did! " 
 
 " But not that way." Florence s small chin was high in 
 the air. " I m going in the house." 
 
 Ben made no motion to follow her, none to prevent 
 her going. 
 
 " I m sorry," he said simply. 
 
 The little girl took two steps decidedly, a third halt 
 ingly, a fourth, then stopped and looked back out of the 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 " Are you very sorry ? " she asked. 
 
 Ben nodded his head gravely. 
 
 There was a moment of indecision. " All right," she 
 said, with apparent reluctance ; " but we won t play duck 
 any more. We 11 play drop the handkerchief." 
 
 The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose. 
 
 " I don t know how," he admitted once more. 
 
 Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy. 
 
 " Don t Mr. Rankin, or or anyone play with you ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 Ben shook his head. 
 
 " All right, then," she said obligingly, " I 11 show you." 
 
 With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle 
 about ten feet in diameter. 
 
 " You can t cross that place in there," she said. 
 
 The boy looked at the bare ground critically. No vis 
 ible barrier presented itself to his vision. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 Florence made a gesture of disapproval. " Because you 
 can t," she explained. Then, some further reason seeming 
 
 [ 56 ] 
 
The Soil and the Seed 
 
 necessary, she added, " Perhaps there are red-hot irons or 
 snakes, or something, in there. Anyway, you can t cross ! " 
 
 Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him 
 a moment doubtfully. 
 
 " Now," she went on, " I stand right here close to the 
 line, and you take the handkerchief." She produced a 
 dainty little kerchief with a " B " embroidered in the corner. 
 " Drop it behind me, and get in my place if you can be 
 fore I touch you. If you get clear around and catch me 
 before I notice you you can kiss me. Do you see ? " 
 
 Ben could see. 
 
 " All right, then." And the little girl stood at atten 
 tion, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching 
 the line. 
 
 The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The 
 first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and pro 
 ceeded calmly on his journey. His back toward her, the 
 little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glance behind ; 
 then quickly shifted to her original position, a look of in 
 nocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around 
 the circle that contained hot irons, or snakes, or some 
 thing back to his starting-point, touched the small 
 fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as 
 though afraid she would fracture. 
 
 "Here s your handkerchief," he said, stooping to re 
 cover the bit of linen. " You re it" 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " she said, in mock despair ; " you dropped it 
 the first time, did n t you ? " 
 
 Ben agreed to the statement. 
 
 An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a 
 [57] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 curious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the 
 drooping lashes. 
 
 " I 3id n t suppose you d do that the first time," said , 
 the little girl. " Papa never does." 
 
 The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least 
 inadequate to halt the game ; but he made no comment. 
 
 Again there was a lull. 
 
 " Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged 
 beneath the soft brown skin. 
 
 Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premoni 
 tion that all was not well. 
 
 " You Ye it, ain t you ? " he hesitated at last. 
 
 This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. 
 The color which before had stood just beneath the skin 
 rose burning to her ears, to the roots of her hair. Her 
 big brown eyes flashed fire. 
 
 " Ben Blair," she flamed, " you Ye a Yraid cat ! " Tears 
 welled up into her voice, into her eyes, and she made a 
 motion as if to leave ; but the sudden passion of a spoiled 
 child was too strong upon her, the mystified face of the 
 other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was 
 all but in voluntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck 
 the boy fair on the mouth. " A Traid cat, fraid cat, and 
 I hate you ! " 
 
 Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a 
 girl. The ethics of sex was a thing unknown to him, but 
 nevertheless some instinct prevented his returning the 
 insult. Except for the red mark upon his lips, his face 
 grew very white. 
 
 " What am I afraid of? " he asked steadily. 
 [58] 
 
The Soil and the Seed 
 
 Defiant still, the girl held her ground. 
 
 "Afraid of what?" she jeered. You re afraid of 
 everything ! Fraid cats always are ! " 
 
 " But what ? " pressed the boy. " Tell me something 
 I m afraid of." 
 
 Florence glanced about her. The tall roof of the barn 
 caught her vision. 
 
 "You wouldn t dare jump off the roof there, for one 
 thing," she ventured. 
 
 Ben looked up. The point mentioned arose at least six 
 teen feet, and the earth beneath was frozen like asphalt, 
 but he did not hesitate. At the north end, a stack of hay 
 piled against the wall formed a sort of inclined plane, and 
 making a detour he began to climb. Half-way up he lost 
 his footing and came tumbling to the ground ; but still he 
 said nothing. The next time he was more careful, and 
 reached the ridge-pole without accident. Below, the little 
 girl, brilliant in her red jacket, stood watching him ; but 
 he never even glanced at her. Instead, he raised himself 
 to his full height, looked once at the ground beneath, and 
 jumped. 
 
 That instant a wave of contrition swept over Florence. 
 In a sort of vision she saw the boy lying injured, perhaps 
 dead, upon the frozen ground, and all through her fault ! 
 She shut her eyes, and clasped her hands over her face. 
 
 A few seconds passed, bringing with them no further 
 sound, and she slowly opened her fingers. Through them, 
 instead of a prostrate corpse, she saw the boy standing 
 erect before her. There was a smear of dust upon his coat 
 and face where he had fallen, and a scratch upon his cheek, 
 
 [59] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 which bled a bit, but otherwise he was apparently unhurt. 
 From beneath his long lashes as she looked, the blue eyes 
 met hers, deliberate and unsmiling. 
 
 As swiftly as it had come, the mood of contrition 
 passed. In an indefinite sort of way the girl experienced 
 a sensation of disappointment, a feeling of being de 
 prived of something which was her due. She was only a 
 child, a spoiled child, and her defiance arose anew. A 
 moment so the children faced each other. 
 
 " Do you still think I m afraid ? " asked the boy at last. 
 
 Again the hot color flamed beneath the brown skin. 
 
 "Pooh!" said the girl, "that was nothing!" She 
 tossed her head in derision. " Anyone could do that ! " 
 
 Ben slowly took off his cap, slapped it against his knee 
 to shake off the dust, and put it back upon his head. The 
 action took only a half minute, but when the girl looked 
 at him again it hardly seemed he was the same boy with 
 whom she had just played. His eyes were no longer blue, 
 but gray. The chin, too, with an odd trick, one she 
 was destined to know better in future, had protruded, 
 had become the dominant feature of his face, aggressive, 
 almost menacing. Except for the size, one looking could 
 scarcely have believed Ben s visage was that of a child. 
 
 "What," the boy s hands went back into his pockets, 
 " what would n t anyone do, then ? " he asked directly. 
 
 At that moment Florence Baker would have been glad 
 to occupy some other person s shoes. Obviously, the 
 proper thing for her to do was to admit her fault and 
 clear the atmosphere, but that did not accord with her 
 disposition, and she looked about for a suggestion. One 
 
 [60] 
 
The Soil and the Seed 
 
 came promptly, but at first she did not speak. Then the 
 brown head tossed again. 
 
 " Some folks would be afraid to ride one of those colts 
 out there ! " She indicated the pasture near by. " Papa 
 said the other day he d rather not be the first to try." 
 
 The colts mentioned were a bunch of four-year-olds that 
 Scotty had just imported from an Eastern breeder. They 
 were absolutely unbroken, but every ounce thoroughbreds, 
 and full to the ear-tips of what the Englishman expres 
 sively termed " ginger. 1 
 
 To her credit be it said, the small Florence had no idea 
 that her challenge would be accepted. Implicit trust in 
 her father was one of her virtues, and the mere suggestion 
 that another would attempt to do what he would not, was 
 rankest heresy. But the boy Benjamin started for the 
 barn, and, securing a bridle and a pan of oats, moved 
 toward the gate. Instinctively Florence took a step after 
 him. 
 
 " Really, I did n t mean for you to try," she explained in 
 swift penitence. " I don t think you re afraid ! " 
 
 Ben opened and closed the gate silently. 
 
 "Please don t do it," pleaded the girl. "You ll be 
 hurt!" 
 
 But for all the effect her petition had, she might as well 
 have asked the sun to cease shining. Nothing could stop 
 that gray-eyed boy. Without a show of haste he ad 
 vanced toward the nearest colt, shook the oats in the pan, 
 and whistled enticingly. Full often in his short life he 
 had seen the trick done before, and he waited expectantly. 
 
 Florence, forgetting her fears, watched with interest. 
 [61] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 At first the colt was shy, but gradually, under stimulus of 
 its appetite, it drew nearer, then ran frisking away, again 
 drew near. Ben held out the pan, shook it at intervals, 
 displaying its contents to the best advantage. Colt nature 
 could not resist the appeal. The sleek thoroughbred cast 
 aside all scruples, came close, and thrust a silken muzzle 
 deep into the grain. 
 
 Still without haste, the boy put on the bridle, holding 
 the pan near the ground to reach the straps over the ears ; 
 then, pausing, looked at the back far above his head. 
 How he was to get up there would have perplexed an 
 observer. For a moment it puzzled the boy; then an 
 idea occurred to him. Once more holding the remnants of 
 the oats near the ground, he waited until the hungry nose 
 was deep amongst them, the head well lowered ; then, im 
 proving his opportunity, he swung one leg over the sleek 
 neck and awaited developments. 
 
 He was not long in suspense. The action was like 
 touching flame to powder ; the resulting explosion was all 
 but simultaneous. With a snort, the head went high in 
 air, tossing the grain about like seed, and down the in 
 clined plane of the neck thus formed the long-legged Ben 
 jamin slid to the slippery back. Once there, an instinct 
 told him to grip the rounding flank with his ankles, and 
 clutch the heavy mane. 
 
 And he was none too quick. For a moment the colt 
 paused in pure wonder at the audacity of the thing ; then, 
 with a neigh, half of anger and half of fear, it sprang 
 away at top speed, circling and recircling, flashing in and 
 out among the other horses, the fragment of humanity on 
 
 [62] 
 
The Soil and the Seed 
 
 its back meanwhile clinging to his place like a monkey. 
 For a minute, then another, the youngster kept his seat, 
 pulling upon the reins at intervals, gripping together his 
 small knees until the muscles ached. Then suddenly the 
 colt, changing its tactics, planted its front feet firmly into 
 the ground, stopped short, and the small Benjamin shot 
 overhead, to strike the turf beyond with an impact which 
 fairly drove the breath from his body. But even then, 
 half unconscious as he was, he would n t let loose of the 
 reins. Not until the now thoroughly aroused colt had 
 dragged him for rods, did the leather break, leaving the 
 boy and the bridle in a most disreputable-looking heap 
 upon the earth. 
 
 Florence had watched the scene with breathless inter 
 est. While Ben was making his mount, she observed him 
 doubtfully. While he retained his seat, she clapped her 
 hands in glee. Then, with his downfall, a great lump 
 came chokingly into her throat, and, without waiting to 
 see the outcome, she ran sobbing to the house. A mo 
 ment later she rushed into the little parlor where her 
 father and Rankin, their cigars finished, were sitting and 
 chatting. 
 
 " Papa," she pleaded, " papa, go quick ! Ben s killed ! " 
 
 " Great Caesar s ghost ! " exclaimed Scotty, springing 
 up nervously, and holding the little girl at arm s length. 
 "What s the matter?" 
 
 " Ben, Ben, I told you ! He tried to ride one of the 
 colts, and he s killed I know he is ! " 
 
 " Holy buckets ! " Genuine apprehension was in the 
 Englishman s voice. Without waiting for further expla- 
 
 [63] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 nation he shot out of the door, and ran full tilt to the 
 paddock behind the barn. There he stopped, and Rankin 
 coming up a moment later, the two men stood side by side 
 watching the approach of a small figure still some rods 
 away. The boy s face and hands were marked with blood 
 stains from numerous scratches ; one leg of his trousers 
 was torn disclosing the skin, and upon that side when he 
 walked he limped noticeably. All these things the two 
 men observed at a distance. When he came closer, they 
 were forgotten in the look upon his small face. The odd 
 trick the boy had of throwing his lower jaw forward was 
 now emphasized until the lower teeth fairly overshot the 
 upper. In sympathy, the eyes had tightened, not morosely 
 or cruelly, but with a fixed determination which was all but 
 uncanny. Scotty shifted a bit uncomfortably. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he remarked, with his usual unconscious 
 expletive, " I d rather have a tiger-cat on my trail than 
 that youngster, if he was to look that way. What do 
 you suppose he s got in his cranium now ? " 
 
 Rankin shook his head. " I don t know. He s be 
 yond me." 
 
 Scarcely a minute passed before the boy returned. He 
 had another bridle in his hand and a fresh pan of oats. 
 As before, he started to pass without a word, but Rankin 
 halted him. " What s the matter with your clothes, 
 Ben ? " he queried. 
 
 The lad looked at his questioner. "Horse threw me, 
 sir." 
 
 " And what are you going to do now ? " 
 
 " Going to try to ride him again, sir." 
 [64] 
 
The Soil and the Seed 
 
 Rankin paused, his face growing momentarily more 
 severe. 
 
 " Ben," he said at last, " did Mr. Baker hire you to 
 break his horses? If I were you I d put those things 
 away and ask his pardon." 
 
 The boy looked from one man to the other uncertainly. 
 Obviously, this phase of the matter had not occurred to 
 him. Obviously, too, the point of view must be correct, 
 for both Rankin and Scotty were solemn as the grave. 
 The lad shot out toward the pasture a glance that spoke 
 volumes ; then he turned to Baker. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," he said. 
 
 Scotty caught his cue. "Granted this time," he 
 answered. 
 
 A half-hour later, Rankin and Ben, the latter carefully 
 washed, the rents in his trousers temporarily repaired, 
 were ready to go home. Not until the very last moment 
 did Florence appear; then, her face a bit flushed, she 
 came out to the buckboard. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said simply. There was a moment s 
 pause; then, with a deepening color, she turned to Ben 
 Blair. " Come again soon," she added in a low tone. 
 
 [65] 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SANITY OF THE WILD 
 
 SUMMER, tan-colored, musical with note of katy 
 did and cicada, and the constant purr of the south 
 wind, was upon the prairie country. Under the 
 eternal law of necessity, the necessity of sunburnt, 
 stunted grass, the boundaries of the range extended 
 far in every direction. The herds bearing the [ll brand 
 no longer fed in one body, but scattered far and wide. 
 Often for a week at a time the men did" not sleep under 
 cover. Morning and night, when a semblance of dew was 
 upon the blighted grass, the cattle grazed. The life was 
 primitive and natural almost beyond belief in a world of 
 artificial civilization ; but it was independent, care-free, 
 and healthy. 
 
 The land surrounding the ranch-house was now almost 
 as bare as the palm of a hand. Only one object relieved 
 the impression of desolation, and that was a tree. It 
 stood carefully fenced about in the drain from the big 
 artesian well, a vivid blot of green against the dun 
 background. The first year after he came, Rankin had 
 imported it, a goodly sized soft maple ; and in the 
 pathway of constantly trickling water, it had grown and 
 prospered. It was the only tree for miles and miles 
 
 [ 66 ] 
 
The Sanity of the Wild 
 
 about, except the scrawny scrub-oaks, cotton-woods, and 
 wild plums that flanked the infrequent creeks, creeks 
 which in Summer, save in deepest holes, reverted to mere 
 dry runs. Beneath its shade Rankin had constructed a 
 rough bench, and therein Ma Graham, day after day when 
 her housework was finished, dozed and sewed and dozed 
 again, apparently as forgetful as the cowboys upon the 
 prairies that beyond her vision were great cities where 
 countless thousands of human beings sweltered and strug 
 gled in desperate competition for daily bread. 
 
 So much for the day. With the coming of dusk, a 
 coolness like a benediction took the place of heat. The 
 south wind gradually died down with the descending sun, 
 until immediately following the setting it was absolutely 
 still ; now it sprang up anew, and wandered on until the 
 break of day. 
 
 Such an evening in late July found Rankin and Baker 
 stretched out like boys upon a pile of hay in the latter s 
 yard. The big man had just arrived; the old buckboard, 
 with its mouse-colored mustangs, stood just as he had 
 driven it up. Scotty knew him well enough to know that 
 he had come for a purpose, and he awaited its revelation. 
 Rankin slowly filled and lit his pipe, drew thereon until 
 the glow from the bowl was reflected upon his face, and 
 blew a great cloud of smoke out into the gathering dusk. 
 
 " Baker," he asked at last, " what are we going to do 
 for the education of these youngsters of ours ? We can t 
 let them grow up here like savages. 11 
 
 Scotty rolled over on his side, and leaned his head com 
 fortably in his hand. 
 
 [67] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " I Ve thought of that," he answered, " and there seems 
 to me only one of two things to do either move into 
 civilization, or import a pedagogue." A pause, and a 
 whimsical inflection came into his voice. " Unfortunately, 
 however, neither plan seems exactly practical at this time." 
 
 Rankin smoked a minute in silence. " How would it do 
 to move into civilization six months of the year the 
 Winter six?" he suggested. 
 
 Scotty considered for a moment. " Do you mean that 
 seriously ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 By the sense of feeling alone, the Englishman rolled a 
 cigarette skilfully. " How about the stock here while 
 we Ve gone," he said hesitatingly. " Do you suppose we d 
 find anything left when we came back in the Spring ? " 
 
 Rankin crowded the half-burned tobacco down into the 
 pipe-bowl with his little finger. " I don t think you got 
 the idea," he explained. "My plan was for you to go 
 East in the Fall and put the kids in school. I d stay here 
 and see that everything ran smoothly while you were gone. 
 Mrs. Baker has said a dozen times that she wanted a 
 change for a time, anyway." 
 
 Scotty threw one long leg over the other. " As usual 
 you Ve right, Rankin," he said slowly. " The Lord knows 
 Mollie gets restless enough at times. People were like 
 ants in a hill where she was raised, and that life was a 
 part of her " He took a last puff at the cigarette, and 
 with a toss sent the smoking stump spinning like a firefly 
 into the darkness. "And Flossie can t grow up wild 
 I know that. 1 11 talk your suggestion over with Mollie 
 
 [68] 
 
The Sanity of the Wild 
 
 first, but I think I d be safe in saying right now that we 11 
 accept." 
 
 For a moment Rankin did not speak ; then he knocked 
 the ashes out of his pipe upon his heel. 
 
 " Excuse me if I keep going back to something unpleas 
 ant, Baker," he said slowly, " but in considering the matter 
 there s one thing I "don t want you to forget." Then, 
 after a meaning pause, he went on : " It s the same reason 
 I had for not introducing Ben in the first place." 
 
 Scotty drew out his book of rice-paper again almost in 
 voluntarily. 
 
 " I d thought of that this time," he said ; then paused 
 to finger a gauzy sheet absently. " I don t see why I 
 should consider it now, though seeing I did n t before." 
 
 Rankin said nothing, and conversation lapsed. Irresisti 
 bly, but so gradually as to be all but unconscious, the 
 spirit of the prairie night a sensation, a conception of 
 infinite vastness, of unassailable serenity stole over 
 and took possession of the men. The ambitious and 
 manifold artificial needs for which men barter their hap 
 piness, their sense of humanity, even life itself, seemed 
 beyond belief out there alone with the stars, with the 
 prairie night-wind singing in the ears ; seemed so puny that 
 they elicited only a smile. The lust of show, of extrava 
 gance, follies, wisdoms, man s loves and hates how their 
 true proportions stand revealed against the eternal back 
 ground of immeasurable distance, in nature s vast scheme ! 
 
 Scotty cleared his throat. "I used to think, when I 
 first came here, that I d been a fool ; but now, somehow, 
 at times like this, I wonder if I did n t blunder into the 
 
 [69] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 wisest act of my life." The prairie spirit had taken hold 
 of him. " And the longer I stay the more it grows upon 
 rne that such a life as this, where one s success is not the 
 measure of another s failure, is the only one to live. It is 
 the only life," he added after a pause. 
 
 Rankin said nothing. 
 
 Scotty was silent for a moment, but the mood was too 
 strong for him to remain so, and he went on. 
 
 " I know the ordinary person would laugh if I said it, 
 but really, I believe I m developing a distaste for money. 
 It s simply another term for caste ; and that word, with 
 the unreasoning superiority it implies, has somehow be 
 come hateful to me." He looked up into the night. 
 
 " I used to think I was happy back in England. I had 
 my home and my associates ; born so, because their fathers 
 were friends of my father, their grandfathers of my grand 
 father s class. As a small landlord I had my gentlemanly 
 leisure ; but as well as I know my name, I realize now that 
 I could never return to that life again. Looking back, I 
 see its intolerable narrowness, its petty smugness. By 
 comparison it s like the relative clearness of the atmos 
 phere there and here. There, perhaps I could see a few 
 miles : here, I look away over leagues and leagues of dis 
 tance. It s symbolic. 1 " The voice paused ; the face, 
 turned directly toward his companion s, tried in the half- 
 darkness to read its expression. " I ve been in this prairie 
 country long enough now to realize that financially I ve 
 made a mistake. I can earn a living, and that s all ; but 
 nevertheless I m happy happier than I ever realized it 
 was possible for me to be. I ve got enough more would 
 
 [70] 
 
The Sanity of the Wild 
 
 be a burden to me. If I have a trouble in the world, it s 
 because I see the inevitable prospect of money in the future, 
 money I don t want, for I m an only son and my father 
 is comparatively wealthy. Without turning his hand, his 
 rent-roll is five thousand pounds a year. He s getting 
 along in life. Some day it may be five years, it may be 
 fifteen he will die and leave it to me. I am to main 
 tain and pass on the family name, the family dignity. It 
 was all cut and dried generations back, generations before 
 I was born." 
 
 Still Rankin said nothing. For any indication he gave, 
 the other s revelation might have been only that he had a 
 hundred dollars deposited in the savings bank against a 
 rainy day. 
 
 But Scotty was now fairly under headway. He stripped 
 his reserve and confidence bare. 
 
 " You see now why I m glad to consider your proposi 
 tion. Whatever I believe myself must be of secondary 
 importance. I Ve others to think about Florence and 
 her mother. Flossie is only a child, but Mollie is a wo 
 man, and has lived her life in sight of the brazen calf. She 
 does n t realize, she never can realize, that it is of brass and 
 not of gold. Personally, I believe, as I believe in my own 
 existence, that Flossie would be immeasurably happier if 
 she never saw the other side of life, the artificial side, 
 but lived right here, knowing what we taught her and 
 developing like a healthy animal ; perhaps, when the time 
 came, marrying a rancher, having her own home, her own 
 family interests, and living close to nature. But it can t be. 
 I ve got to develop her, cultivate her, fit her for any 
 
 [ 71 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 society." The voice paused, and the speaker turned his 
 face away. 
 
 " God knows, and He knows also that I love her 
 dearly, that looking into the future I wish sometimes 
 she were the daughter of another man. 11 
 
 The minutes passed. The ponies shifted restlessly and 
 then were still. In the lull, the soft night-breeze crooned 
 its minor song, while near or far away no human ear 
 could measure the distance a prairie owl gave its weird 
 cry. Then silence fell as before. 
 
 Once more Scotty turned, facing his companion. 
 
 " I Ve a question to ask you, Rankin ; may I ask it with 
 out offence ? " 
 
 The big man nodded. By the starlight Baker caught 
 the motion. 
 
 " You told me once that you were a college man, and 
 that you had a Master s degree. From the very first you 
 started cattle-raising on a big scale. You must have had 
 money. Still, such being the case, you left culture and 
 civilization far behind and came here to choose a life abso 
 lutely different. I have told you why I wish to educate 
 my daughter. But why, feeling as you must have felt and 
 must still feel, since you re here, why do you wish to edu 
 cate this waif boy you Ve picked up ? By all the stand 
 ards of convention, he is at the very bottom of the social 
 scale. Why do you want to do this ? " 
 
 It was a psychological moment. Even in the semi- 
 darkness, Rankin felt the other s eyes fixed piercingly upon 
 him. He passed his hand over his face; he seemed about 
 to speak. But the habit of reticence was too strong 
 
 [ 72 ] 
 
The Sanity of the Wild 
 
 upon him. Even the inspiration of the Englishman s 
 confidence was not sufficient to break the seal of his own 
 reserve. He arose slowly and shook the clinging wisps of 
 hay from his clothes. 
 
 "For somewhat the same reason as your own," he 
 answered at last. " Ben, like Flossie, is a child, an odd 
 old child to be sure, but nevertheless a child. I have no 
 reason to know that when he grows up his beliefs will be 
 my beliefs. He must see both sides of the coin, and judge 
 for himself." 
 
 The speaker paused, then walked slowly over to the 
 old buckboard. " It s getting late, and I Ve got a long 
 drive home." With an effort he mounted into the seat 
 and picked up the reins. " Good-night." 
 
 Scotty hesitated a moment, and then said, "Good 
 night" 
 
 [?3J 
 
CHAPTER VTII 
 
 THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN 
 
 TWELVE years slipped by. Short as they seemed 
 to those actually living them, they had brought 
 great material changes. No longer did the 
 ranch cattle graze at the will of their owners, but, under 
 stress of competition, they browsed within the confines 
 of miles upon miles of galvanized fencing. Neighbors, as 
 Rankin said, were near now. There were four within a 
 radius of twenty miles. To be sure, there was still plenty 
 of land west of them, beyond the broad muddy Missouri, 
 open rough land, gradually rising in elevation, where a 
 traveller could journey for days and days without seeing a 
 human face. But this was not then a part of the so-called 
 " cattle ranges." In the parlance of the country, that was 
 " West," a place to hunt in, a refuge for criminals, but 
 as yet giving no indication of ever becoming of prac 
 tical use. 
 
 The [R^ Ranch had evolved along with the others, and 
 always well in advance. The house now boasted six rooms ; 
 the barn and stock -sheds had at a distance the appearance 
 of a town in themselves ; the collection of haying imple 
 ments mowers, loaders, stackers was almost complete 
 enough to stock a jobbing house. The herd itself had 
 
 [74] 
 
The Glitter of the Unknown 
 
 augmented, despite its annual reduction, until one artesian 
 well was inadequate to supply water ; and fifteen miles 
 north, at the extreme limit of his home-ranch, Rankin had 
 sunk another well, making a sort of sub-station of that 
 point. From it an observer with good eyes could see the 
 outlines of the modern Big B Ranch property, built on the 
 old site, and ostensibly operated by a long-legged Yankee, 
 Rob Hoyt by name, but in reality owned, as had been the 
 remnant of stock Tom Blair left behind him, by saloon 
 keeper Mick Kennedy. 
 
 The ranch force had changed very little. Rankin, 
 stouter by a quarter-hundred weight, shaggier of eyebrows 
 and with an accentuated droop in the upper eyelids, and if 
 possible an increased taciturnity, still lived his daytime 
 life mainly on wheels. The old buckboard had finally suc 
 cumbed, but its counterpart, mud-spattered and weather- 
 bleached, had taken its place. In the kitchen, Ma Graham 
 still presided, her accumulated avoirdupois seeming to have 
 been gathered at the expense of her lord, who in equal ratio 
 thinner and more weazened, danced attendance as of old. 
 Only one of the former cowboys now remained. That one, 
 strange to say, was Grannis, the " man from nowhere," who 
 had apparently taken root at last. Regularly on the last 
 day of each month he drew his pay, and without a word of 
 explanation or comment disappeared upon the back of a 
 cow-pony, to reappear, perhaps, in ten hours, perhaps in 
 sixty, dead broke, with a thirst seemingly unappeasable, 
 but quite non-committal concerning his experience, appar 
 ently satisfied and ready to take up the dull routine of his 
 life again. 
 
 [75] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Last of all, Benjamin Blair. Precisely as the boy had 
 given promise, the youth had developed. He was now ma 
 ture in size, in poise, in action. Long of leg, long of arm, 
 long of face, he stood a half head above Rankin, who had 
 been the tallest man upon the place. Yet he was not awk 
 ward. Physically he was of the type, but magnified, to 
 which all cowboys belong ; and no one would ever call him 
 awkward or uncouth. 
 
 There had been less change upon the Baker ranch. 
 Scotty was not an expansionist. Scarcely a score more 
 horses grazed in his paddock than of old. The barn, 
 though often repaired, was still of sod and thatch. The 
 house contained the original number of rooms. The ex 
 periment with trees had never been repeated. If possible, 
 the man himself had altered even less than his surround 
 ings. Scrupulously fresh-shaven each day, fortified beyond 
 the compound lenses of his spectacles, a stranger would 
 have guessed him anywhere from thirty-five to fifty. 
 
 Time had not dealt as kindly with Mrs. Baker. She 
 seemed to have aged enough for both herself and her hus 
 band. Notwithstanding the fact that for the first eight 
 years of the twelve, the family had spent half their time in 
 the East, she had grown careless of her appearance. True 
 to his instincts, Scotty still dressed for dinner in his anti 
 quated evening clothes ; but pathetic as was the example, 
 it had long ceased to stimulate her. The last four 
 years had been dead years with Mollie Baker. The future 
 held but one promise. She referred to it daily, almost 
 hourly ; and at such times only would a trace of youth and 
 beauty return to the one-time winsome face. She looked 
 
 [76] 
 
The Glitter of the Unknown 
 
 forward and dreamed of an event after which she would do 
 certain things upon which she had set her heart ; when, as 
 she said, she would begin to live. It seemed to Scotty 
 ghastly to speak about that event, for it was the death of 
 his father. 
 
 The last member of the family had developed with the 
 child s promise, and at seventeen Florence was beautiful ; 
 not with a conventional prettiness, but with a vital feminine 
 attraction. All that the mother had been, with her dark, 
 oval face, her mass of walnut-brown hair, her great dark 
 eyes, her uptilted chin, the daughter was now ; but with 
 added health and an augmented femininity that the mother 
 had never known. Moreover, she had an independence, a 
 dominance, born perhaps of the wild prairie influence, that 
 at times made her parents almost gasp. Except in the 
 minute details of their daily existence, which habit had 
 made unchangeable, she ruled them absolutely. Even 
 Rankin had become a secondary factor. Scotty probably 
 would have denied the assertion emphatically, yet at 
 the bottom of his consciousness he realized that had 
 she told him to sell everything he possessed for what 
 he could get and return to old Sussex he would have 
 complied. Considering Mollie s daily plaint, it was a 
 constant source of wonder to him that the girl did not 
 do this ; but she seemed wholly satisfied with things as 
 they were. For exercise and excitement she rode almost 
 every horse upon the place rode astride like a man. For 
 amusement she read everything she could lay hands upon, 
 both from the modest Baker library and from the larger 
 and more creditable collection which Rankin had imported 
 
 [77] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 from the East. This was the first real library that had 
 ever entered the State, and, subject for speculation, it had 
 uniformly the front fly-leaves remaining as mere stubs, as 
 though the pages had been torn out by a hurried hand. 
 What name was it that had been in those hundreds of 
 volumes? For what reason had it been so carefully re 
 moved ? The girl had often speculated thereon, and fitted 
 theory after theory ; but never yet, wilful as she was, had 
 she had the temerity to ask the only person who could 
 have given explanation, Rankin himself. 
 
 In common with her sisters everywhere, Florence had an 
 instinctive love of a fad. Realizing this fact, Scotty was 
 riot in the least deceived when, during a lull at the dinner- 
 table one evening late in the Fall, she broke in with an 
 irrelevant though seemingly innocent remark. 
 
 " I saw several big jack-rabbits when I was out riding 
 this morning." The dark eyes turned upon her father quiz 
 zically, humorously. " They seem to be very plentiful." 
 
 " Yes," said Scotty ; " they always are in the Fall." 
 
 Florence ate for a moment in silence. 
 
 " Did you ever think how much sport we could have if 
 we owned a couple of hounds ? " she asked. 
 
 Scotty was silent ; but Mollie threw up her hands in 
 horror. "You don t really mean that you want any of 
 those hungry-looking dogs around, do you, Flossie ? " she 
 protested pettishly. " Seems as though you d be satisfied 
 with riding the horses tomboy style without going to 
 hunting rabbits that way." 
 
 The daughter s color heightened and the matter 
 dropped; but Scotty knew the main attack was yet to 
 
 [78] 
 
The Glitter of the Unknown 
 
 come. He had learned from experience the methods of 
 his daughter in attaining an object. 
 
 Later in the evening father and daughter were alone 
 beside a well-shaded lamp in the cosey sitting-room. Mollie 
 had retired early, complaining of a headache, and carrying 
 with her an air of martyrdom even more pronounced than 
 usual ; so noticeable, in fact, that, absently watching the 
 door through which she had left, an expression of positive 
 gloom formed over Scotty s thin face. Two strong young 
 arms fell suddenly about his neck and abruptly changed his 
 thoughts. A soft warm cheek was laid against his own. 
 
 " Poor old daddy ! " whispered a caressing voice. 
 
 For a moment Scotty did not move ; then, turning, he 
 looked into the brown eyes. " Why ? " he asked. 
 
 " Because," her voice was low, her answering look was 
 steady, "because it won t be but a little while until he ll 
 have to move away move back into civilization." 
 
 For a moment neither spoke ; then, with a last pressure 
 of her cheek against her father s, the girl crossed the room 
 and took another chair. Scotty followed her with his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Are you against me, too, little girl?" he asked. 
 
 Florence reached over to the table, took up an ever- 
 ready strip of rice-paper, and, rolling a cigarette, tendered 
 it with the air of a peace-offering. 
 
 " No, I m not against you ; but it s got to come. 
 Mamma simply can t change. She can t find anything 
 here to interest her, and we ve got to take her away 
 for good." 
 
 Scotty slowly struck a sulphur match, waited until the 
 [79] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 flame had burned well along the wood, then deliberately 
 lit his cigarette and burned it to a stump. 
 
 " Are n t you happy here, Flossie ? " he asked gently. 
 
 The girl s hands were folded in her lap, her eyes looked 
 past him absently. 
 
 " Really, for once in my life," she answered seriously, 
 "I spoke quite unselfishly. I was thinking only of 
 mamma." There was a pause, and a deeper concentra 
 tion in the brown eyes. " As for myself, I hardly know. 
 Yes, I do know. I m happy now, but I wouldn t be 
 long. The life here is too narrow ; I d lose interest in it. 
 At last I d have a frantic desire, one I couldn t resist, 
 to peep just over the edge of the horizon and take part 
 in whatever is going on beyond." She smiled. " I 
 might run away, or marry an Indian, or do something 
 shocking ! " 
 
 Scotty flicked off a bit of ashes with his little finger. 
 
 " Can t you think of anything that would interest you 
 and broaden your life enough to make it pleasant ? " he 
 ventured. 
 
 This time mirth shone upon the girl s face, and a laugh 
 sounded in her voice. 
 
 " Papa, papa," she said, " I did n t think that of you ! 
 Are you so anxious to get rid of your daughter ? " As 
 swiftly as it had come, the smile vanished, leaving in its 
 place a softer and warmer color. 
 
 " I m not enough of a hypocrite," she added slowly, " to 
 pretend not to understand what you mean. Yes, I believe 
 if there is a man in the world I could care enough for to 
 marry, I could live here or anywhere with him and be per- 
 
 [80] 
 
The Glitter of the Unknown 
 
 fectly happy ; but that is n t possible. I m of the wrong 
 disposition." The soft color in the cheek grew warmer, 
 the brown eyes sparkled. " I know myself well enough to 
 realize that any man I could care for wouldn t live out 
 here. He d be one who did things, and did them better 
 than others ; and to do things he d have to be where 
 others are. No, I never could live here." 
 
 Scotty dropped the dead cigarette stump into an ash 
 tray, and brushed a stray speck of dust from his sleeve. 
 
 " In other words, you could never care for such a man 
 as your father," he remarked quietly. 
 
 The girl instantly realized what she had said, and 
 springing up she threw her arms impulsively about her 
 father s neck. 
 
 "Dear old daddy!" she said. "There isn t another 
 man in the world like you ! I love you dearly, dearly ! " 
 The soft lips touched his cheek again and again. But 
 for the first time in her life that Florence could remember, 
 her father did not respond. Instead, he gently freed him 
 self. 
 
 " Nevertheless," he said, steadily, " the fact remains. You 
 could never marry a man like your father, one who had 
 no desire to be known of men, but who simply loved you 
 and would do anything in his power to make you happy. 
 You have said it." Scotty rose slowly, the youthfulness 
 of his movements gone, the expression of age unconsciously 
 creeping into the wrinkles at his temples and at the cor 
 ners of his mouth. " You have hurt me, Florence." 
 
 The girl was at once repentant, but her repentance 
 came too late. She dropped her face into her hands. 
 6 [ 81 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 66 Oh, daddy, daddy ! " she pleaded, but could not say 
 another word. Indeed, there was nothing to be said. 
 
 Scotty moved silently about the room, closed a book he 
 had laid face downward upon the table, picked up a paper 
 which had fallen to the floor, and wound the clock for the 
 night. At the doorway to his sleeping-room he paused. 
 
 " You said something at dinner to-night about wanting 
 some hounds, Florence. I know where I can buy a pair, 
 and 1 11 see that you have them." He opened the door 
 slowly, then quietly closed it. " And about our leaving 
 here. I have always expected to go sometime, but I hoped 
 it wouldn t be necessary for a while yet." He paused, 
 fingering the knob absently. " I m ready, though, when 
 ever you and your mother wish." 
 
 This time the door closed behind him, and, alone within 
 the room, the girl sobbed as though her heart would 
 break. 
 
 [82] 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE 
 
 FLORENCE got her dogs promptly. They were 
 two big mouse-colored greyhounds, with tails 
 like rats and protruding ribs. They were named 
 " Racer " and " Pacer," and were warranted by their late 
 owner to out-distance any rabbit that ever drew breath. 
 The girl felt that an event as important as a coursing 
 should be the occasion of a gathering of the neighboring 
 ranchers ; but at the mere suggestion her conventional 
 mother threw up her hands in horror. It was bad enough 
 for her daughter to go out alone, but as the one woman 
 among all that lot of cowboys it was too much for her 
 to endure. Finally, as a compromise, Florence agreed to 
 invite only the people of the [R^ Ranch to the first event. 
 So the invitations for a certain day, composed with fitting 
 formality, were sent, and in due time were ceremoniously 
 accepted. 
 
 The chase was scheduled to begin soon after daybreak, 
 and before that time Rankin and Ben Blair were at the 
 Baker house. They wore their ordinary clothes of wool 
 and leather, but Scotty appeared in a wonderful red hunt 
 ing-coat, which, though a bit moth-eaten in spots, never 
 theless showed glaringly against the brown earth of the 
 ranch-house yard. 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 With the exception of the dogs, which were kept prop 
 erly hungry for the hunt, and Mollie, who had washed her 
 hands of the whole affair, the party all had breakfast, 
 Scotty himself serving the coffee with the skill of a head- 
 waiter. Then the old buckboard, carefully oiled and 
 tightened for the occasion, was gotten out, a team of the 
 fastest, wiriest mustangs the [ll possessed was attached, and 
 Rankin and Baker upon the seat, Florence and Ben, well- 
 mounted, trailing behind, the party sallied forth. In order 
 to avoid fences they had agreed to go ten miles to the 
 south before beginning operations. There a great tract of 
 government land, well grazed but untouched by the hand 
 of man, gave all but unlimited room. 
 
 The morning was beautiful and clear beyond the com 
 prehension of city dwellers, a typical day of prairie Dakota 
 in late Fall. Far out over the broad expanse, indefinite as 
 to distance, the rising sun seemed resting upon the very 
 rim of the world. All about, near at hand, stretching 
 into the horizon, glistening, sparkling, innumerable frost 
 crystals, product of the past night, gleamed like scattered 
 gems, showing in their coloring every blended shade of the 
 rainbow. The glory of it all appealed to the girl, and 
 throwing back her head she drew in deep breaths of the 
 tonic air. 
 
 " I m going to miss these mornings terribly when I m 
 gone, 1 she said soberly. 
 
 Ben Blair scrutinized the backs of the two men in the 
 buckboard with apparent interest. 
 
 "I didn t know you intended leaving," he said. "Where 
 are you going ? " 
 
 [84] 
 
A Riffle of Prairie 
 
 Florence regarded her companion from the corner of 
 her eye. 
 
 " I m going away for good,"" she said. 
 
 Ben shifted half around in the saddle and folded back 
 the rim of his big sombrero. 
 
 " For good, you say ? " 
 
 The girl s brown eyes were cast down demurely. " Yes, 
 for good," she repeated. 
 
 They had been losing ground. Now in silence they 
 galloped ahead, the regular muffled patter of their horses 
 feet upon the frozen sod sounding like the distant rattle 
 of a snare-drum. Once again even with the buckboard, 
 they lapsed into a walk. 
 
 "You haven t told me where you re going," repeated 
 Blair. 
 
 The question seemed to be of purest politeness, as a host 
 inquires if his visitor has rested well ; yet for a dozen years 
 they two had lived nearest neighbors, and had grown to 
 maturity side by side. She concluded there were some 
 phases of this silent youth which she had not yet learned. 
 
 "We haven t decided where we re going yet," she re 
 plied. " Mamma wants to go to England, but papa and 
 I refuse to leave this country. Then daddy wants to live 
 in a small town, and I vote for a big one. Just now we re 
 at deadlock." 
 
 A smile started in Ben s blue eyes and spread over his 
 thin face. 
 
 " From the way you talk," he said, " I have a suspicion 
 the deadlock won t last long. If I stretch my imagination 
 a little I can guess pretty close to the decision." 
 
 [ 85 1 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Florence was sober a moment ; then a smile flashed over 
 her face and left the daintiest of dimples in either cheek. 
 
 " Maybe you can," she said. 
 
 For the second time they galloped ahead and caught 
 up with the slower buckboard. 
 
 " Florence," Ben threw one leg over the pommel of his 
 saddle and faced his companion squarely, " I ve heard 
 your mother talk, and of course I understand why she 
 wants to go back among her folks, but you were raised 
 here. Why do you want to leave ? " 
 
 The girl hesitated, and ran her fingers through her 
 horse s mane. 
 
 " Mamma s been here against her will for a good many 
 years. We ought to go for her sake." 
 
 Ben made a motion of deprecation. " What I want to 
 know is the real reason, your own reason," he said. 
 
 The warm blood flushed Florence s face. " By what 
 right do you ask that ? " she retorted. " You seem to for 
 get that we ve both grown up since we went to school 
 together." 
 
 Ben looked calmly out over the prairie. 
 
 " No, I don t forget ; and I admit I have no right to 
 ask. But I may ask as a friend, I am sure. Why do 
 you want to go ? " 
 
 Again the girl hesitated. Logically she should refuse 
 to answer. To do otherwise was to admit that her first 
 answer was an evasion ; but something, an influence that 
 always controlled her in Ben s presence, prevented refusal. 
 Slow of speech, deliberate of movement as he was, there 
 was about him a force that dominated her, even as she 
 
 [86] 
 
A Riffle of Prairie 
 
 dominated her parents, and, worst of all to her inmost 
 self she admitted the fact it fascinated her as well. 
 With all her strength she rebelled against the knowledge 
 and combated the influence, but in vain. Instead of re 
 plying, she chirruped to her horse. " It seems to me," she 
 said, " it s just as well to begin hunting here as to go fur 
 ther. I m going on ahead to ask papa and Mr. Rankin." 
 
 With a grave smile, Blair reached over and caught her 
 bridle-rein, saying carelessly : " Pardon me, but you forget 
 something you were going to tell me. 1 
 
 The girl s brown cheeks crimsoned anew, but this time 
 there was no hesitation in her reply. 
 
 " Very well, since you insist, I 11 answer your question ; 
 but don t be surprised if I offend you." A dainty hand 
 tugged at the loosened button of her riding-glove. " I m 
 going away, for one reason, because I want to be where 
 things move, and where I don t always know what is going 
 to happen to-morrow." She turned to her companion di 
 rectly. " But most of all, I m going because I want to be 
 among people who have ambitions, who do things, things 
 worth while. I am tired of just existing, like the ani 
 mals, from day to day. I was only a young girl when we 
 were going to school, but now I know why I liked that 
 life so well. It was because of the intense activity, the 
 constant movement, the competition, the evolution. I 
 like it ! I want to be a part of it ! " 
 
 " Thank you for telling me," said Ben, quietly. 
 
 But now the girl was in no hurry to hasten on. She 
 forgot that her explanation was given under protest, It 
 had become a confession. 
 
 [87] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " Up to the last few years I never thought much about 
 the future I took it for granted; but since then it 
 has been different. Unconsciously, I ve become a woman. 
 All the little things that belong to women s lives, too 
 small to tell, begin to appeal to me. I want to live in a 
 good house and have good clothes and know people. I 
 want to go to shops and theatres and concerts ; all these 
 things belong to me and I intend to have them." 
 
 " I think I understand," said Ben, slowly. " Yes, I m 
 sure I understand," he repeated. 
 
 But the girl did not heed him. " Last of all, there s 
 another reason," she went on. " I don t know why I 
 should n t speak it, as well as think it, for it s the greatest 
 of all. I m a young woman. I won t remain such long. 
 I don t want to be a spinster. I know I m not supposed to 
 say these things, but why not ? I want to meet men, men 
 of my own class, my parents class, men who know something 
 besides the weight of a steer and the value of a bronco, 
 some man I could respect and care for." Again she 
 turned directly to her companion. " Do you wonder I 
 want to change, that I want to leave these prairies, much 
 as I like them ? " 
 
 It was long before Ben Blair spoke. He scarcely stirred 
 in his seat ; then of a sudden, rousing, he threw his leg 
 back over the saddle. 
 
 "No," he said slowly, "I don t wonder looking at 
 things your way. It s all in the point of view. But per 
 haps yours is wrong, maybe you don t think of the other 
 side of that life. There usually is another side to every 
 thing, I ve noticed." He glanced ahead. A half-mile on, 
 
 [88] 
 
A Riffle of Prairie 
 
 the buckboard had stopped, and Scotty was standing up 
 on the seat and motioning the laggards energetically. 
 
 " I think we d better dust up a little. Your father 
 seems to have struck something interesting." 
 
 Florence seemed inclined to linger, but Scotty s waving 
 cap was insistent, and they galloped ahead. 
 
 They found Rankin sitting upon the wagon seat, smok 
 ing impassively as usual ; but the Englishman was upon 
 the ground holding the two hounds by the collars. Be 
 hind the big compound lenses his eyes were twinkling ex 
 citedly, and he was smiling like a boy. 
 
 " Look out there ! " he exclaimed with a jerk of his head, 
 " over to the west. We all but missed him ! Are you 
 ready ? " 
 
 They all looked and saw, perhaps thirty rods away, a 
 grayish- white jack-rabbit, distinct by contrast with the 
 brown earth. The hounds had also caught sight of the 
 game and pulled lustily at their collars. 
 
 Instantly Florence was all excitement. "Of course 
 we re ready ! No, wait a second, until I see about my 
 saddle." She dismounted precipitately. "Tighten the 
 cinch a bit, won t you, Ben ? I don t mind a tumble, but 
 it might interfere at a critical moment." She put her 
 foot in his extended hand, and sprang back into her seat. 
 " Now, I m ready. Come on, Ben ! Let them go, papa ! 
 Be in at the finish if you can ! " and, a second behind the 
 hounds, she was away. Simultaneously, the great jack- 
 rabbit, scenting danger, leaped forward, a ball of animate 
 rubber, bounding farther and farther as he got under full 
 motion, speeding away toward the blue distance. 
 
 [ 89 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The chase that followed was a thing to live in memory. 
 From the nature of the land, gently rolling to the horizon 
 without an obstruction the height of a man s hand, there 
 was no possibility of escape for the quarry. The outcome 
 was as mathematically certain as a problem in arithmetic ; 
 the only uncertain element was that of time. At first the 
 jack seemed to be gaining, but gradually the greater endur 
 ance of the hounds began to count, and foot by foot the 
 gap between pursuers and pursued lessened. In the begin 
 ning the rabbit ran in great leaps, as though glorying in 
 the speed that it would seem no other animal could equal, 
 but very soon his movements changed ; his ears were flat 
 tened tight to his head, and, with every muscle strained 
 to the utmost, he ran wildly for his life. 
 
 Meanwhile, the four hunters were following as best they 
 might. In the all but soundless atmosphere, the rattle of 
 the old buckboard could be heard a quarter of a mile. 
 Alternately losing and gaining ground as they cut off 
 angles and followed the diameter instead of the circum 
 ference of the great circles the rabbit described, the drivers 
 were always within sight. Closer behind the hounds and 
 following the same course, Florence rode her thoroughbred 
 like mad, with Ben Blair at her side. The pace was terrific. 
 The rush of the crisp morning air sang in their ears and 
 cut keenly at their faces. The tattoo of the horses feet 
 upon the hard earth was continuous. Beneath her riding- 
 cap, the girl s hair was loosened and swept free in the wind. 
 Her color was high, her eyes sparkled. Never before had 
 the man at her side seen her so fair to gaze upon ; but 
 despite the excitement, despite the rush of action, there 
 
 [ 90 ] 
 
A Riffle of Prairie 
 
 was a jarring note in her beauty. Deep in his nature, in 
 grained, elemental, was the love of fair play. Though he 
 was in the chase and a part of it, his sympathies were far 
 from being with the hounds. That the girl should favor 
 the strong over the weak was something he could not under 
 stand a blemish that even her beauty did not excuse. 
 
 A quarter-hour passed. The sun rose from the lap of 
 the prairie and scattered the frost-crystals as though they 
 had been mist. The chase was near its end. All moved 
 more slowly. A dozen times since they had started, it 
 seemed as if the hounds must soon catch their prey, that 
 in another second all would be over ; but each time the 
 rabbit had escaped, had at the last instant shot into the 
 air, while the hounds rushed harmlessly beneath, and, ere 
 they recovered, had gained a goodly lead again in a new 
 course. But now that time was past, and he was tired 
 and weak. It was a straight-away race, with the hounds 
 scarcely twenty feet behind. Back of the latter, perhaps 
 ten rods, were the riders, still side by side as at first. 
 Their horses were covered with foam and blowing steadily, 
 but nevertheless they galloped on gallantly. Bringing up 
 the rear, just in sight but now out of sound, was the 
 backboard. Thus they approached the finish. 
 
 Inch by inch the dogs gained upon the rabbit. Stand 
 ing in his stirrups, Ben Blair, the seemingly stolid, watched 
 the scene. The twenty feet lessened to eighteen, to fifteen, 
 and, turning his head, the man looked at his companion. 
 Beautiful as she was, there now appeared to his eye an 
 expression of anticipation, anticipation of the end, an 
 ticipation of a death, the death of a weaker animal ! 
 
 [91] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 A determination which had been only latent became 
 
 positive with Blair. He urged on his horse to the utter 
 
 most and sprang past his companion. His right hand 
 
 went to his hip and lingered there. His voice rang out 
 
 above the sound of the horses feet and of their breathing. 
 
 " Hi, there, Racer, Pacer ! " he shouted. " Come here ! * 
 
 There was no response from the hounds ; no sign that 
 
 they had heard him. They were within ten feet of the 
 
 rabbit now, and no voice on earth could have stopped 
 
 "Pacer! Racer!" shouted Ben. There was a pause, 
 and then the quick bark of a revolver. A puff of dust 
 arose before the nose of the leading dog. 
 
 Again no response, only the steadily lessening distance. 
 
 For a second Ben Blair hesitated; but it was for a 
 second only. Florence watched him, too surprised to 
 speak, and saw what for a moment made her doubt her 
 own eyes. The hand that held the big revolver was 
 raised, there was a report, then another, and the two dead 
 hounds went tumbling over and over with their own 
 momentum upon the brown prairie. Beyond them the 
 rabbit bounded away into distance and safety. 
 
 Without a word Ben Blair drew rein, returned the 
 revolver to its holster, and came back to where the girl 
 had stopped. 
 
 " I beg your pardon,*" he said. " 1 11 pay you for the 
 dogs, if you like." A pause and a straight glance from 
 out the blue eyes. " I could n t help doing what I did." 
 
 Having in mind the look he had last seen upon the 
 giiTs face, he expected an explosion of wrath ; but he was 
 
 [92] 
 
A Riffle of Prairie 
 
 destined to surprise. There was silence, instead, while 
 two great tears gathered slowly in her soft eyes, and 
 brimmed over upon the brown cheeks. 
 
 " I don t want you to pay for the dogs ; I m glad 
 they re gone." She brushed back a straggling lock of 
 hair. " It s a horrid sport, and I 11 never have anything 
 to do with it again." A look that set the youth s heart 
 bounding shot out sideways from beneath the long lashes. 
 " I m very glad you did what you did." 
 
 Just then the noisy old buckboard, with Rankin and 
 Scotty clinging to the seat, drove up and stopped short, 
 with a protest from every joint of the ancient vehicle. 
 
 [931 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE DOMINANT ANIMAL 
 
 THE chance to sell his stock, ostensibly his reason 
 for delaying departure, came to Scotty Baker 
 much more quickly than he had anticipated. 
 Within a week after the hunt in the very first mail he 
 received, in fact came an offer from a Minneapolis firm 
 to take every scrap of horse-flesh he could spare. With 
 much compunction and a doleful face he read the letter 
 aloud in the family council. 
 
 " That means go for sure, I suppose," he commented 
 at its conclusion. 
 
 Involuntarily Florence laughed. " You look as though 
 you M just got word that the whole herd had stampeded 
 over a ravine, instead of having had a wave of good for 
 tune," she bantered. "I believe you d still back out if 
 you could." 
 
 Scotty s face did not lighten. "I know I would," he 
 admitted. 
 
 "We ll not give you the chance, though," broke in 
 Mollie, with the first indication of enthusiasm she had 
 shown in many a day. " Florence and I will begin pack 
 ing right away, and you can carry the things along with 
 you when you drive the horses to town." 
 
 [94] 
 
The Dominant Animal 
 
 Scotty looked at his wife steadily and caught the trace 
 of excitement in her manner. 
 
 "Yes, that is a good suggestion," he replied slowly. 
 "It s liable to turn cold any time now, and as long as 
 we re going it may as well be before Winter sets in." He 
 filled a stubby meerschaum pipe with tobacco, and put on 
 cap and coat preparatory to going out of doors. " I spoke 
 to Rankin about the place the other day," he added, " and 
 he says he ll take it and pay cash whenever I m ready. 
 1 11 drive over and see him this morning." 
 
 Rankin was not at home so Ma Graham told Scotty 
 when he arrived and probably he would n t return till 
 afternoon ; but Ben was around the barn somewhere, more 
 than likely out among the broncos. He usually was, 
 when he had nothing else in particular to do. 
 
 Following her direction the Englishman loitered out 
 toward the stock quarters, looked with interest into the 
 big sheds where the haying machinery was kept, stopped 
 to listen to the rush of water through the four-inch pipe 
 of the artesian well, lit his pipe afresh, and moved on re 
 flectively to the first of the great stockyards that stretched 
 beyond. A tight board fence, ten feet high, built as a 
 windbreak on two sides, obstructed his way ; and he started 
 to walk around it. At the end the windbreak merged 
 into a well-built fence of six wires, and, a wagon s breadth 
 between, a long row of haystacks, built as a further 
 protection against the wind. These, together with the 
 wires, formed the third side of the yard. Leaning on the 
 latter, Scotty looked into the enclosure, at first carelessly, 
 then with interest. A moment later, without making his 
 
 [95] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 presence known, he stepped back to the hay, and, select 
 ing a pile of convenient height, sat down in the sunshine 
 to watch. 
 
 What he saw was a tall slim young man, in chaparejos 
 and sombrero, the inevitable " repeater " at his hip, soli 
 tarily engaged in the process of breaking a bronco. Ordi 
 narily in this cattle-country the first time one of these wiry 
 little ponies is ridden is on a holiday or a Sunday, when 
 ever a company of spectators can be secured to assist or to 
 applaud ; but this was not Ben Blair s way. By nature 
 solitary, whenever possible he did his work as he took his 
 pleasure, unseen of men. At present, as he went methodi 
 cally about his business, he had no idea that a person save 
 Ma Graham was within miles, or that anyone anywhere 
 had the slightest interest in what he was doing. 
 
 " Yard One," as the cowboys designated this corral, was 
 the most used of any on the ranch. Save for a single stout 
 post set solidly in its centre, it was entirely clear, and under 
 the feet of hundreds of cattle had been tramped firm as a 
 pavement. At present it contained a half-dozen horses, 
 and one of these, a little mustang that was Ben s particu 
 lar pride, he was just saddling when Scotty appeared ; the 
 others, a wild-eyed, evil-looking lot, scattering meantime 
 as far as the boundaries of the corral would permit. 
 
 Very deliberately Ben mounted the pony, hitched up 
 the legs of his leather trousers, folded back the brim of the 
 big sombrero, and critically inspected the ponies before 
 him. One of them, a demoniacal looking buckskin, ap 
 peared more vixenish than the others, and very promptly 
 the youth made this selection ; but to get in touch 
 
 [96] 
 
The Dominant Animal 
 
 of the wily little beast was another matter. Every time 
 the rancher made a move forward the herd found it con 
 venient likewise to move, and to the limit of the corral 
 fence. Once clear around the yard the rider humored 
 them; and Scotty, the spectator, felt sure he must be 
 observed. But Ben never looked outside the fence. 
 
 Starting to make the circle a second time, the rancher 
 spoke a single word to the little mustang and they moved 
 ahead at a gallop. Instantly responsive, the herd likewise 
 broke into a lope, maintaining their lead. Twice, three 
 times, faster and faster, the rider and the riderless com 
 pleted the circle, the hard ground ringing with the din, 
 the dust rising in a filmy cloud; then of a sudden the 
 figure on the mustang passed from inaction into motion, 
 the left hand on the reins tightened and turned the pony s 
 head to the side, straight across the diameter of the circle. 
 Simultaneously the right dropped to the lariat coiled on 
 the pummel of the saddle, loosed it, and swung the noose 
 at the end freely in air. On galloped the broncos, un 
 mindful of the trick on around the limiting fence, until 
 suddenly they found almost in their midst the animal, 
 man, whom they so feared, whom they were trying so to 
 escape. Then for a moment there was scattering, reversal, 
 confusion, a denser cloud of dust ; but for one of their 
 number, the buckskin, it was too late. Ben Blair rose in 
 his stirrups, the rawhide rope that had been circling above 
 his sombrero shot out, spread, dropped over the uplifted 
 yellow head. The little mustang the man rode recognized 
 the song of the lariat ; well he knew what would follow. 
 In anticipation he stopped dead ; his front legs stiffened. 
 7 [97] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 There was a shock, a protest of straining leather which 
 Scotty could hear clear beyond the corral, as, checked 
 under speed, the buckskin rose on his hind-feet and all 
 but lost his balance. That instant was Blairs opportunity. 
 He turned his mustang swiftly and headed straight for the 
 centre-post, dragging the struggling and half-strangled 
 bronco ; he rode around the post, sprang from the saddle, 
 took a skilful half-hitch in the lariat and the buckskin 
 was a prisoner. 
 
 Scotty polished his glasses excitedly. He was wonder 
 ing how the sleek young men with whom he would soon 
 be mingling in the city would go at a job like that ; and 
 he smiled absently. 
 
 To " snub " the bronco up to the post so that he could 
 scarcely turn his head was an easy matter. To exchange 
 the bridle to the new mount was also comparatively simple. 
 To adjust the great saddle, with the unwilling victim 
 struggling like mad, was a more difficult task ; but event 
 ually all these came to pass, and Ben paused a moment 
 to inspect his handiwork. To a tenderfoot observer it 
 might have seemed that the battle was about over ; but 
 as a matter of fact it had scarcely begun. To chronicle 
 on paper that a certain person on a certain day rode a 
 certain bronco for the first time sounds commonplace; 
 but to one who has seen the deviltry lurking in those wild 
 prairie ponies eyes, who knows their dogged fighting dis 
 position, the reality is very different. 
 
 Only a moment Ben Blair paused. Almost before 
 Scotty had got his spectacles back to his nose he saw the 
 long figure spring into the saddle, observed that the lariat 
 
 [98] 
 
The Dominant Animal 
 
 which had held the bronco helpless to the post had been 
 removed, and knew that the fight was on in earnest. 
 
 And emphatically it was on. With his first leap the 
 pony went straight into the air, to come down with a 
 mighty jolt, stiff-legged; but Ben Blair sat through it 
 apparently undisturbed. If ever an animal showed sur 
 prise it was the buckskin then. For an instant he paused, 
 looked back at the motionless rider with eyes that seemed 
 almost green, then suddenly started away at full speed 
 around the corral as though Satan himself were in pursuit. 
 
 Instantly with the diminutive horse swift anger took 
 the place of surprise. Scotty, the spectator, could read 
 it in the tightening of the rippling muscles beneath the 
 skin, in the toss of the sleek head. Fear had passed long 
 ago, if the little beast had ever really known the sensation. 
 It was now merely animal against animal, dogged obsti 
 nacy against dogged tenacity, a fight until one or the 
 other gave in, no quarter asked or accepted. 
 
 As before, the bronco was the aggressor. One by one, 
 so swiftly that they formed a continuous movement, he 
 tried all the tricks which instinct or ingenuity suggested. 
 He bucked, his hind-quarters in the air until it seemed he 
 would reverse. He reared up until his front feet were on 
 the level of a man s head, until Scotty held his breath for 
 fear the animal would lose his balance backward; but 
 when he resumed the normal he found the man, ever re 
 lentless, firmly in place, impassively awaiting the next 
 move. He grew more furious with each failure. The 
 sweat oozed out in drops that became trickling streams 
 beneath the short hair. His breath came more quickly, 
 
 [99] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 whistling through the wide nostrils. A new light came 
 into the gray-green eyes and flashed from them fiendishly. 
 As suddenly as he had made his previous attacks he played 
 his last trump. Like a ball of lead he dropped in his 
 tracks and tried to roll ; but the great saddle prevented, 
 and when he sprang up again, there, as firmly seated as 
 before, was the hated man upon his back. 
 
 Then overpowering and unreasoning anger, the wrath 
 of a frenzied lion in a cage, of a baited bull in a ring, 
 took possession of the buckskin. He went through his 
 tricks anew, not methodically as before, but furiously, des 
 perately. The sweat churned into foam beneath the 
 saddle and between his legs. He screamed like a demon, 
 until the other broncos retreated in terror, and Scotty s 
 hair fairly lifted on his head. But one idea possessed 
 him to kill this being on his back, this hated thing he 
 could not move or dislodge. A suggestion of means came 
 to him, and straight as a line he made for the high board 
 fence. There was no misunderstanding his purpose. 
 
 Then for the first time Ben Blair roused himself. The 
 hand on the rein tightened, as the lariat had tightened, 
 until the small head with the dainty ears curled back in a 
 half-circle. Simultaneously the long rowels of a spur bit 
 deep into the foaming flank, the swish of a quirt sounded 
 keenly, a voice broke out in one word of command, 
 "Whoa!" and repeated, "Whoa!" 
 
 It was like thunder out of a clear sky, like an unseen 
 blow in the dark. Within three feet of the fence the 
 bronco stopped and stood trembling in every muscle, 
 expecting he knew not what. 
 
 [ 100] 
 
The Dominant 
 
 It was the man s time now the be^mningbf t 
 " Get up ! " repeated the same authoritative voice, and 
 the hand on the bit loosened. " Get up ! ** and rowel and 
 quirt again did their work. 
 
 In terror this time the bronco plunged ahead, felt the 
 guiding rein, and started afresh around the circle of the 
 corral fence. " Get up ! " repeated Ben, and like a streak 
 of yellowish light they spun about the trail. Round and 
 round they went, the body of the man and horse alike 
 tilted in at an angle, the other ponies plunging to clear 
 the way. Scotty counted ten revolutions ; then he awaited 
 the end. It was not long in coming. Of a sudden, as 
 before, directly in front of where he sat, the bridle-reins 
 tightened, and he heard the one word, " Whoa ! " and 
 pony and rider stopped like figures in clay. For a moment 
 they stood motionless, save for their labored breathing ; 
 then very deliberately Ben Blair dismounted. Not a 
 movement did the buckskin make, either of offence or to 
 escape; he merely waited. Still deliberately, the man 
 removed the saddle and bridle, while not a muscle of the 
 bronco s body stirred. Scotty watched the scene in fasci 
 nation. Every trace of anger was out of the pony s gray- 
 green eyes now, every indication of terror as well. Dozens 
 of horses the Englishman had seen broken ; but one like 
 this never before. It was as though in the last few 
 minutes an understanding had come about between this 
 fierce wild thing and its conqueror ; as though, like every 
 human being with whom he came in contact, the latter 
 had dominated by the sheer strength of his will. It was 
 all but uncanny. 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Slowly Blair lajd the bridle beside the saddle, and step 
 ping over to his late mount he patted the damp neck and 
 gently stroked the silken muzzle. 
 
 " I think, old boy, you "11 remember me when we meet 
 again," Scotty heard him say. " Good luck to you mean 
 time," and with a last pat he picked up his riding para 
 phernalia and started for the sheds. 
 
 Scotty stood up. " Hello," he called. 
 
 Ben halted and turned about, looking his surprise. 
 
 " Well, in the name of all that s proper ! " he ejaculated 
 slowly ; " where d you drop down from ? " 
 
 Scotty smiled broadly ; frank admiration for the dusty 
 cowboy was in his gaze. 
 
 " I did n t drop down at all ; I walked around here 
 about half an hour ago. You were rather preoccupied at 
 the time and did n t notice me." 
 
 Blair came back to the fence and swung over the saddle 
 and bridle. "You took in the whole show then?" he 
 asked. A trace of color came into his face, as he vaulted 
 over the rails. " I hope you enjoyed it." 
 
 Scotty observed the latest feat, unconscious as its prede 
 cessor, with augmented admiration. " I certainly did," he 
 said, and the subject was dropped. 
 
 The two men walked together toward the ranch-house. 
 
 "I came over to see Rankin," remarked the English 
 man, " but I m afraid 1 11 have to wait a bit." 
 
 " I guess you will," replied Ben. " He went up to the north 
 well this morning. They Ye building some sheds up there, 
 and he s superintending the job. He s as liable to forget 
 about dinner as not. Nothing I can do for you, is there ? " 
 
 [ 102] 
 
The Dominant Animal 
 
 Scotty thrust his hands into his pockets. 
 
 " No, I guess not. I came over to see about selling him 
 my place. We Ye going to leave in a few days." 
 
 Ben Blair made no comment, and for a moment they 
 walked on in silence ; then an idea suddenly occurred to 
 the Englishman. 
 
 " Come to think of it," he said, " there is something you 
 can do for me. Bill and I have got to drive all the stock 
 over to the station. I d be a thousand times obliged if 
 you would help us." 
 
 For a half-dozen steps Blair did not answer ; then he 
 turned fairly to his companion. 
 
 " You won t be offended if I refuse ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, certainly not." 
 
 "Well, then, I don t want to help you myself, but 
 I ll get Grannis to go with you. He ll be just as 
 useful." 
 
 Ordinarily, despite his assertion to the contrary, Scotty 
 would have been offended ; but he knew this long youth 
 quite too well to misunderstand. 
 
 " Would you mind telling me why you refuse ? " he said 
 at last. 
 
 Ben shifted the heavy saddle to his other shoulder. 
 
 "No, I don t mind," he said bluntly. "I won t help 
 you because I don t want you to go." 
 
 Scotty pondered, and a light dawned on his slow- 
 moving brain. He looked at Ben sympathetically. " My 
 boy," he said, " I m sorry for you ; by Jove ! I am." 
 
 They were even with the horse-barn now, and without 
 a word Ben went in and hung up the saddle, each stirrup 
 
 [ 103 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 upon a nail. Relieved of his load he came back, slapping 
 the dust from his clothes with his big gauntlets. 
 
 " If it s a fair question," he asked, " why do I merit 
 your sympathy?" 
 
 The Englishman s hands went deeper into his pockets. 
 
 " Why ? " He all but stared. " Because you have n t 
 a ghost of a chance with Florence. She d laugh at you ! " 
 
 Ben s blue eyes were raised to a level with the other s 
 glasses. " She d laugh at me, you think ? " he asked 
 quietly. 
 
 Scotty shifted uneasily. " Well, perhaps not that," he 
 retracted, " but anyway, you have n t a chance. I like 
 you, Ben, and I m dead sorry that she is different. She 
 comes, if I do say it, of a good family, and you " of a 
 sudden the Englishman found himself floundering in deep 
 water. 
 
 " And I am an unknown," Ben finished for him. 
 
 At that moment Scotty heartily wished himself else 
 where, but wishing did not help him. "Yes, to put it 
 baldly, that s the word. It s unfortunate, damned un 
 fortunate, but true, you know." 
 
 Ben s eyes did not leave the other man s face. " You ve 
 talked with her, have you ? " he asked. 
 
 Scotty fidgeted more than before, and swore silently 
 that in future he would keep his compassions to himself. 
 
 "No, I ve never thought it necessary so far; but of 
 course " 
 
 Ben Blair lifted his head. "Don t worry, Mr. Baker, 
 I 11 tell her my pedigree myself. I supposed she already 
 knew that everybody who had ever heard of me knew." 
 
 [104,] 
 
The Dominant Animal 
 
 Scotty forgot his nervousness. " You "11 tell her 
 yourself, you say ? " 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 The Englishman said nothing. It seemed to him there 
 was nothing to say. 
 
 For a moment there was silence. "Mr. Baker," said Blair 
 at last, " as long as we Ve started on this subject I sup 
 pose we might as well finish it up. I love your daughter ; 
 that you Ve guessed. If I can keep her here, 1 11 do so. 
 It s my right; and if there s a God who watches over 
 us, He knows I 11 do my best to make her happy. As to 
 my mother, I 11 tell her about that myself and consider 
 the matter closed." 
 
 Again there was silence. As before, there seemed to 
 the Englishman nothing to say. 
 
 Blair turned toward the ranch-house. " I saw Ma 
 Graham motioning for dinner quite a while ago," he said. 
 " Let s go in and eat." 
 
 [ 105] 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 LOVE S AVOWAL 
 
 A DISTINCT path, in places almost a beaten road, 
 connected the [ll and the Baker ranches. Along 
 it a tall slim youth was riding a buckskin pony. 
 He was clean-shaven and clean-shirted ; but the shirt was 
 of rough brown flannel. His leather trousers were creased 
 and baggy at the knees. At his hip protruded the butt 
 of a big revolver. Upon his head, seemingly a load in 
 itself, was a broad sombrero ; and surrounding it, beneath 
 a band which at one time had been very gaudy but was 
 now sobered by sun and rain, were stuck a score or more 
 of matches. Despite the motion of the horse the youth 
 was steadily smoking a stubby bulldog pipe. 
 
 The time was morning, early morning ; it was Winter, 
 and the sun was still but a little way up in the sky. The 
 day, although the month was December, was as warm as 
 September. There had not even been a frost the previous 
 night. Mother Nature was indulging in one of her many 
 whims, and seemed smiling broadly at the incongruity. 
 
 Though the rider was out thus early, his departure had 
 been by no means surreptitious. " I m going over to 
 Baker s, and may not be back before night," he had said 
 at the breakfast table ; and, impassive as usual, the older 
 
 [106] 
 
Love s Avowal 
 
 man had made no comment, but simply nodded and went 
 about his work. Likewise there was no subterfuge when 
 the youth arrived at his destination. "I came to see 
 Florence," he announced to Scotty in the front yard; then, 
 as he tied the pony, he added : " I spoke to Grannis, and 
 he said he d come over and help you. Do you know 
 exactly when you "11 want him ? " 
 
 " Yes, day after to-morrow. This weather is too good 
 to waste." 
 
 Ben turned toward the house. "All right. I ll see 
 that he s over here bright and early." 
 
 The visitor found the interior of the Baker home look 
 ing like a corner in a storage warehouse. Florence, in a 
 big checked apron reaching to her chin, her sleeves rolled 
 up to her elbows, was busily engaged in still further dis 
 mantling the once cosey parlor. Amidst the confusion, 
 and apparently a part of it, Mrs. Baker wandered aimlessly 
 about. The front door was wide open, letting in a stream 
 of sunlight. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Ben, appearing in the doorway. 
 
 Mrs. Baker stopped long enough to nod, and Florence 
 looked up from her work. 
 
 "Good-morning," she replied. A deliberate glance 
 took in the new-comer s dress from head to foot, and 
 lingered on the exposed revolver hilt. " Are you hunting 
 Indians or bear ? " 
 
 Ben Blair returned the look, even more deliberately. 
 
 "Bear, I judge from the question. I came in search 
 of you." 
 
 There was no answer, and the man came in and sat 
 [107] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 down on the corner of a box. "You seem to be very 
 busy," he said. 
 
 The girl went on with her packing. "Yes, rather 
 busy," she said indifferently. 
 
 Ben dangled one long leg over the side of the box. 
 
 " Are you too busy to take a ride with me? I want to 
 talk with you." 
 
 " I m pretty busy," non-committally. 
 
 " Suppose I should ask it as a favor ? " 
 
 " Suppose I should decline ? " 
 
 The long leg stopped its swinging. "You wouldn t, 
 though." 
 
 The girl s brown eyes flashed. " How do you know I 
 would n t ? " 
 
 Ben stood up and folded his arms. " Because it would 
 be the first favor I ever asked of you, and you would n t 
 refuse that." 
 
 They eyed each other a moment. 
 
 " Where do you want to go ? " temporized Florence. 
 
 " Anywhere, so it s with you." 
 
 " You don t want to stay long ? " 
 
 " I 11 come back whenever you say." 
 
 Florence rolled down her sleeves and sighed with assumed 
 regret. u I ought to stay here and work." 
 
 " I 11 help you when we come back, if you like." 
 
 " Very well." She said it hesitatingly. 
 
 " All right. I 11 get your horse ready for you." 
 
 Scotty watched them peculiarly, Molly doubtfully, as 
 they rode out of the ranch yard ; but neither made any 
 comment, and they moved away in silence. 
 
 [ 108] 
 
Love s Avowal 
 
 "That s an odd looking pony you ve got there," re 
 marked the girl critically, when they had turned into the 
 half-beaten trail which led south. " How does it happen 
 you re on him instead of the other ? " 
 
 Ben patted the smooth neck before him, and the pony 
 twitched his ears appreciatively. 
 
 " Buckskin and I had the misfortune not to meet until 
 lately. We just got acquainted a few days ago." 
 
 The girl glanced at her companion quickly and caught 
 the look upon his face. 
 
 " I believe you Ye fonder of your horses and cattle and 
 things than you are of people," she flashed. 
 
 The man s hand continued patting the pony s yellow 
 neck. 
 
 " More fond than I am of some people, maybe you meant 
 to say." 
 
 " Perhaps so," she conceded. 
 
 " Yes, I think I am," he admitted. " They re more 
 worthy. They never abuse a kindness, and never come 
 down to the insult of class distinctions. They re the 
 same to-day, to-morrow, a year from now. They 11 work 
 themselves to death for you, instead of sacrificing you to 
 their personal gain. Yes, they make better friends than 
 some people." 
 
 Florence smiled as she glanced at her companion. 
 
 " Is that what you want to tell me ? If it is, seeing 
 I ve just made my choice and decided to return to civiliza 
 tion and mingle with human beings of whom you have 
 such a poor opinion, I think we may as well go back. 
 Mamma and I have been racking our brains for two days 
 
 [ 109 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 to find a place for the china, and I Ve just thought of 
 one." 
 
 Blair was silent a moment ; then he said, " I promised 
 to return whenever you wished, but I Ve not said what I 
 wanted to say yet." 
 
 Florence looked at the speaker with feigned surprise. 
 " Is that so ? I m very curious to hear ! " 
 
 Ben returned the look deliberately. " You d like to 
 hear now what I have to say ? " 
 
 The girl s breath came more quickly, but she persisted 
 in her banter. " I can scarcely wait ! " 
 
 The line of the youth s big jaw tightened. " I won t 
 keep you in suspense any longer then. First of all, I want 
 to relate a little personal history. I was eight years old, as 
 you know, when I was taken into the [R_ ranch. In those 
 eight years, as far as I can remember, not one person 
 except Mr. Rankin ever called at my mother s home." 
 
 Again the girl felt a thrill of anticipation, but the 
 brown eyes opened archly. " You must have kept a big 
 fierce dog, or or something." 
 
 " No, that was not the reason." 
 
 " I can t imagine what it could be, then." 
 
 "The explanation is simple. My mother and Tom 
 Blair were never married." 
 
 Swiftly the color mounted into Florence s cheeks, and 
 she drew up her horse with a jerk. 
 
 " So that is what you brought me out here to tell me ! " 
 she blazed. 
 
 Ben drew up likewise, and wheeled his pony facing hers. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but I m not to blame for the way 
 [110] 
 
Love s Avowal 
 
 I told you of myself. You forced it. For once in my 
 life at least, Florence, I m in dead earnest to-day." 
 
 The girl hesitated. Tears of anger, or of something 
 else, came into her eyes. " I m going home," she an 
 nounced briefly, and turned back the way they had 
 come. 
 
 The man silently wheeled his buckskin and for five 
 minutes, ten minutes, they rode toward home together. 
 
 " Florence," said the youth steadily, " I had something 
 more I wished to say to you ; will you listen ? " 
 
 No answer only the sound of the solid steps of the 
 thoroughbred and the daintier tread of the mustang. 
 
 " Florence," he repeated, " I asked you a question." 
 
 The girl s face was turned away. " Oh, you are cruel ! " 
 she said. 
 
 Ben touched his pony, advanced, caught the bridle of 
 the girl s horse, and brought both to a standstill. The 
 girl did not turn her head to look at him, but she did not 
 resist. Deliberately the man dismounted, loosed the rolled 
 blanket he carried back of his saddle, spread it upon the 
 ground, then looked fairly up into her brown eyes. 
 
 " Florence," he said, as he held out his hand to assist 
 her to dismount, " I ve something I wish very much to say 
 to you. Won t you listen ? " 
 
 Florence Baker looked steadily down into the clear blue 
 eyes. Why she did not refuse she could not have told, 
 could never tell. As well as she knew her own name she 
 realized what was coming what it was the man wished 
 to say to her ; but she did not refuse to listen. 
 
 " Florence," he said gently, " I m waiting," and as in a 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 dream she stepped into the proffered hand, felt herself 
 lowered to the ground, followed the young man over to 
 the blanket, and sat down. The sun, now high above 
 them, shone down warmly and approvingly. Scarcely a 
 breath of air was stirring. Not a sound came from over 
 the prairies. As completely as though they were the only 
 two people on the earth, they were alone. 
 
 The man stretched himself at his companion s feet, 
 where he could look into her face and catch its every 
 expression. 
 
 " Florence Baker," his voice came to her ears like the 
 sound of one speaking afar off, " Florence Baker, I love 
 you. In all that I m going to say, bear this in mind ; 
 don t forget it for a moment. To me you will always be 
 the one woman on earth. Why I have n t told you this 
 before, why I waited until you were passing from my life 
 before I said it, I don t know ; but now I m as sure as 
 that I m looking at you that it is so." The blue eyes 
 never shifted. Presently one big strong hand reached 
 over and enfolded within its grasp another tiny resistless 
 hand, which lay there passive. 
 
 " You re getting ready to go away, Florence," he went 
 on, " leaving this country where you ve spent almost your 
 life, changing it for an uncertainty. Don t do it not 
 for my sake, but for your own. You know nothing of the 
 city, its pleasures, its rush, its excitement, its ambitions. 
 Granted that you ve been there, that we ve both been 
 there; but we were only children then and couldn t see 
 beneath the thinnest surface. Yet there must be some 
 thing beneath the glitter, something you Ve never thought 
 
 [112] 
 
Love s Avowal 
 
 of and cannot realize ; something which makes the life 
 hateful to those who have felt and known it. I don t 
 know what it is, you don t ; but it must be there. If it 
 weren t so, why would men like your father, like Mr. 
 Rankin, college men, men of wealth, men who have seen 
 the world, leave the city and come here to stay ? They 
 were born in cities, raised in cities. The life was a part 
 of their life ; but they left it, and are glad." The man 
 clasped the little hand more tightly, shook it gently. 
 66 Florence, are you listening ? " 
 
 " Yes, I m listening." 
 
 " I repeat then, don t go. You belong here. This life 
 is your life. Everything that is best for your happiness 
 you will find here. You spoke the other day of your 
 birthright to love and to be loved as though this 
 could only be realized in a city. Do you think I don t 
 care for you as much as though my home were in a town ?" 
 
 Passive, motionless, Florence listened, feeling the subtle 
 sympathy which ever existed between her and this boy- 
 man drawing them closer together. His strong magnet 
 ism, never before so potent, gripped her almost like a 
 physical force. His personality, original, masterful, con 
 vincing, fascinated her. For the time the tacit consent 
 of her position never occurred to her. It seemed but 
 natural and fitting that he should hold her hand. She 
 had no desire to speak or move, merely to listen. 
 
 " Florence," the voice was very near now, and very low. 
 
 " Florence, I love you. I can t have you go away, 
 
 can t have you pass out of my life. I 11 do anything for 
 
 you, live for you, die for you, fight for you, slave for 
 
 8 [113] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 you, anything but give you up." Of a sudden his arms 
 were about her, his lips touched her cheek. " Can t you 
 love me in return ? Speak to me, tell me for I love 
 you, Florence ! " 
 
 The girl started, and drew away involuntarily. " Oh, 
 don t, don t! please don t!" she pleaded. The dream 
 faded, and she awoke to the reality of her position. The 
 brown head bowed, dropped into her hands. Her whole 
 body shook. " Oh, what have I done ! " she sobbed. " Oh, 
 what have I done ! Oh oh oh " 
 
 For a time, neither of them realized nor cared how long, 
 they sat side by side, though separate now. Warmly and 
 brightly as before, the sun shone down upon them. A 
 breath of breeze, born of the heated earth, wandered 
 gently over the land. The big thoroughbred shifted on 
 its feet and whinnied suggestively. 
 
 Gradually the girl s hysterical weeping grew quieter. 
 The sobs came less frequently, and at last ceased. Ben 
 Blair slowly arose, folded his arms, and waited. Another 
 minute passed. Florence Baker, the storm over, glanced 
 up at her companion at first hesitatingly, then openly 
 and soberly. She stood up, almost at his side ; but he 
 did not turn. Awe, contrition, strange feelings and 
 emotions flooded her anew. She reached out her hand 
 and touched him on the arm ; at first hesitatingly, then 
 boldly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. 
 
 " Ben," she pleaded, " Ben, forgive me. I ve hurt you 
 terribly ; but I did n t mean to. I am as I am ; I can t 
 help it. I can t promise to do what you ask can t 
 say I love you now, or promise to love you in the 
 
 [114] 
 
Love s Avowal 
 
 future. 11 She looked up into his face. "Won t you 
 forgive me?" 
 
 Still the man did not turn. " There s nothing to for 
 give, Florence," he said sadly. " I misunderstood it all." 
 
 " But there is something for me to say," she went on 
 swiftly. " I knew from the first what you were going to 
 tell me, and knew I could n t give you what you asked ; 
 yet I let you think differently. It s all my fault, Ben, 
 and I m so sorry ! " She gently and timidly stroked the 
 shoulder of the rough flannel shirt. " I should have 
 stopped you, and told you my reasons ; but they seemed 
 so weak, and somehow I could n t help listening to you." 
 There was a hesitating pause. " Would you like to hear 
 my reasons now ? " 
 
 " Just as you please." There was no unkindness in the 
 voice only resignation and acceptance of the hard fact 
 she had already made known to him. 
 
 Florence hesitated. A catch came into her throat, and 
 she dropped her head to the broad shoulder as before. 
 
 " Ben, Ben ! " she almost sobbed, " I can t tell you, after 
 all. It 11 only hurt you again." 
 
 He was looking out over the prairies, watching the 
 heat-waves that arose in fantastic circles, as in Spring. 
 " You can t hurt me again," he said wearily. 
 
 The vague feeling of irreparable loss gripped the girl 
 anew ; but this time she rushed on desperately, in spite 
 of it. " Oh, why could n t I have met you somewhere 
 else, under different circumstances?" she wailed. "Why 
 could n t your mother have been different ? " She 
 paused, the brown head raised, the loosened hair tossed 
 
 [115] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 back in abandon. " Maybe, as you say, it s a rainbow 
 I m seeking. Maybe 1 11 be sorry ; but I can t help it. 
 I want them all the things of civilization. I want 
 them all," she finished abruptly. 
 
 Gently the man disengaged himself. " Is that all you 
 wished to say ? " 
 
 "Yes," hesitatingly, "I guess that s all." 
 
 Ben picked up the blanket and returned it to his saddle ; 
 then he led the horse to the girl s side. " Can I help 
 you up?" 
 
 His companion nodded. The youth held down his hand, 
 and upon it Florence mounted to the saddle as she had 
 done many times before. The thought came to her that 
 it might be the last time. 
 
 Not a word did Ben speak as they rode back to the 
 ranch-house ; not once did he look at his companion. At 
 the door he held out his hand. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said simply. 
 
 " Good-bye," she echoed feebly. 
 
 Ben made his adieu to Mrs. Baker, and then rode out to 
 the barn where Scotty was working. " Good-bye," he re 
 peated. " We 11 probably not meet again before you go." 
 The expression upon the Englishman s face caught his 
 eye. "Don t," he said. " I d rather not talk now." 
 
 Scotty gripped the extended hand and shook it heartily. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said, with misty eyes. 
 
 The youth wheeled the buckskin and headed for home. 
 Florence and her mother were still standing in the door 
 way watching him, and he lifted his big sombrero ; but he 
 did not glance at them, nor turn his head in passing. 
 
 [116] 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 A DEFERRED RECKONING 
 
 TIME had dealt kindly with the saloon of Mick 
 Kennedy. A hundred electric storms had left 
 it unscathed. Prairie fires had passed it by. 
 Only the relentless sun and rain had fastened the mark of 
 their handiwork upon it and stained it until it was the 
 color of the earth itself. Within, man had performed a 
 similar office. The same old cotton wood bar stretched 
 across the side of the room, taking up a third of the 
 available space; but no stranger would have called it 
 cottonwood now. It had become brown like oak from 
 continuous saturation with various colored liquids ; and 
 upon its surface, indelible record of the years, were innu 
 merable bruises and dents where heavy bottles and glasses 
 had made their impress under impulse of heavier hands. 
 The continuous deposit of tobacco smoke had darkened the 
 ceiling, modulating to a lighter tone on the walls. The 
 place was even gloomier than before, and immeasurably 
 filthier under the accumulated grime of a dozen years. 
 Once in their history the battered tables had been re 
 covered, but no one would have guessed it now. The 
 gritty decks of cards had been often replaced, but from 
 their appearance they might have been those with which 
 Tom Blair long ago bartered away his honor. 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Time had left its impress also on bartender Mick. A 
 generous sprinkling of gray was in his hair; the single 
 eye was redder and fiercer, seeming by its blaze to have 
 consumed the very lashes surrounding it ; the cheeks were 
 sunken, the great jaw and chin prominent from the loss 
 of teeth. Otherwise Mick was not much changed. The 
 hand which dealt out his wares, which insisted on their 
 payment to the last nickel, was as steady as of yore. 
 His words were as few, his control of the reckless and 
 often drunken frequenters was as perfect. He was the 
 personified spirit of the place crafty, designing, re 
 lentless. 
 
 Bob Hoyt, the foreman, shambled into Mickys lair at the 
 time of day when the lights were burning and smoking on 
 the circling shelf. He peered through the haze of tobacco 
 smoke at the patrons already present, received a word 
 from one and a stare from another, but from none an 
 invitation to join the circle. 
 
 Bob sidled up to the bar where Kennedy was impassively 
 waiting. " Warmer out," he advanced. 
 
 Mick made no comment. " Something ? " he suggested. 
 
 BoVs colorless eyes blinked involuntarily. " Yes, a bit 
 of rye." 
 
 Mick poured a very small drink into a whiskey glass, set 
 it with another of water before the customer, on a big 
 card tacked upon the wall added a fresh line to those 
 already succeeding the other s name, and leaned his elbows 
 once more upon the baK 
 
 Upon the floor of his mouth Bob Hoyt laid a foundation 
 of water, over this sent down the fiery liquor with a gulp, 
 
 [ 118 ] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 and followed the retreat with the last of the water, uncon 
 sciously making a wry face. 
 
 Kennedy whisked the empty glasses through the doubt 
 ful contents of a convenient pail, and set them dripping 
 upon a perforated shelf. "Found the horses yet?" he 
 queried, in ah undertone. 
 
 Bob shifted uncomfortably and searched for a place for 
 his hands, but finding none he let them hang awkwardly 
 over the rail of the bar. 
 
 " No, not even a trail." 
 
 " Looked, have you ? " The single searchlight turned 
 unwinkingly upon the other s face. 
 
 "Yes, I ve been out all day. Made a circle of the 
 places within forty miles Russel s of the , Stetson s 
 of the XI, 1 Frazier s, Rankings none of them have 
 seen a sign of a stray." 
 
 "That settles it, then. Those horses were stolen." 
 The red face with its bristle of buff and gray came closer. 
 " I did n t think they d strayed. The two best horses on 
 a ranch don t wander off by chance ; if they d been broncos 
 it might have been different. It s the same thing as three 
 years ago; pretty nearly the same date too early in 
 January it was, you remember ! " 
 
 Bob s long head nodded confirmation. " Yes. We 
 thought then they d come around all right in the next 
 round up, but they didn t, and never have." 
 
 Kennedy stepped back, spread his hands palm down 
 upon the bar, leaned his full weight upon them, and gazed 
 meditatively at the other occupants of the room. A ques 
 tion was in his mind. Should he take these men into 
 
 [119] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 his confidence and trust to their well-known method of 
 dealing with rustlers a method very effective when suc 
 cessful in catching the offender, but infinitely deficient in 
 finesse or depend wholly upon his own ingenuity ? He 
 decided that in this instance the latter offered little hope. 
 His province was in dealing with people at close range. 
 
 " Boys," his voice was normal, but not a man in the 
 room failed to give attention, " boys, line up ! It s on 
 the house." 
 
 Promptly the card games ceased. In one, the pot lay 
 as it was, its ownership undecided, in the centre of the 
 table. The loungers 1 feet dropped to the floor. An 
 inebriate, half dozing in the corner, awoke. Well they 
 knew it was for no small reason that Mick interrupted 
 their diversions. Up they came Grover of the far-away 
 " XXX " ranch, who had been here for two days now, and 
 had lost the price of a small herd ; Gilbert of the " Lost 
 Range," whose brand was a circle within a circle ; Stetson 
 of the " XI," a short heavy-set man, with an immovable 
 pugilist s face, to-night, as usual, ahead of the game; 
 Thompson, one-armed but formidable, who drove the 
 stage and kept the postoffice and inadequate general 
 store just across to the north of the saloon ; McFadden, 
 a wiry little Scotchman with sandy whiskers, Rankin s 
 nearest neighbor to the south ; a half-dozen lesser lights, 
 in distinction from the big ranchers called by their first 
 names, " Buck " or " Pete " or " Bill " as the case might be, 
 mere cowmen employed at a salary. Elbow to elbow they 
 leaned upon the supporting bar, awaiting with interest 
 the something they knew Kennedy had to say. 
 
 [ 120 ] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 Kennedy did not ask a single man what he would have. 
 It was needless. Silently he placed a glass before each, 
 and starting a bottle of red liquor at one end of the line, 
 he watched it, as, steadily emptying, it passed on down 
 to the end. 
 
 " I never use it, you know," he explained, as, the prep 
 aration complete, they looked at him expectantly. 
 
 " Take something else, then," pressed McFadden. 
 
 Mick poured out a glass of water and set it on the bar 
 before him ; but not an observer smiled. They knew the 
 man they were dealing with. 
 
 "All right, boys," McFadden s glass went up on a 
 level with his eye, and one and all the others followed the 
 motion, " all right, boys ! Here s to you, Kennedy ! " 
 mouthing the last word as though it were a hot pebble, 
 and in unison the dozen odd hands led the way to their 
 respective owners mouths. There was a momentary pause ; 
 then a musical clinking, as the empty glasses returned 
 to the board. Silence, expectant silence, returned. 
 
 " Boys," Mick looked from face to face intimately, 
 " we Ve got work ahead. Hoyt here reported this morn 
 ing that two of the best horses on the Big B were missing. 
 He s made a forty-mile circuit to-day, and no one has 
 seen anything of them. You all know what that means." 
 
 Stetson turned to the foreman. " What time did you 
 see them last, Hoyt?" 
 
 " About nine last evening." 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 Bob s long head nodded emphatically. *Yes, one of 
 the boys had the team out mending fence in the afternoon, 
 
 [ 12! ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 and when he was through he turned them into the corral 
 with the broncos. I m sure they were there." 
 
 "I m not surprised," commented Thompson, swinging 
 on his single elbow to face the others. " It s been some 
 time now since we ve had a necktie party and it s bound 
 to come. The wonder is it has n t come before." 
 
 Gilbert and Grover, comparatively elderly men, said 
 nothing, looked nothing ; but upon the faces of the half- 
 dozen cowboys there appeared distinct anticipation. The 
 hunt of a " rustler " appealed to them as a circus does to 
 a small boy, as the prospect of a football game does to a 
 college student. 
 
 Meanwhile, McFadden had been thinking. One could 
 always tell when this process was taking place with the 
 Scotchman, from his habit of tapping his chest with his 
 middle finger as though beating time to the movement of 
 his mental machinery. 
 
 "Got any plan, Kennedy?" he queried. " Whoever s 
 done you has got a good start by this time ; but if we re 
 going to do anything, there s no use in giving him longer. 
 How about it ? " 
 
 Mick s single eye shifted as before, and went from face 
 to face. "No, I haven t; but I ve got an idea." A 
 pause. " How many of you boys remembers Tom Blair?" 
 he digressed. 
 
 " I do," said Grover. 
 
 " Same here." It was Gilbert of the Lost Range who 
 spoke. 
 
 " I Ve heard of him," commented one of the cowboys. 
 
 " I guess we all have," added another. 
 [122] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 Again Mick s eye, like a flashlight, passed from man to 
 man. 
 
 " Well," he announced, " I may be wrong, but I ve got 
 reason to believe it was Tom Blair who did the job last 
 night, and that he s somewhere this side the river right 
 now." 
 
 For a moment there was silence, while the idea took 
 root. 
 
 " I supposed he was dead long ago," remarked Stetson 
 at last. 
 
 " So did I, until a month ago until the last time I 
 was in town stocking up. I met a fellow there then from 
 the country west of the river, and it all came out. Blair s 
 been stampin that range for a year, and they re suspicious 
 of him. He disappears every now and then, and they 
 think he keeps in with a gang of rustlers who have their 
 headquarters over in the Johnson s Hole country in 
 Wyoming. The fellow said he kept up appearances by 
 claiming he owned a ranch on this side the Big B. 
 That s how we came to speak of him." 
 
 "Queer," commented Stetson, "that if it s Blair, he 
 has n t been around before. It s been ten years now since 
 he disappeared, has n t it ? " 
 
 "More than that," corrected Mick. "That s another 
 reason I believe it s him ; that, and the fact that I did n t 
 do nothin the last time I was held up. It must be one 
 lone rustler who s operating or there d be more n a 
 couple of bosses missing. Then it must be some feller 
 that knows the Big B, and has a particular grudge against 
 it, or why would they have passed the Broken Kettle or the 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Lone Buffalo on the west ? Morris has a whole herd, and 
 his main hoss sheds are in an old creek-bed a mile away 
 from the ranch-house. I tell you it s some feller who 
 knows this country and knows me." 
 
 " I believe you re right about him being this side of the 
 river," broke in Thompson. " When I was over after the 
 mail two days ago there was water running on the ice ; 
 and it s been warmer since. It must be wide open in spots 
 now. A man who knows the crossings might make it 
 afoot, but he could n t take a hoss over." 
 
 Mick s lone eye burned more ominously than before. 
 " Of course he can t. He s run into a trap, and all we ve 
 got to do is to make a spread and round him up. I ll 
 bet a hundred to one we find him somewhere this side, 
 waiting for a freeze." Again the half-emptied bottle came 
 from the shelf and passed to the end of the line. " Have 
 another whiskey on me, boys." 
 
 They silently drank. Then grim Stetson suggested that 
 they drink again " to our success " ; and cowboy Buck, 
 not to be outdone, proposed another toast " to the neck 
 tie party after." The big bottle, empty now, dinned on 
 the surface of the bar. 
 
 " By God ! I hope we get him," flamed Grover. " He 
 ought to be hung, anyway. He killed his wife and burned 
 up the body, they say, before he left ! " 
 
 " Someone must call for Rankin and Ben," suggested an 
 other, " Ben particularly. He ought to be there at the 
 finish. Lord knows he s got grudge enough." 
 
 "We ll let him pull the trap," broke in Stetson grimly. 
 
 Of a sudden above the confusion there sounded a snarl, 
 [124] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 almost like the cry of an animal. Surprised, for the mo 
 ment silenced, the men turned in the direction whence it 
 had come. 
 
 " Rankin ! " It was Mick Kennedy who spoke, but it 
 was Mick transformed. " Rankin ! " The great veins of 
 the bartender s neck swelled ; the red face congested until 
 it became all but purple. " No ! We won t go near him ! 
 He d put a stop to the whole thing. What we want is 
 men, not cowards ! " 
 
 A moment only the silence lasted. " All right," agreed 
 Stetson. " Have another, boys ! We 11 drop Rankin ! " 
 
 Anew, louder than before, broke forth the confusion. 
 The games of a short time ago were forgotten. A heap 
 of coin lay on the shelf behind the bar where Mick, the 
 banker, had placed it ; but winner and loser alike ignored 
 its existence. The savage, ever so near the surface of 
 these rough frontiersmen, had taken complete possession 
 of them. Drop Rankin forget civilization ignore 
 the slow practices of law and order ! 
 
 " Come on ! " someone yelled. " We re enough to do 
 the business. To the river ! " 
 
 Instantly the crowd burst through the single front door. 
 Momentarily there followed a lull, while in the half dark 
 ness each rider found his mount. Then sounded an " All 
 ready ! " from cowboy Buck, first in motion, a straining of 
 leather, a swish of quirts, a grunting of ponies as the spurs 
 dug into their flanks, a rush of leaping feet, a wild medley 
 of yells, and westward across the prairie, beneath the stars, 
 there passed a swiftly moving black shadow that grew 
 momentarily lighter, and back from which came a patter, 
 
 [125] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 patter, patter, that grew softer and softer; until at last 
 over the old saloon and its companion store fell silenct 
 absolute. 
 
 It was 10:28 when they left Kennedy s place. It was 
 12 : 36 when, without having for a moment stopped their 
 long swinging gallop, they pulled up at the " Lone Buffalo " 
 ranch, twenty-five miles away, arid the last ranch before 
 they reached the river. The house was dark and silent as 
 the grave at their approach ; but it did not remain so 
 long. The display of fireworks with which they illumined 
 the night would have done credit to an Independence Day 
 celebration. The yells which accompanied it were hair- 
 raising as the shrieks from a band of maniacs. Instantly 
 lights began to burn, and the proprietor himself, Grey 
 a long Southerner with an imperial came rushing to the 
 door, a revolver in either hand. 
 
 But the visitors had not waited for him. With one im 
 pulse they had ridden straight into the horse corral, had 
 thrown off saddles and bridles from their steaming mounts, 
 and, every man for himself, had chosen afresh from the 
 ranch herd. Passing out in single-file through the gate, 
 they came upon Grey ; but still they did not stop. The 
 one word " rustler " was sufficient password, and not five 
 minutes from the time they arrived they were again on the 
 way, headed straight southwest for their long ride to the 
 river. 
 
 Hour after hour they forged ahead. The mustangs had 
 long since puffed themselves into their second wind, and, 
 falling instinctively into their steady swinging lope, they 
 moved ahead like machines. The country grew more and 
 
 [126] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 more rolling, even hilly. From between the tufts of buffalo 
 grass now and then protruded the white face of a rock. 
 Over one such, all but concealed in the darkness, Grovels 
 horse stumbled, and with a groan, the rancher beneath, 
 fell flat to earth. By a seeming miracle the man arose, 
 but the horse did not, and an examination showed the 
 jagged edge of a fractured bone protruding through the 
 hide at the shoulder. There was but one thing to do. 
 A revolver spoke its message of relief, a hastily-cast lot 
 fell to McFadden, and without a word he faced his own 
 mount back the way they had come, assisted Grover to a 
 place behind him, turned to wish the others good luck, 
 and found himself already too late. Where a minute ago 
 they had been standing there was now but vacancy. The 
 night and the rolling ground had swallowed the avengers 
 up as completely as though they had never existed ; and 
 the Scotchman rode slowly back. 
 
 It was yet dark, but the eastern sky was reddening, when 
 they reached the chain of bluffs bordering the great river. 
 They had made their plans before, so that now without 
 hesitating they split as though upon the edge of a mighty 
 wedge, half to the right, half to the left, each division 
 separating agjiin into its individual members, until the 
 whole, like two giant hands whereof the cowboys, half 
 a mile apart from each other, were the fingers, moved 
 forward until the end finger all but touched the river 
 itself. 
 
 Still there was no pause. The details had been worked 
 out to a nicety. They had bent far to the south, miles 
 farther than any man aiming at the Wyoming border 
 
 [ 127 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 would have gone, and now, having arrived at the barrier, 
 they wheeled north again. It was getting daylight, and 
 cowboy Pete, in our simile the left little finger, first to 
 catch sight of the surface of the stream, waved in triumph 
 to the nearest rider on his right. 
 
 " We ve got him, sure ! " he yelled. " She s open in 
 spots "" ; and though the others could not hear, they 
 understood the meaning, and the message went on down 
 the line. 
 
 On, on, more swiftly now, at a stiff gallop, for it was 
 day, the riders advanced. As they moved, first one rider 
 and then another would disappear, as a depression in the 
 uneven country temporarily swallowed them up but 
 only to reappear again over a prominent rise, still gallop 
 ing on. They watched each other closely now, searching 
 the surrounding country. They were nearing a region 
 where they might expect action at any moment, the 
 remains of a camp-fire, a clue to him they sought, for 
 it was on a line directly west of the Big B ranch. 
 
 And they were not to be disappointed. Observing close 
 ly, Stetson, who was nearest to Pete, saw the latter sud 
 denly draw up his horse and come to a full stop. At last 
 the end had arrived at last; and the rancher turned 
 to motion to his right. Only a moment the action took, 
 but when he shifted back he saw a sight which, stolid 
 gambler as he was, sent a thrill through his nerves, a mum 
 bling curse to his lips. Coming toward him, crazy-scared, 
 bounding like an antelope, mane flying, stirrups flapping, 
 was the pony Pete had ridden, but now riderless. Of the 
 cowboy himself there was not a sign. Stetson had not 
 
 [ 128] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 heard a sound or caught a motion. Nevertheless, he un 
 derstood. Somewhere near, just to the west, lay death, 
 death in ambush ; but he did not hesitate. Whatever his 
 faults, the man was no coward. A revolver in either hand, 
 the reins in his teeth, he spurred straight for the river. 
 
 It took him but a minute to cover the distance a 
 minute until, almost by the river s bank, he saw ahead on 
 the brown earth the sprawling form of a dead man. With 
 a jerk he drew up alongside, and, the muzzles of big 
 revolvers following his eye, sent swiftly about him a sweep 
 ing glance. Of a sudden, three hundred yards out, seem 
 ingly from the surface of the river itself, he caught a tiny 
 rising puff of smoke, heard simultaneously a sound he 
 knew so well, the dull spattering impact of a bullet, 
 realized that the pony beneath him was sinking, felt the 
 shock as his own body came to earth, and heard just over 
 his head the singing passage of a rifle-ball. 
 
 Unconscious profanity flowed from the rancher s lips in 
 a stream ; but meanwhile his brain worked swiftly, and, 
 freeing himself, he crawled back hand over hand until a 
 wave in the ground covered the river from view ; then 
 springing to his feet he ran toward the others, approach 
 ing now as fast as spurs would bring them, waving, shout 
 ing a warning as he went. Within a minute they were all 
 together listening to his story. Within another, the rifles 
 from off their saddles in their hands, the ponies left in 
 charge of lank Bob Hoyt, the eight others now remaining 
 moved back as Stetson had come : at first upright, then, 
 crawling, hand over hand until, peeping over the interven 
 ing ridge, they saw lying before them the mingled ice 
 9 [ 129 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 patches and open running water of the low-lying Missouri. 
 Beside them at their left, very near, was the body of Pete ; 
 but after a first glance and an added invective no man for 
 the present gave attention. He was dead, dead in his 
 tracks, and their affair was not with such, but with the 
 quick. 
 
 At first they could see nothing which explained the 
 mystery of death, only the forbidding face of the great 
 river ; then gradually to one after another there appeared 
 tell-tale marks which linked together into clues. 
 
 " Ain t that a hoss-carcass ? " It was cowboy Buck who 
 spoke. " Look, a hundred yards out, down stream." 
 
 Gilbert s swift glance caught the indicated object. 
 
 " Yes, and another beyond farther down amongst 
 that ice-pack ! Do you see ? " 
 
 " Where ? " Mick Kennedy trained his one eye like a 
 fieldpiece upon the locality suggested. " Where ? Yes ! 
 I see them now both of them. Blair s own horse, if he 
 had one, is probably in there too, somewhere." 
 
 Meanwhile Stetson had been scrutinizing the spot on 
 the river s face from which had come the puff of smoke. 
 
 " Say, boys ! " a ring as near excitement as was possible 
 to one of his temperament was in his voice. " Ain t that 
 an island, that brown patch out there, pretty well over to 
 the other side ? I believe it is." 
 
 The others followed his glance. Near the farther bank 
 was a long low-lying object, like a jam of broken ice-cakes, 
 between which and them the open water was flowing. At 
 first they thought it was ice ; then under longer observa 
 tion they knew better. They had seen too many other 
 
 [ 130] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 formations of the kind in this shifting treacherous stream 
 to be long deceived. A flat sandy island it was, sure 
 enough ; and what they thought was ice was driftwood. 
 
 Almost simultaneously from the eight there burst forth 
 an exclamation, a rumbling curse of comprehension. They 
 understood it all now as plainly as though their own eyes 
 had seen the tragedy. Blair had reached the river and, 
 despite its rotten ice, had tried to cross. One by one the 
 horses had broken through, had been abandoned to their 
 fate. He alone, somehow, had managed to reach this sandy 
 island, and he was there now, intrenched behind the drift 
 wood, waiting and watching. 
 
 In the brain of every cowboy there formed an unuttered 
 curse. Their impotence to go farther, to mete out retri 
 bution to this murderer of their companion, came over 
 them in a blind wave of fury. The sun, now well above 
 the horizon, shone warmly down upon them. They were 
 in the midst of an infrequent Winter thaw. The full cur 
 rent of the river was between them and the desperado. It 
 might be days, a week, before ice would again form ; yet, 
 connecting the island with the western bank, it was even 
 now in place. Blair had but to wait until cover of night, 
 and depart in peace on foot, to be sure, but in the 
 course of days a man could travel far afoot. Doubtless 
 he realized all this. Doubtless he was laughing at them 
 now. The curses redoubled. 
 
 Stetson had been taking off his coat. He now draped 
 it about his rifle-stock, and placed his sombrero on top. 
 " All ready, boys," he cautioned, and raised it slowly into 
 view. 
 
 [131] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Instantly from the centre of the driftwood heap there 
 arose a tracing of blue smoke. Simultaneously, irregular 
 in outline as though punched by a dull instrument, a 
 jagged hole appeared in the felt of the hat. 
 
 As instantly, eight rifles on the bank began to play. 
 The crackling of their reports was like infantry, the slid 
 ing click of the ejecting mechanism as continuous and 
 regular as the stamp-stamp of many presses. The smoke 
 rose over their heads in a blue cloud. Far out on the 
 river, under impact of the bullets, splinters of the rotted 
 driftwood leaped high into the air. Now and then the 
 open water in front splashed into spray as a ball went 
 amiss. Not until the rifle magazines were empty did they 
 cease, and then only to reload. Again and once again 
 they repeated the onslaught, until it would seem no object 
 the size of a human being upon the place where they aimed 
 could by any possibility remain alive. Then, and not until 
 then, did silence return, did the dummy upon Stetson s 
 rifle again raise its head. 
 
 But this time there was no response. They waited a 
 minute, two minutes tried the ruse again, and it was as 
 before. Had they really hit the man out there, as they 
 hoped, or was he, conscious of a trick, merely lying low ? 
 Who could tell ? The uncertainty, the inaction, goaded 
 all that was reckless in cowboy Buck s nature, and he 
 sprang to his feet. 
 
 "I m going out there if I have to walk on the bottom 
 of the river!" he blazed. 
 
 Instantly Stetson s hands were on his legs, pulling him 
 prostrate. 
 
 [ 132] 
 
A Deferred Reckoning 
 
 "Down, you fool!" he growled. "At the bottom of 
 the river is where you d be quick enough." The speaker 
 turned to the others. "One of us is done for already. 
 There s no use for the rest to risk our lives without a show. 
 We ve either potted Blair or we have n t. There s nothing 
 more to be done now, anyway. We may as well go back." 
 
 For a moment there was a murmur of dissent, but it 
 was short-lived. One and all realized that what the rancher 
 said was true. For the present at least, nature was against 
 them, on the side of the outlaw ; and to combat nature 
 was useless. Another time yes, there would surely be 
 another time ; and grim faces grew grimmer at the thought. 
 Another time it would be different. 
 
 " Yes, we may as well go." It was Mick Kennedy who 
 spoke. " We can t stay here long, that s sure." He tossed 
 his rifle over to Stetson. " Carry that, will you ? " and ris 
 ing, regardless of danger, he walked over to cowboy Pete, 
 took the dead body in his arms, without a glance behind 
 him, stalked back to where the horses were waiting, laid 
 his burden almost tenderly across the shoulder of his own 
 mustang, and mounted behind. Coming up, the others, 
 likewise in silence, got into their saddles, not as at starting, 
 with one bound, but heavily, by aid of stirrups. Still in 
 silence, Mick leading, the legs of dead Pete dangling at 
 the pony s shoulder, they faced east, and started moving 
 slowly along the backward trail. 
 
 [ 133] 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A SHOT IN THE DARK 
 
 WINTER, long delayed, came at last in earnest. 
 On the morning of the seventeenth of January 
 the ranchers did not soon forget the date 
 a warm snow, soft with moisture, drove tumbling in from 
 the east. All the morning it came, thicker and thicker, 
 until on the level, several inches had fallen ; then, so rapidly 
 that one could almost discern the change, the temperature 
 began lowering, the wind shifting from the east to the 
 north, from north to west, and steadily rising. The sur 
 face of the snow froze to ice, the snowflakes turned to sleet, 
 and went bounding and grinding, forming drifts but to 
 disperse again, journeying aimlessly on, cutting viciously 
 at the chance animal who came in their path like a myriad 
 of tiny knives. 
 
 All that day the force of the [JR ranch labored in the 
 increasing storm to get the home herds safely behind the 
 shelter of the corral. It was impossible for cattle long to 
 face such a storm ; but with this very emergency in mind, 
 Ran kin had always in Winter kept the scattered bunches 
 to the north and west, and under these conditions the 
 feat was accomplished by dusk, and the half-frozen cow 
 boys tumbled into their bunks, to fall asleep almost before 
 
 [IS*] 
 
A Shot in the Dark 
 
 they assumed the horizontal. The other ranchers won 
 dered why it was that Rankin was so prosperous and why 
 his herd seldom diminished in Winter. Had they been 
 observant, they could have learned one reason that day. 
 
 All the following night the storm moaned and raged, 
 and the cold became more and more intense. It came in 
 through the walls of houses and through bunk coverings, 
 and bit at one like a living thing. Nothing could stop it, 
 nothing unprotected could withstand it. In the great 
 corral behind the windbreak, the cattle, all headed east, 
 were jammed together for warmth, a conglomerate mass 
 of brown heads and bodies from which projected a wil 
 derness of horns. 
 
 The next morning broke with a clear sky but with the 
 thermometer marking many degrees below zero. Out of 
 doors, when the sun had arisen, the light was dazzling. 
 As far as eye could reach not a spot of brown relieved the 
 white. The layer of frozen snow lay like a vast carpet 
 stretched tight from horizon to horizon. Although it 
 was only snow, yet so far as the herds of the ranchers were 
 concerned it might have been a protecting armor of steel. 
 Well did the tired cowboys, stiff from the previous day s 
 struggle, know what was before them, when at daylight 
 Graham routed them out. Food the helpless multitude 
 must have. If they could not find it for themselves it must 
 be found for them ; and in stolid disapproval the men ate 
 a hasty breakfast by the light of a kerosene lamp and went 
 forth to the inevitable. 
 
 Rankin and Ben and Graham were already astir, and 
 under their supervision the campaign was rapidly begun. 
 
 [ 135 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 For a few days the stock must be fed on hay, and seven of 
 the available fifteen men of the ranch force were detailed 
 to keep full the great racks in the cattle stockade a task 
 in itself, with the myriad hungry mouths swarming on 
 every hand, all but Herculean. The others, Rankin him 
 self among the number, undertook the greater feat of in a 
 measure opening the range for the future. 
 
 The device which the big man had evolved for this pur 
 pose, and had used on previous similar occasions, was a 
 simple triangular snow-plough several feet in width, with 
 guiding handles behind. Comparatively narrow as was the 
 ribbon path cleared by this appliance, its length was only 
 limited by the endurance of the horses and the driver, and 
 in the course of the day many an acre could be uncovered. 
 Half an hour after sunrise, the eight outfits thus equipped 
 were lined up side by side and headed due northwest to a 
 range which had been but little pastured. 
 
 For five miles straight as a taut line they went, leaving 
 behind them eight brown stripes alternating with bands of 
 white between. Then back and forth, back and forth, for 
 the distance of another mile they vibrated until it was 
 noon, when eight more connecting brown ribbons were 
 stretched beside their predecessors back to the ranch-house. 
 In the afternoon the labor was repeated, until by night 
 the clearing, a gigantic mottled fan with an abnormally 
 long handle, lay in vivid contrast against the surrounding 
 white. 
 
 The second day was the same, except that but seven 
 bands stretched out behind the moving squad. Rankin, 
 game as he was, could scarcely put one foot ahead of the 
 
 [136] 
 
A Shot in the Dark 
 
 other, and in consequence, changing his tactics, he mounted 
 the old buckboard and departed on a tour of inspection 
 toward the north range. He was late in returning, and, 
 as usual, very taciturn ; but after supper, as he and Ben 
 were smoking in friendly silence by the kitchen fire, he 
 turned to the younger man. 
 
 "Someone stayed at the north range last night,"" he 
 announced abruptly. " He slept there and had a fire." 
 
 Ben showed no surprise. " I thought so, probably," he 
 replied. " Late this afternoon I ran across a trail leading 
 in from the west along our clearing, and headed that way. 
 It was one lone chain of footprints." 
 
 Rankin shivered, and replenished the fire. His long 
 drive had chilled him through and through. 
 
 " I suppose you have an idea who made that trail ? " he 
 said. 
 
 Though each knew that the other had heard the de 
 tails of Pete s death, neither had mentioned the incident. 
 To do so had seemed superfluous. Now, however, each 
 realized the thought in the other s mind, and chose not 
 to avoid it. 
 
 " Yes," answered Ben, simply. " I suppose it was made 
 by Tom Blair." 
 
 Never before had Rankin heard Benjamin Blair speak 
 that name. He stretched back heavily in his chair and 
 lit his pipe afresh. 
 
 " Ben," he said, " I m getting old. I never began to 
 realize the fact until this Winter ; but I shaVt last many 
 more years." Puff, puff went two twin clouds of smoke 
 toward the ceiling. "Civilization has some advantages 
 
 [ 137 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 over the frontier, and this is one of them . it s kinder to 
 the old." 
 
 Never before had Rankin spoken in this way, and the 
 other understood the strength of his conviction. 
 
 " You work too hard," he said soberly, though he felt 
 the inadequacy of the trite remark. "It s unnecessary. 
 I wish you would n t do it." 
 
 Rankin threw an outward motion with his powerful 
 hand. " Yes, I know ; but when I quit moving I want to 
 die. I know I could get a steam-heated back room in a 
 quiet street of a sleepy town somewhere and coddle myself 
 into a good many years yet ; but it is n t worth the price. 
 I love this big free life too well ever to leave it. Most of 
 the people one meets here are rough, but in time that will 
 all change. It s changing now ; and meantime nature 
 compensates for everything." 
 
 There was a moment s silence, and then, as though there, 
 had been no digression, Rankin went back to the former 
 subject. " Yes," he said slowly, " I think you re right 
 about those being Tom Blair s tracks." He turned and 
 faced the younger man squarely. " If it is, Ben, it means 
 he s been frozen out from his hiding-place, wherever that 
 is, and he s crazy desperate. He d do anything now. He 
 would n t ever come back here otherwise." 
 
 Ben Blair s blue eyes tightened until the lashes were all 
 but parallel. 
 
 " Yes," Rankin repeated, " he s crazy desperate to come 
 here at all especially so now." A pause, but the eyes 
 did not shift. " God knows I m sorry he evrr came back. 
 I was glad we found that trail too late to follow it to-day ; 
 
 i 138 .1 
 
A Shot in the Dark 
 
 but it s only postponing the end. I believe he 11 be here 
 at the ranch to-night. He s got to get a horse he s 
 got to do something right away ; and I m going to watch. 
 If he don t come 1 11 take up the old trail in the morning." 
 
 Once more the pause, more intense than words. " He 
 can t escape again, unless unless he gets me first 
 He must be desperate crazy." 
 
 Rankin arose heavily and knocked the ashes out of his 
 pipe preparatory to bed. 
 
 " There are a lot of things I might say now, Ben, but 
 I won t say them. We re not living in a land of law. We 
 haven t someone always at hand to shift our responsi 
 bility onto. In self-protection, we ve got to take justice 
 more or less into our own hands. One thing I will say, 
 though, and I hope you 11 never forget it. Think twice 
 before you ever take the life of another human being, Ben^; 
 think twice. Be sure your reasons are mighty good 
 and then think again. Don t ever act in hot blood, or 
 as long as you live you ll know remorse." The speaker 
 paused and his breath came fast. Something more who 
 knew how much ? trembled on the end of his tongue. 
 He roused himself with an effort and turned toward his 
 bunk. " Good-night, Ben. I trust you as I d trust my 
 own son." 
 
 The younger man watched the departing figure and felt 
 the irony of the separation that keeps us silent even when 
 we wish to be nearest and most helpful to our friends and 
 makes our words a mockery. 
 
 " Thank you, sir, I shall not forget. Good-night," he 
 said. 
 
 [139] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 When a few minutes later the young man sauntered out 
 to the barns, everything was peaceful as usual. From the 
 horse-stalls came the steady monotonous grind of the 
 animals at feed. In the cattle-yards was heard the sleepy 
 breathing of the multitude of cattle. Perfect contentment 
 and oblivion was the keynote of the place, and the watcher 
 looked at the lethargic mass thoughtfully. He had always 
 responded instinctively to the moods of dumb animals. 
 He did so now. The passive trustfulness of the great 
 herd affected him deeply. Twice he made the circuit of 
 the buildings, but finding nothing amiss returned to his 
 place. The sound of the horses feeding had long since 
 ceased. The sleepy murmur of the cattle was lower and 
 more regular. In the increasing coldness the vapor of 
 their breath, even though the night was dark and moon 
 less, arose in an indistinct cloud, like the smoke of smoul 
 dering camp-fires over the tents of a sleeping army. For 
 two days the man had been doing the heaviest kind of 
 work. Gradually, amid much opening and closing of eye 
 lids, consciousness lapsed into semi-consciousness, and he 
 dozed. 
 
 Suddenly whether it was an hour or a minute after 
 wards, he did not know he awoke and sat up listening. 
 Some sound had caught and held his sub-conscious atten 
 tion. He waited a moment, intent, scarcely breathing, 
 and then sprang swiftly to his feet. The sound now came 
 definitely from the sheds at the left. It was the deep 
 chesty groan of a horse in pain. 
 
 Once upon his feet, Ben Blair ran toward the barn, not 
 cautiously but precipitately. He had not grown to 
 
 [ 140 ] 
 
A Shot in the Dark 
 
 maturity amid animals without learning something of 
 their language ; but even if such had been the case, he 
 could scarcely have mistaken that sound. Mortal pain 
 and mortal terror vibrated in those tones. No human 
 being could have cried for help more distinctly. The 
 frozen snow squeaked under the rancher s feet as he ran. 
 " Stop there ! " he shouted. " Stop there ! " and throwing 
 open the nearest door, unmindful of danger, he dashed into 
 the interior darkness. 
 
 The barn was eighty odd feet in length, and as Ben 
 swung open the door at the east corner there was a flash 
 of fire from the extreme west end, and a bullet splintered 
 the wood just back of his head. His precipitate entry had 
 been his salvation. He groped his way ahead, the groans 
 of the horses in his ears for now he detected more than 
 one voice. A growing realization of what he would find 
 was in his mind, and then a dark form shot through the 
 west door, and he was alone. Impulse told him to follow, 
 but the sound of pain and struggle kept him back. He 
 struck a match, held it like a torch above him, moved 
 ahead, stopped. The flame burned down the dry pine 
 until it reached his fingers, blackened them, went out ; but 
 he did not stir. He had expected the thing he saw, ex 
 pected it at the first cry he heard ; yet infinitely more 
 horrible than a picture of imagination was the reality. 
 He did not light another match, he did not wish to see. 
 To hear was bad enough to hear and to know. He 
 started for the door ; and behind him three great horses, 
 hopelessly maimed and crippled, struggled to rise, and 
 failing, groaned anew. 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 It seemed Ben s fate this night to be just too late for 
 service. Before he reached the exit there sounded, spat 
 tering and intermittent, like the first popping kernels of 
 corn in a pan, a succession of pistol-shots from the ranch- 
 house. There was no answer, and as he stepped out into 
 the air the sound ceased. As he did so, the kitchen of the 
 house sprang alight from a lamp within. There was a mo 
 ment of apparent inactivity, and then, the door swinging 
 open, fair against the lighted background, shading his eyes 
 to look into the outer darkness, stood Rankin. Instantly 
 a wave of premonition flooded the watching Benjamin. 
 
 " Go back ! " he shouted. " Go back ! Back, quick ! " 
 and careless of personal danger, he started running for the 
 ranch-house as before he had raced for the barn. 
 
 The warning might as well have been ungiven. Almost 
 before the last words were spoken there came from the 
 darkness at Ben s right the sound he had been expecting 
 a single vicious rifle report ; and as though a mighty 
 invisible weight were crushing him down, Rankin sank to 
 the floor. 
 
 Then for the first time in his history Ben Blair lost self- 
 control. Quick as thought he changed his course from the 
 house to the direction from which the shot had come. 
 The great veins of his throat swelled until it seemed he 
 could scarcely breathe. Curses, horrible, blighting curses, 
 combinations of malediction which had never even in 
 thought entered his mind before, rolled from his lips. 
 His brain seemed afire. But one idea possessed him 
 to lay hands upon this intruding being who had in cold 
 blood done that fiendish deed in the barn, and now had 
 
 [142] 
 
A Shot in the Dark 
 
 shot his best friend on earth. The rage of primitive man 
 who knew not steel or gunpowder was his ; the ferocity of 
 the great monkey, the aborigine s predecessor, whose 
 means of offence were teeth and nails. Straight ahead 
 the man rushed, seeming not to run, but fairly to bound, 
 turned suddenly the angle at the corner of the machinery 
 shed, stumbled over a snow-plough drawn up carelessly by 
 one of the men, fell, regained his feet, and heard in his ears 
 the thundering hoof-beats of a horse urged away at full 
 speed. 
 
 For a moment Ben Blair stood as he had risen, gazing 
 westward where the other had departed, but seeing nothing, 
 not even a shadow. Clouds had formed over the sky, and 
 the night was of intense darkness. To attempt to follow 
 a trail now was waste of time ; and gradually, as he stood 
 there, the unevolved fury of the man transformed. His 
 tongue became silent ; not a human being had heard the 
 outburst. The physical paroxysm relaxed. As he re 
 turned to the ranch-house no observer would have de 
 tected in him other than the usual matter-of-fact rancher ; 
 yet beneath that calm was a purpose infinitely more 
 terrible than the animal blaze of a few minutes before, a 
 tenacity more relentless than a tiger on the trail of its 
 quarry, than an Indian stalking his enemy ; a formulated 
 purpose which could patiently wait, but eventually and 
 inevitably would grind its object to powder. 
 
 Meanwhile, back at the scene of the tragedy, there had 
 been feverish action. Many of the cowboys were already 
 about the barns,"and lanterns gleamed in the horse corral. 
 Within the house, in the nearest bunk where they had laid 
 
 [ 143 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 him, stretched the proprietor of the ranch. About him 
 were grouped Grannis, Graham, and Ma Graham. The 
 latter was weeping hysterically her head buried in her 
 big checked apron, the great mass of her body vibrating 
 with the effort. As Ben approached, her husband glanced 
 up. Upon his face was the dull unreasoning indecision of 
 a steer which had lost its leader; an animal passivity which 
 awaited command. 
 
 " Rankin s dead," he announced dully. " He s hit here." 
 A withered hand indicated a spot on the left breast. " He 
 went quick." 
 
 Grannis said nothing, and walking up Ben Blair stopped 
 beside the bunk. He took a long look at the kindly 
 heavy face of the only man he had ever called friend ; but 
 not a feature of his own face relaxed, not a muscle 
 quivered. Grannis watched him fixedly, almost with fas 
 cination. Gray-haired gambler and man of fortune that 
 he was, he realized as Graham could never do the emo 
 tions which so often lie just back of the locked counte 
 nance of a human being ; realized it, and with the grim 
 carelessness of a frontiersman admired it. 
 
 Of a sudden there was a grinding of frosty snow in the 
 outer yard, a confused medley of human voices, a snorting 
 of horses ; and, turning, Ben went to the door. One 
 glance told him the meaning of the cluster of cowboys. 
 He walked out toward them deliberately. 
 
 "Boys," he said steadily, "put up your horses. You 
 couldn t find a mountain in the darkness to-night." A 
 pause. " Besides," slowly, " this is my affair. Put them 
 up and go to bed." 
 
 [144] 
 
A Shot in the Dark 
 
 For a moment there was silence. The hearers could 
 scarcely believe their ears. 
 
 " You mean we Ye to let him go ? " queried a hesitating 
 voice at last. 
 
 Blair folded up the broad brim of his hat and looked 
 from face to face as it was revealed by the uncertain light 
 from the window. 
 
 " I mean what I said," he repeated evenly. " I 11 attend 
 to this matter myself." 
 
 For a moment again there was silence, but only for a 
 moment. 
 
 "No you won t!" blazed a voice suddenly. "Rankin 
 was the whitest man that ever owned a brand. Just be 
 cause the kyote that shot him lived with your mother 
 won t save him. I m going and now." 
 
 Quicker than a cat, so swiftly that the other cowboys 
 scarcely realized what was happening, the long gaunt 
 Benjamin was at the speaker s side. With a leap he had 
 him by the throat, had dragged him from the back of 
 the horse, and held him at arm s length. 
 
 " Freeman," the voice was neither raised nor lowered, 
 but steady as the drip of falling water, u Freeman, you 
 know better than that, and you know you know better." 
 The grip of the long left hand on the throat tightened. 
 The fingers of the right locked. " Say so quick ! " 
 
 Face to face, looking fair into each other s eyes, stood 
 the two men, while the spectators watched breathlessly as 
 they would have done at a climax in a play. It was a case 
 of will against will, elemental man against his brother. 
 "I m waiting," suggested Blair, and even in the dim 
 10 [ 145 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 light Freeman saw the blue eyes beneath the long lashes 
 darken. Instinctively the victim s hand went to his hip 
 and lingered there ; but he could no more have withdrawn 
 the weapon which he felt there than he could have struck 
 his own mother. He started to speak ; but his lips were 
 dry, and he moistened them with his tongue. 
 " Yes, I know better," he admitted low. 
 Ben Blair dropped his hand and turned to the spectators. 
 " Men," he said slowly and distinctly, " for the present 
 at least I m master of this ranch, and when I give an 
 order I expect to be obeyed." Again his eye went from 
 face to face fearlessly, dominantly. " Does any other man 
 doubt me ? "" 
 
 Not a voice broke the stillness of the night. Only the 
 restless movement of the impatient mustangs answered. 
 
 " Very well, then, you heard what I said. Go to bed, 
 and to-morrow go on with your work as usual. Grannis 
 will be in charge while I m gone," and without a backward 
 glance the long figure returned to the ranch-house. 
 
 The weazened foreman and the tall adventurer had been 
 watching him impassively from the doorway. In silence 
 they made room for him to pass. 
 
 " Grannis," he asked directly, " have those horses been 
 taken care of ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " See to it at once then." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The blue eyes rested for a moment on the other s face. 
 
 " You heard who I said would be in charge while I m 
 away?" 
 
 [146] 
 
A Shot in the Dark 
 
 " Yes, sir," again. 
 
 Ben moved over to the bunk opposite to that in which 
 lay the dead man and took off his hat and coat. 
 
 " Graham ! " 
 
 The foreman came close, stood at attention. 
 
 " Keep awake and call me before daylight, will you ? " 
 
 I will." 
 
 "And, Graham!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I may be gone several days. You and Ma attend to 
 the burial. Dig the grave out under the big maple." 
 A pause. "I think," steadily, "he would have liked it 
 there." 
 
 The foreman nodded silently. 
 
 Benjamin Blair dropped into the bunk, drew the blankets 
 over him and closed his eyes. As he did so, from the 
 direction of the barn there came a succession of pistol 
 shots one, two, three. Then again silence felL 
 
 I 1*7 ] 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE INEXORABLE TRAIL 
 
 ONCE more, westward across the prairie country, 
 there moved a tall and sinewy youth astride a 
 vicious looking buckskin. This time, however, 
 it was very early in the morning. The rider moved slowly, 
 his eyes on the ground. His outfit was more elaborate 
 than on the former journey. A heavy blanket and a light 
 camp kit were strapped behind his saddle, and so attached 
 that they could be quickly transferred to his back. A big 
 rifle was stretched across his right knee and the saddle- 
 horn. At either hip rode a great holster. The air, 
 despite the cloudiness, was bitter cold; and he wore a 
 heavy sheepskin coat with the wool turned in, and long 
 gauntlets reaching half-way to his elbows. A broad 
 leather belt held the heavy coat in place, and attached to 
 it was a thin sheath from which protruded the stout 
 handle of a hunting-knife. He also wore another belt, 
 fitted with many loops, each holding a gleaming little 
 brass cylinder. No one seeing the man this morning could 
 have made the mistake of considering him, as before, on a 
 journey to see a lady. 
 
 Slowly day advanced. The east resolved itself from 
 flaming red into the neutral tint of the remainder of the 
 sky. The sun shone through the clouds, dissipated them, 
 
 [ 148 1 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 was obscured, and shone again. The something which the 
 man had been watching so intently gradually grew clearer. 
 It was the trail of another horse a galloping horse. It 
 was easy to follow, and the rider looked about him. After 
 a few miles, when the mustang had warmed to his second 
 wind, a gauntleted hand dropped to the yellow neck and 
 stroked it gently. 
 
 " Let em out a bit, Buck," said a voice, " let em out ! " 
 and with a flick of the dainty ears, almost as if he under 
 stood, the little beast fell into the steady swinging lope 
 which was his natural gait, and which he could follow if 
 need be without a break from sun to sun. 
 
 On they went, the trail they were following unwinding 
 like a great tape steadily before them, the crunch of the 
 frozen snow in their ears, tiny particles of it flying to the 
 side and behind like spray. But, bravely as they were 
 going, the horse ahead which had unwound that band of 
 tracks had moved more swiftly. Not within inches did 
 the best efforts of the buckskin approach those giant 
 strides. It had been a desperate rider who had urged 
 such a pace ; and the grim face of the tall youth grew 
 grimmer at the thought. 
 
 Not another sound than of their own making did they 
 hear. Not an object uncovered of white did they see, 
 until, thirteen miles out, they passed near the deserted 
 Baker ranch ; but the trail did not stop, nor did they, 
 and ere long it faded again from view. The course was 
 dipping well to the north now, and Ben realized that not 
 again on his journey would he pass in sight of a human 
 habitation. 
 
 [ 149 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 All that mortal day the buckskin pounded monoto 
 nously ahead. The sun rose to the meridian, gazed warmly 
 down upon them, softened the surface of the frozen snow 
 until the crunch sounded mellower, and slowly descended 
 to their left. The dainty ears of the pony, as the day 
 waned, flattened close to his head. Foam gathered be 
 neath the saddle and between the animal s legs ; but dog 
 gedly relentless as his rider, he forged ahead. Much in 
 common had these two beings; more closely than ever 
 was their comradery cemented that day. Many times, 
 with the same motion as at first, the man had leaned over 
 and patted that muscular neck, dark and soiled now with 
 perspiration. " Good old Buck,"" he said as to a fellow, 
 " good old Buck ! " and each time the set ears had flicked 
 intelligently in response. 
 
 It was nearing sunset when they came in sight of the 
 hills bordering the river, and the last mile Ben drew the 
 buckskin to a walk. The chain of hoof-tracks had changed 
 much since the morning. The buckskin could equal the 
 strides of the other now, and the follower was content. 
 The evenings were very short at this season of the year, 
 and they would not attempt to go farther to-night. At 
 the margin of the stream Ben rode along until he found a 
 spot where the full strength of the current ate into the 
 bank. There on the thinner ice he hammered with the 
 butt of his heavy rifle until he broke a hole; then, 
 the dumb one first, the two friends drank their fill. After 
 that, side by side, they walked back until in the shelter of 
 a high knoll the man found a space of perhaps half an 
 acre where the grass, thick and unpastured, was practically 
 
 [ 150 ] 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 bare of snow. Here he removed saddle and bridle, and 
 without lariat or hobble for they knew each other now, 
 these two he turned the pony loose to graze. He him 
 self, with the kit and blanket and a handful of dead wood, 
 went to the hill-top, where he could see for miles around, 
 built a tiny fire, an Indian s fire, made a can of strong 
 black coffee, and ate of the jerked beef he had brought. 
 Later, he cleared a spot the size of a man s grave, and 
 with grass and the blanket built a shallow nest, in which 
 he stretched himself, his elbow on the earth, his face in 
 his hand, thinking, thinking. 
 
 The night came on. As the eastern sky had done in 
 the morning, so now the west crimsoned gloriously, became 
 the color of blood, then gradually shaded back until it was 
 neutral again, and the stars from a few scattering dots in 
 creased in numbers and filled the dome as scattered sand- 
 grains cover a floor. Darkness came, and with it the slight 
 wind of the day died down until the air was perfectly 
 still. The cold, which had retreated for a time, returned, 
 augmented. As though it were a live thing moving about, 
 its coming could be heard in the almost indistinguishable 
 crackling of the snow-crust. As beneath a crushing weight, 
 the ice of the great river boomed and crackled from its 
 touch. 
 
 Wide-eyed but impassive, the man watched and listened. 
 Scarcely a muscle of his body moved. Not once, as the 
 hours slipped by, did he drowse ; not for an instant was 
 he off his guard. With the first trace of morning in the 
 east, he was astir. As on the night before, he made his 
 Indian s fire, ate his handful of beef, and drank of the 
 
 [ 151] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 strong black coffee. The pony, sleepy as a child, was 
 aroused and saddled. The ice which had frozen during 
 the night over their drinking-hole was broken. Then, 
 both man and horse stiff and sore from the exposure and 
 the previous exertion, the trail was taken up anew. 
 
 For five miles, until both were warmed to their work, 
 the man and beast trotted along side by side. "Now, 
 Buck, old boy ! " said Ben, and mounting, they were off in 
 earnest. At first the trail they were following was that 
 of a horse that walked ; but later it stretched out into the 
 old long-strided gallop, and the pursuer read the tale of 
 quirt and spur which had forced the change. 
 
 Three hours out, thirty odd miles from the river as the 
 rider calculated the distance, he came to the first break in 
 the seemingly endless trail of hoofprints he was following. 
 A heap of snow scraped aside and two brown spots on the 
 earth told the story of where the pursued man and horse 
 had paused to rest and sleep. No water was near. 
 Neither the human nor the beast had strayed from the 
 direct line ; they had merely halted and dropped almost 
 within their tracks. Just beyond was the spot where the 
 man had remounted, where the flight began anew; and 
 again a tale lay written on the surface of the snow. The 
 prints of the horse s feet were now unsteady and irregular. 
 Within a few rods there was on the right a red splash of 
 blood ; then others, a drop at a time. Very hard it had 
 been to put life into the beast at starting; deep the 
 rowels of the great spur had been dug. Ben Blair lightly 
 touched the neck of his buckskin and gave the word 
 to go. 
 
 [ 152] 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 " They were only thirty miles ahead last night, Buck, 
 old chap," he said, " and very tired. We 11 gain on them 
 fast to-day." 
 
 But though they gained the record of the tracks told 
 that they did not gain fast. Notwithstanding he still 
 galloped doggedly ahead, the gallant little buckskin was 
 plainly weakening. The eternal pounding through the 
 snow was eating up his strength, and though his spirit was 
 indomitable the end of his endurance was in sight. No 
 longer would the dainty ears respond to a touch on the 
 neck. With head lowered he moved forward like a 
 machine. While the sun was yet above the horizon, the 
 lope diminished to a trot, the trot to a walk a game 
 walk, but only a walk. 
 
 Then, for the second time that day, Ben dismounted. 
 Silently he removed saddle and bridle, transferred the 
 blanket and kit to his own back, and then, the rifle under 
 his arm, stopped a moment by the pony s side and laid the 
 dainty muzzle against his face. 
 
 " Buck, old boy," he said, " you ve done mighty well 
 but I can beat you now. Maybe some day well meet 
 again. I hope we shall. Anyway, we Ve better for hav 
 ing known each other. Good-bye." 
 
 A moment longer his face lay so, as his hand would have 
 lain in a friend s hand at parting ; then, with a last pat to 
 the silken nose, he started on ahead. 
 
 At first the man walked steadily ; then, warming to the 
 work, he broke into the swinging jog-trot of the frontiers 
 man, the hunter who travels afoot. Many Indians the 
 youth had known in his day, and from them he had learned 
 
 [ 153 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 much ; one thing was that in walking or running to step 
 straight-footed instead of partially sideways, as the white 
 man plants his sole, was to gain inches at every motion, 
 besides making it easier to retrace his steps should he wish 
 to do so. This habit had become a part of him, and now 
 the marks of his own trail were like the alternately broken 
 line which represents a railroad on a map. 
 
 As long as he could see to read from the white page of 
 the snow-blanket, \Ben Blair jogged ahead. Hot anger, 
 that he could not repress, was with him constantly now, 
 for the trail before him was very fresh, and, distinct beside 
 it, more and more frequent were the red marks of an 
 animal s suffering. He knew what horse it was the other 
 had stolen. It was " Lady," one of Scotty s prize thorough 
 bred mares, the one Florence had ridden so many times. 
 Often during those last hours the man wondered at the 
 endurance of the mare. None but a thoroughbred would 
 have stood up this long ; and even she, if she ever stopped, 
 but the man ahead doubtless knew this also, for he 
 would not let her stop, not so long as life remained and 
 spur and quirt had power to torture. 
 
 Thus night came on, folding within its concealing arms 
 alike the hunter and the pursued. Ben did not build a 
 fire this night. First of all, though during the day at 
 different times he had been able to see the bordering trees 
 of the White River at his left and the Bad River at his 
 right, the trail hung to the comparatively level land of the 
 great divide between, and not a scrap of wood was within 
 miles. Again, although he did not actually know, he 
 could not believe he was far behind, and he would run no 
 
 [154] 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 risk of giving a warning sign to eyes which must be watch 
 ing the backward trail. The fierce hunger of a healthy 
 animal was his ; but his supply of beef was limited, and he 
 ate a meagre allowance, washing it down with a draught 
 of river water from his canteen. Rolled up in the blanket, 
 through which the stinging cold pierced as though it were 
 gossamer, shivering, beating his hands and feet to prevent 
 their stiffening, longing for protecting fur like a wolf or a 
 buffalo, keeping constant watch about him as does a great 
 prairie owl, the interminably long hours of his second night 
 dragged by. 
 
 " The beginning of the end, 1 he soliloquized, when once 
 more it was light enough so that standing he could see the 
 earth at his feet. Well he knew that ere this the other 
 horse was eliminated from the chase that it was now 
 man against man. God ! how his joints ached when he 
 stretched them ! how his muscles pained at the slightest 
 motion ! He ground his teeth when he first began to 
 walk, and hobbled like a rheumatic cripple ; but within a 
 half-hour tenacity had won, and the relentless jog-trot of 
 the interrupted line was measuring off the miles anew. 
 
 The chase was nearing an end. Long ere noon, in the 
 distance toward which he was heading, Blair detected a 
 brown dot against the white. Steadily, as he advanced, 
 it resolved itself into the thing he had expected, and stood 
 revealed before him, the centre of a horribly legible page, 
 the last page in the biography of a noble horse. Let us 
 pass it by : Ben did, looking the other way. But a new 
 and terrible vitality possessed him. His weariness left 
 him, as pain passes under an opiate. He did not pause to 
 
 [ 155 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 eat, to drink. Tireless as a waterfall, watchful as a hawk, 
 he jogged on, on, a mile two miles five came to a rise 
 in the great roll of the lands stopped, his heart suddenly 
 pounding the walls of his chest. Before him, not half a 
 mile away, moving slowly westward, was the diminutive 
 black shape of a man travelling afoot ! 
 
 Instantly the primal hunting instinct of the Anglo- 
 Saxon awoke in the lank Benjamin. The incomparable 
 fascination which makes man-hunting the sport supreme 
 of all ages gripped him tight. The stealthy cunning of a 
 savage became on the moment his. A plan of ambush, 
 one which could scarcely fail, flashed into his mind. The 
 trail of the divide narrowing now, stretched for miles and 
 miles straight before them. That black figure would 
 scarcely leave it. The pursuer had but to make a great 
 detour, get far in advance, find a point of concealment, 
 and wait. 
 
 Swift as thought was action. Back on his trail until 
 he was out of sight went Ben Blair ; then, turning to his 
 right, he made straight for the concealing bed of Bad 
 River. Once there, he turned west again, following the 
 winding course of the stream toward its source. Faster 
 than ever he moved, the pat-pat of his feet on the dead 
 ening snow drowning the sound of the great breaths he 
 drew into his lungs and sent whistling out again through 
 his nostrils. As with the horse, the sweat oozed at every 
 pore. Collecting on his brow and face, it dripped slowly 
 from his great chin. Dampening, his clothes clung bind 
 ing-tight to his body ; but he never noticed. He looked 
 neither to the right nor to the left, nor behind him; 
 
 [156] 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 but, like a sprinter approaching the wire, only straight 
 ahead. 
 
 Under him the miles flowed past like water. Five, ten, 
 a dozen he covered ; then of a sudden he turned again to 
 the south, quitting his shelter of the river-bed. For a 
 time the country was very rough, but he scarcely slackened 
 his pace. Once he fell through the crust of a drift, and 
 went down nearly to his neck ; but he crowded his way 
 through by sheer strength, emerging a powdered figure 
 from the snow which clung to his damp clothes. The 
 sun was down now, and he knew darkness would come 
 very quickly and he must reach the divide, the probable 
 trail, before it fell, and there select his point of waiting. 
 
 As he moved on, he saw some miles ahead that which 
 decided him. A low chain of hills, stretching to the north 
 and south, crossed the great divide as a fallen log spans a 
 path. In these hills, appreciable even at this distance, 
 there was a dip, an almost level pass. A small diversity 
 it was on the face of nature, but to a weary man, fleeing 
 afoot, seen in the distance it would irresistibly appeal. 
 Almost as certain as though he saw the black figure 
 already heading for it, the hunter felt it would be utilized. 
 Anyway, he would take the chance ; and with a last spurt 
 of speed he put himself fairly in its way. To clear a nar 
 row strip of ground the length of his body, and build 
 around it like a breastwork a border of snow, was the 
 work of but a few minutes ; then, wrapped in his blanket, 
 too deadly tired to even attempt to eat, he dropped be 
 hind the cover like a log. At first the rest was that of 
 Paradise; but swiftly came the reaction, the chill. To 
 
 [ 157 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 lie there in his present condition meant but one thing, 
 that never would he arise again ; and with an effort the 
 man got to his feet and started walking. It was dark 
 again now, and the sky was becoming rapidly overcast. 
 Within an hour it began to snow, a steady big-flaked 
 snow that fairly filled the air and lay where it fell. The 
 night grew slightly warmer, and, rolling in the blanket 
 once more, Ben lay down; but the warning chill soon 
 had him again upon his feet, walking back and forth in 
 the owe beaten path. 
 
 Very long the two previous nights had been. Intermin 
 able seemed this third. As long as the sun or moon or 
 stars were shining, the man never felt completely alone ; 
 but in this utter darkness the hours seemed like days. 
 The steadily falling snowflakes added to the impression of 
 loneliness and isolation. They were like the falling clods 
 of earth in a grave : something crowding between him and 
 life, burying and suffocating him where he stood. Try as 
 he might, the man could not shake off the weird impression, 
 and at last he ceased the effort. Grimly stolid, he lit his 
 pipe, and, his damp clothing having dried at last, cleared 
 a fresh spot and lay down, the horrible loneliness still tug 
 ging at his heart. 
 
 Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the morning came. 
 With it the storm ceased and the sun shone brightly. 
 Behind the barricade, Ben Blair ate the last of his beef 
 and drank the few remaining swallows of water from his 
 canteen. His muscles were stiff from the inaction, and, 
 not wishing to show himself, he kicked vigorously into 
 space as he lay. At intervals he made inspection of the 
 
 t iss ] 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 east, looking out over the glitter of white ; but not a liv 
 ing thing was in sight. An hour he watched, two hours, 
 while the sun, beating down obliquely, warmed him back 
 into activity ; then of a sudden his eyes became fixed, the 
 grip upon his rifle tightened. Far to the southeast, some 
 thing dark against the snow was moving, was coming 
 toward him. 
 
 Rapidly the figure approached, while lower behind the 
 barricade dropped the body of Benjamin Blair. The sun 
 was in his eyes, so that as yet he could not make out 
 whether it was man or beast. Not until the object was 
 within three hundred yards, until it passed by to the 
 north, did Ben make out that it was a great gray wolf 
 headed straight for the bed of Bad River. 
 
 Again two hours of unbroken monotony passed. The 
 sun had almost reached the meridian, and the man behind 
 the barricade had all but decided he must have miscal 
 culated somehow, when in the dim distance as before there 
 appeared a tiny dark object, but this time directly from 
 the east. For five minutes Ben watched it fixedly, his 
 hand shading his eyes ; then, slowly as moves the second 
 hand of a great clock, a change indescribable came over 
 his face. No need was there now to ask whether it was a 
 human being that was approaching. There was no mis 
 taking that slow, swinging man-motion. At last the 
 moment was approaching for which the youth had been 
 striving so madly for the last few days, the moment he had 
 for years been conscious would some day come. It would 
 soon be his ; and with the thought his teeth set firmer, and 
 a fierce joy tugged at his heart. 
 
 [ 159 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Five minutes, ten minutes dragged by ; yet no observer, 
 however close, could have seen a muscle stir in the long 
 body of the waiting man. Like a great panther cat he 
 lay there, the blue eyes peering just over the surface of the 
 ambush. Not ten paces away could an observer have told 
 the tip of that motionless sombrero from the protruding 
 top of a boulder. Gradually the approaching figure grew 
 more distinct. A red handkerchief showed clearly about 
 the man s neck. Then a slight limp in the left leg in 
 truded itself, and a droop of the shoulders that spoke 
 weariness. He was very near by this time, so near that 
 the black beard which covered his face became discernible, 
 likewise the bizarre breadth of the Mexican belt above the 
 baggy chaperejos. The crunch of the snow-crust marked 
 his every footfall. 
 
 And still Ben Blair had not stirred. Slowly, as the 
 other had approached, the big blue eyes had darkened 
 until they seemed almost brown. Involuntarily the mas 
 sive chin had moved forward ; but that was all. On the 
 surface he was as calm as a lake on a windless night ; but 
 beneath, God ! what a tempest was raging ! Each one 
 of those minutes he waited so impassively marked the rush 
 of a year s memories. Human hate, primal instinct all but 
 uncontrollable, throbbed in his accelerated pulse-beats. 
 Like the continuous shifting scenes in a panorama, the 
 incidents of his life in which this man had played a part 
 appeared mockingly before his mind s eye. Plainly, as 
 though in his physical ear, he heard the shuffle of an un 
 certain hand upon a latch ; he saw a figure with blood 
 shot eyes lurch into a rude floorless room, saw it approach 
 
 [ 160 ] 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 a bunk whereon lay a sick woman, his mother ; heard the 
 swift passage of angry words, words which had branded 
 themselves into his memory forever. Once more he was 
 on all fours, scurrying for his life toward the dark opening 
 of a protecting kennel. As plainly as though the memory 
 were of yesterday, he gazed into the blazing mouth of a 
 furnace, felt its scorching breath on his cheek. Swiftly 
 the changing scenes danced before his eyes. A rifle-shot, 
 real almost as though he could smell the burning powder, 
 sounded in his brain. Within the circle of light from a 
 kerosene lamp a great figure sank in a heap to a ranch- 
 house floor. Against a background of unbroken white, 
 a trail of red blotches ended in the mutely pathetic figure 
 of a prostrate dying horse a noble thoroughbred. 
 What varied horrors seethed in the watcher s brain, 
 crowded each other, recurred and again recurred ! How 
 the long sinewy fingers itched to clutch that throat above 
 the red neckerchief ! He could see the man s face now, as, 
 ignorant of danger so close, he was passing by fifty feet 
 to the left, looking to neither side, doggedly heading 
 toward the pass. With the first motion since the figure 
 had appeared, the hand of the watcher tightened on the 
 rifle, raised it until its black muzzle peeped over the 
 elevation of snow. A pair of steady blue eyes gazed 
 down the long barrel, brought the sights in line with a 
 spot between the shoulders and the waist of the unsus 
 pecting man, the trigger-finger tightened, almost 
 
 A preventing something, something not primal in the 
 youth, gripped him, held him for a second motionless. 
 To kill a man from an ambush, even such an one as this, 
 n [ 161 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 without giving him a chance no, he could not quite do 
 that. But to take him by the throat with his bare hands, 
 and then slowly, slowly 
 
 As noiselessly as the rifle had raised, it dropped again. 
 The muscles of the long legs tightened as do those of 
 a sprinter awaiting the starting pistol. Then over the 
 barricade, straight as a tiger leaps, shot a tall youth with 
 steel-blue eyes, hatless, free of hand, straight for that list 
 less, moving figure ; the scattered snow flying to either side, 
 the impact of the bounding feet breaking the previous 
 stillness. Tom Blair, the outlaw, could not but hear the 
 rush. Instinctively he turned, and in the fleeting second 
 of that first glance Ben could see the face above the beard- 
 line blanch. As one might feel should the Angel of Death 
 appear suddenly before him, Tom Blair must have felt then. 
 As though fallen from the sky, this avenging demon was 
 upon him. He had not time to draw a revolver, a knife ; 
 barely to swing the rifle in his hand upward to strike, to 
 brace himself a little for the oncoming rush. 
 
 With a crash the two bodies came together. Simulta 
 neously the rifle descended, but for all its effectiveness it 
 might have been a dead weed-stalk in the hands of a child. 
 It was not a time for artificial weapons, but only for na 
 ture s own ; a war of gripping, strangling hands, of tooth 
 and nail. Nearly of a size were the two men. Both alike 
 were hardened of muscle ; both realized the battle was for 
 life or death. For a moment they remained upright, 
 clutching, parrying for an advantage ; then, locked each 
 with each, they went to the ground. Beneath and about 
 them the fresh snow flew, filling their eyes, their mouths. 
 
 [ 162 ] 
 
The Inexorable Trail 
 
 Squirming, straining, over and over they rolled ; first the 
 beardless man on top, then the bearded. The sound of 
 their straining breath was continuous, the ripping of coarse 
 cloth an occasional interruption ; but from the first, a 
 spectator could not but have foreseen the end. The elder 
 man was fighting in self-defence : the younger, he of the 
 massive protruding jaw a jaw now so prominent as to 
 be a positive disfigurement in unappeasable ferocity. 
 Against him in that hour a very giant could not have 
 held his own. Merely a glimpse of his face inspired terror. 
 Again and again as they struggled his hand had clutched 
 at the other s throat, but only to have his hold broken. 
 At last, however, his adversary was weakening under the 
 strain. Blind terror began to grip Tom Blair. At first a 
 mere suggestion, then a horrible certainty, possessed him 
 as to the identity of the relentless being who opposed him. 
 Again the other s hand, like the creeping tentacle of an 
 octopus, sought his throat, would not be stayed. He 
 struggled with all his might against it, until it seemed the 
 blood-vessels of his neck would burst, but still the hold 
 tightened. He clutched at the long fingers desperately, 
 bit at them, felt his breath coming hard. Freeing his own 
 hand, he smashed with his fist again and again into that 
 long thin face so near his own, knew that another tentacle 
 had joined with the first, felt the impossibility of drawing 
 air into his lungs, realized that consciousness was deserting 
 him, saw the sun over him like a mocking face then 
 knew no more. 
 
 [163] 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW 
 
 HOW long Tom Blair was unconscious he did not 
 know. When he awoke he could scarcely believe 
 his own senses ; and he looked about him dazedly. 
 The sun was shining down as brightly as before. The 
 snow was as white. He had for some reason been spared, 
 after all, and hope arose in his breast. He began to 
 look around him. Not two rods away, his face clearly in 
 sight, his eyes closed, dead asleep, lay the figure of the 
 man who had waylaid him. For a moment he looked at 
 the figure steadily ; then, in distinct animal cunning, the 
 lids of the close-set eyes tightened. Stealthily, almost hold 
 ing his breath, he started to rise, then fell back with a jerk. 
 For the first time he realized that he was bound hand 
 and foot, so he could scarcely stir. He struggled, at first 
 cautiously, then desperately, to be free ; but the straps 
 which bound him, those which had held his own blanket, 
 only cut the deeper ; and he gave it up. Flat on his back 
 he lay watching the sleeper, his anger increasing. Again 
 his eyes tightened. 
 
 " Wake up, curse you ! " he yelled suddenly. 
 
 No answer, only the steady rise and fall of the sleeper s 
 chest. 
 
 [16*] 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 " Wake up, I say ! " repeated the voice, in a tone to 
 raise the dead. 
 
 This time there was response of action. Slowly Ben 
 Blair roused, and got up. A moment he looked about 
 him ; then, tearing a strip off his blanket, he walked over, 
 and, against the other s protests and promises of silence, 
 forced open the bearded lips, as though giving a horse the 
 bit, and tied a gag full in the cursing mouth. Without a 
 word or a superfluous look he returned and lay down. 
 Another minute, and the regular breathing showed he was 
 again asleep. 
 
 During all the warmth of that day Ben Blair slept on, 
 as a child sleeps, as sleep the very aged ; and although the 
 bearded man had freed himself from the gag at last, he did 
 not again make a sound. Too miserable himself to sleep, 
 he lay staring at the other. Gradually through the haze 
 of impotent anger a realization of his position came to 
 him. He could not avoid the issue. To be sure, he was 
 still alive ; but what of the future ? A host of possibilities 
 flashed into his mind, but in every one there faced him a 
 single termination. By no process of reasoning could he 
 escape the inevitable end ; and despite the chilliness of the 
 air a sweat broke out over him. Contrition for what he 
 had done he could not feel long ago he had passed even 
 the possibility of that ; but fear, deadly and absorbing fear, 
 had him in its clutch. The passing of the years, years full 
 of lawlessness and violence, had left him the same man 
 whom bartender " Mick " had terrorized in the long ago ; 
 and for the first time in his wretched life, personal death 
 not of another but of himself looked at him with 
 
 [165] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 steady eyes, and he could not return the gaze. All he 
 could do was to wait, and think and thoughts were 
 madness. Again and again, knowing what the result 
 would be, but seeking merely a diversion, he struggled at 
 the straps until he was breathless ; but relentless as time 
 one picture kept recurring to his brain. In it was a rope, 
 a stout rope, dangling from something he could not dis 
 tinctly recognize ; but what he could see, and see plainly, 
 was a figure of a man, a bearded man himself at its 
 end. The body swayed back and forth as he had once 
 seen that of a " rustler " whom a group of cowboys had 
 left hanging to the scraggly branch of a scrub-oak ; as 
 a pendulum marks time, measuring the velocity of the 
 prairie wind. 
 
 With each recurrence of the vision the perspiration 
 broke out over the man anew, the sunburned forehead 
 paled. This was what it was coming to ; he could not es 
 cape it. If ever purpose was unmistakably written on a 
 human face, it had been on the face of the man who lay 
 sleeping so near, the man who had trailed him like a tiger 
 and caught him when he thought he was safe. From an 
 other, there might still be hope ; but from this one, Jennie 
 Blair s son The vision of a woman lying white and 
 motionless on the coarse blankets of a bunk, of a small 
 boy with wonderfully clear blue eyes pounding harmlessly 
 at the legs of the man looking down ; the sound of a 
 childish voice, accusing, menacing, ringing out over all, 
 "You ve killed her! You ve killed her!" this like a 
 chasm stood between them, and could never be crossed. 
 Clasped together, the long nervous fingers, a gentleman s 
 
 [166] 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 fingers still, twined and gripped each other. No, there 
 was no hope. Better that the hands he had felt about his 
 throat in the morning had done their work. He shut his 
 eyes. A hot wave of anger, anger against himself, swept 
 all other thoughts before it. Why, having gotten safely 
 away, having successfully hidden himself, had he ever re 
 turned? Why, having in the depths of his nest in the 
 middle of the island escaped once, had a paltry desire for 
 revenge against the man he fancied had led the attack sent 
 him back ? What satisfaction was it, if in taking the life 
 of the other man it cost him his own ? Fool that he had 
 been to imagine he could escape where no one had ever es 
 caped before ! Fool ! Fool ! Thus dragged by the long 
 hours of the afternoon. 
 
 With the coming of the chill of evening, Ben Blair 
 awoke and rubbed his eyes. A moment later he arose, 
 and, walking over to his captive, looked down at him, 
 steadily, peculiarly. So long as he could, Tom Blair re 
 turned the gaze ; but at last his eyes fell. A voice sounded 
 in his ears, a voice speaking low and clearly. 
 
 "You re a human being," it said. "Physically, I m 
 of your species, modelled from the same clay." A long 
 pause. " I wonder if anywhere in my make-up there s a 
 streak of such as you ! " Again a moment of silence, in 
 which the elder man felt the blue eyes of the younger 
 piercing him through and through. " If I thought there 
 was a trace, or the suggestion of a trace, before God, I d 
 kill you and myself, and I d do it now ! " The speaker 
 scanned the prostrate figure from head to foot, and back 
 again. " And do it now," he repeated. 
 
 [ 167 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Silence fell; and in it, though he dared not look, 
 coward Tom Blair fancied he heard a movement, im 
 agined the other man about to put the threat into 
 execution. 
 
 " No, no ! " he pleaded. " People are different dif 
 ferent as day and night. You belong to your mother s 
 kind, and she was good and pure." Every trace of the 
 man s nerve was gone. But one instinct was active to 
 placate this relentless being, his captor. He fairly grov 
 elled. " I swear she was pure. I swear it ! " 
 
 Without speaking a word, Ben turned. Going back to 
 his snow-blind, he packed his blanket and camp kit swiftly 
 and strapped them to his shoulders. Returning, he gath 
 ered the things he had found upon the other s person 
 the rifle, the revolvers, the sheath-knife into a pile; 
 then deliberately, one against the other, he broke them 
 until they were useless. Only the blanket he preserved, 
 tossing it down by the side of the prostrate figure. 
 
 " Tom Blair," he said, no indication now that he had 
 ever been nearer to the other than a stranger, "Tom 
 Blair, I Ve got a few things to say to you, and if you re 
 wise you ll listen carefully, for I sha n t repeat them. 
 You re going with me, and you re going free ; but if you 
 try to escape, or cause me trouble, as sure as I m alive this 
 minute I 11 strip off every stitch of clothing you wear and 
 leave you where I catch you though the snow be up to 
 your waist." 
 
 Slowly he reached over and untied first the feet then 
 Jhe hands. "Get up," he ordered. 
 
 Tom Blair arose, stretched himself stiffly. 
 [168J 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 ** Take that," Ben indicated the blanket, " and go ahead 
 straight for the river."" 
 
 The bearded man obeyed. To have secured his free 
 dom he could not have done otherwise. 
 
 For ten minutes they moved ahead, only the crunching 
 snow breaking the stillness. 
 
 "Trot! "said Ben. 
 
 I can t." 
 
 " Trot ! " There was no misunderstanding the tone. 
 
 In single file they jogged ahead, reached the river, and 
 descended to the level surface of its bed. 
 
 " Keep to the middle, and go straight ahead." 
 
 On they went jog, jog, jog. 
 
 Of a sudden from under cover of the bank a frightened 
 cottontail sprang forth and started running. Instantly 
 there was the report of a big revolver, and Tom jumped 
 as though he felt the bullet in his back. Again the report 
 sounded, and this time the rabbit rolled over and over in 
 the snow. 
 
 Without stopping, Ben picked up the still struggling 
 game and slipped a couple of fresh cartridges into the 
 empty revolver chambers. The banks were lined with 
 burrows and tracks, and within five minutes a second cot 
 tontail met the fate of the first. 
 
 " Come back ! " called Ben to the man ahead. 
 
 Again Tom obeyed. He would have gone barefoot in 
 the snow without a question now. 
 
 " Can you make a fire ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do it, then. I left the matches in your pocket." 
 [ 169 J 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 On opposite sides of the fire, from long forked sticks 
 of green ash, they broiled strips of the meat which Ben 
 dressed and cut. Likewise fronting each other, they ate 
 in silence. Darkness was falling, and the glow from the 
 embers lit their faces like those of two friends camping 
 after a day s hunt. Had it not all been such deadly earn 
 est, the scene would have been farce-comedy. Suddenly 
 Tom Blair raised his eyes. 
 
 " What are you going to do with me ? " he asked 
 directly. 
 
 Ben said nothing. 
 
 The question was not repeated, but another trembled 
 on the speaker s lips. At last it found words. 
 
 " When you had me down I I thought you had done 
 for me. Why did you let me up ? " 
 
 A pause followed. Then Ben s blue eyes raised and met 
 the other s. 
 
 " You d really like to know ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 Another moment of hesitation, but the youth s eyes did 
 not move. " Very well, I ll tell you." More to himself 
 than to the other he was speaking. His voice softened 
 unconsciously. " A girl saved you that time, Tom Blair, 
 a girl you never saw. You have n t any idea what it 
 means, but I love that girl, and I could never look her 
 in the face again with blood on my hands, even such blood 
 as yours. That s the reason." 
 
 For a moment Tom Blair was silent ; then into his 
 brain there flashed a suggestion, and he grasped at it as 
 a drowning man at a straw. 
 
 [170] 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 " Would n t it be blood on your hands just the same 
 if you take me back where we re headed, back to Mick 
 Kennedy and " 
 
 With a single motion, swift as though raised by a spring, 
 Ben was upon his feet. 
 
 " Pick up your blanket ! " 
 
 " Silence ! " The big square jaw shot forward like the 
 piston of an engine. " Not another word of that, now or 
 ever. Not another word . " 
 
 For a second the other paused doggedly, then taking up 
 his load he moved ahead into the shadow. 
 
 Hour after hour they advanced, alternately walking and 
 trotting, following the winding bed of the stream. Dark 
 ness fell, until they could not see each other s faces, until 
 they were merely two black passing shadows ; but the 
 figure behind was relentless. Stimulating, compelling, he 
 forced himself close. Ever and anon they could hear the 
 frightened dash of a rabbit away from their path. More 
 than once a snow-owl fluttered over their heads ; but they 
 took no notice. Twice the man in advance stumbled and 
 fell ; but though Ben paused he spoke no word. Like a 
 soldier of the ranks on secret forced march, ignorant of his 
 destination, given only conjecture as to what the morrow 
 would bring forth, Tom Blair panted ahead. 
 
 With the coming of daylight Ben slowed to a walk, and 
 looked about in quest of breakfast. Game was plentiful 
 along the shelter of the stream, and before they had ad 
 vanced a half-mile farther he saw ahead a flock of grouse 
 roosting in the diverging branches of a cottonwood tree. 
 
 [171] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 At two hundred yards, selecting those on the lowest 
 branches, he dropped half a dozen, one after the other, 
 with the rifle; and still the remainder of the flock did not 
 fly. Very different were they from the open-land prairie 
 chicken, whom a mere sound will send a-wing. 
 
 As on the night before, they broiled each what he 
 wished, and, carefully cleaning the others, Ben packed 
 them with his kit. Then, stolid as an Indian, he cleared 
 a spot of earth, and wrapping himself in his blanket lay 
 down full in the sunshine, smoking his pipe impassively. 
 Taking the cue, Tom Blair likewise curled up like a dog 
 near at hand. 
 
 Slowly and more slowly came the putts of smoke from 
 the captor s pipe; at last they ceased entirely. The lids 
 of the youth s eyes closed, his breath came deep and 
 regular. Beneath the blanket a muscle here and there 
 twitched involuntarily, as in one who is very weary and 
 asleep. 
 
 An hour passed, an hour without a sound ; then, looking 
 closely, a spectator could have seen one of Tom Blair s eyes 
 open and close furtively. Again it opened, and its mate 
 as well to remain so. For a minute, two minutes, they 
 studied the companion face uncertainly, suspiciously, then 
 savagely. Another minute, and the body had risen to 
 hands and knees. Still Ben did not stir, still the great ex 
 panse of his chest rose and fell. Tom Blair was satisfied. 
 Hand over hand, feeling his way like a cat, he advanced 
 toward the prostrate figure. Despite his caution, the 
 crust of the snow crackled once beneath his touch, and he 
 paused, a soundless curse forming upon his lips ; but the 
 
 [ 172 ] 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 warning passed unheeded, and, bolder than before, he pad 
 ded on. 
 
 Eight feet he gained, then ten. His color heightened, 
 the repressed arteries throbbed above the gaudy necker 
 chief, the skulking animal intensified in the tightened 
 muscles of the temples. As many feet again ; but a few 
 more minutes then liberty and life. The better to guard 
 his movements, his gaze fell. Out and down went his 
 right hand, then his left, as his lithe body slid forward. 
 Again he glanced up, paused and on the instant every 
 muscle of his tense body went suddenly lax. Instead of 
 the closed eyes and sleeping face he had expected, two 
 steady eyes were giving him back look for look. There 
 had not been a motion ; the face was yet that of a sleeper ; 
 the chest still rose and fell steadily ; but the eyes ! 
 
 Tom Blair s teeth ground each other like those of a dog 
 with rabies. The suggestion of froth came to his lips. 
 
 " Curse you ! " he cried. " Curse you forever ! " 
 
 A moment they lay so, a moment wherein the last ves 
 tige of hope left the mind of the captive ; but in it Ben 
 Blair spoke no word. Maddening, immeasurably worse 
 than denunciation, was that relentless silence. It was 
 uncanny ; and the bearded man felt the hairs of his head 
 rising as the mane of a dog or a wolf lifts at a sound 
 it does not understand. 
 
 " Say something," he pleaded desperately. " Shoot me, 
 kill me, do anything but don t look at me like that ! " 
 and, fairly writhing, he crawled back to his blanket and 
 buried his head in its depths. 
 
 With the coming of evening coolness, Ben again made 
 [ 173 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 preparation for the journey. Neither of the men made 
 reference to the incidents of the day, but on Tom Blair s 
 face there was a new expression, like that of a criminal on 
 his passage from the cell to the hangman s trap. If the 
 younger man saw it, he gave no sign ; and as on the night 
 before, they jogged ahead. Before daylight broke, the 
 comparatively smooth bed of Bad River merged into the 
 irregular surface of the Missouri. Then they halted. 
 Why they stopped there, Tom Blair could not at the time 
 tell; but with the coming of daylight he understood. 
 Where he had crossed and Ben had followed there was not 
 now a single track, but many a score at least. At the 
 margin of the stream, where the cavalcade had stopped, the 
 snow was tramped hard as a stockade ; and in the centre of 
 the beaten place, distinct against the white, was a dark 
 spot where a great camp-fire had been built. At the river 
 the party had stopped. Obviously, there the last snow had 
 obliterated the trail, and, seeing that they had turned 
 back, Tom Blair gave a sigh of relief. Whatever the fu 
 ture had in store for him, it could reveal nothing so fearful 
 as a meeting with those whom intuition told him had 
 made up that party. 
 
 But his relief was short-lived. Again, after they had 
 breakfasted from the grouse in the pack, Ben ordered 
 the onward march, along the bank of the great river. 
 As they moved ahead, a realization of their destination 
 at last came to the captive, and for the first time he 
 balked. 
 
 " Do what you wish with me," he cried. " I 11 not 
 go a step farther." 
 
 [174] 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 They were perhaps a mile down the river. The border 
 ing hills enclosed them like an arena. 
 
 " Very well." Ben Blair spoke as though the occur 
 rence were one of every-day repetition. " Give me your 
 clothes!" 
 
 Tom s face settled stubbornly. 
 
 " You 11 have to take them." 
 
 The youth s hand sought his hip, and a bullet spat at 
 the snow within three inches of the other s feet. There 
 was a meaning pause. Slowly the bravado left the other s 
 face. 
 
 " Don t keep me waiting ! " urged Ben. 
 
 Slowly, very slowly, off came the captive s coat and vest. 
 Despite his efforts, the hands which loosened the buttons 
 trembled uncontrollably. Following the vest came the 
 shirt, then a shoe, and the sock beneath. His foot touched 
 the snow. For the first time a faint realization of the 
 thing he was choosing came to him. The vicious bite of 
 the frost upon the bare skin was not a possibility of the 
 future, but a condition of the immediate now ; and he 
 weakened. But in the moment of his indecision, the wave 
 of stubbornness and of blinding hate again flooded him, 
 and a rush of hot curses left his lips. 
 
 For a moment, the last time in their lives, the two men 
 eyed each other fairly. Indescribable hate was written 
 upon one face ; the other was as blank as the surrounding 
 snow. Its very immobility chilled Tom Blair and cowed 
 him into silence. Without a word he replaced shoe and 
 coat and took up his blanket. An advancing step sounded 
 behind him, and, understanding, he moved ahead. After 
 
 [175] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 a while the foot-fall again gained upon him, and once 
 more the walk merged into the interminable jog-jog of the 
 back-trail. 
 
 It was morning when the two began that last relay. It 
 was four o clock in the afternoon when they arrived amid 
 the outskirts of the scattered prairie terminus which was 
 their destination. Within ten minutes thereafter the two 
 had separated. The older man, in charge of a lank, 
 unshaven frontiersman, chiefly noticeable from a quid of 
 tobacco which swelled one cheek like an abscess, and a 
 nickle-plated star which he wore on the lapel of his coat, 
 was headed for the pretentious white painted building 
 known as the court-house. The younger, catching sight 
 of a wind-twisted sign lettered "Hotel," made for it as 
 though sighting the promised land. In the office, as he 
 passed through, was a crowd of men entirely too large 
 to have gathered by chance in a frontier hostelry, who 
 eyed him peculiarly; but he took no notice, and five 
 minutes later, upon the bedraggled bed of the unplas- 
 tered upper room that the landlord gave him, without 
 even his boots removed, he was deep in the realm of 
 oblivion. 
 
 Some time later he had no idea of the hour save 
 that all was dark he was awakened by a confusion of 
 voices in the room below, a slamming of doors, a thump 
 ing of great boots upon the bare floor. Scarcely remem 
 bering his whereabouts, he rolled from his bed and thrust 
 his head eut of the narrow window. Here and there 
 about the town were scattered lights some stationary, 
 others, which he took to be lanterns, moving. On the 
 
 [176] 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 street beneath his window two men went by on a run. 
 Half way up the block, before the well-lighted front of a 
 saloon, a motley crowd was shifting back and forth, rest 
 less as ants in a hill, the murmur of their voices sounding 
 menacing as the distant hum of swarming bees. All at 
 once from out the door there burst fair into the crowd a 
 heavy man with great shoulders and a bull neck. About 
 him, even in the uncertain light, there seemed to the 
 watcher something very familiar. What he said, Ben 
 could not understand ; but he turned his head this way 
 and that, and his motions were unmistakable. The crowd 
 made way before him as sheep before a dog, and closing 
 behind followed steadily in his wake. Gradually as the 
 leader advanced the mass gained momentum. At first 
 the pace had been a slow walk. In the space of seconds 
 it became a swift one, then a run, with a wild scramble 
 by those in the rear to gain front place. The frozen 
 ground rumbled under their rushing feet. The direction 
 of their movement, at first uncertain, became definite. It 
 was a direct line for the centrally located court-house ; 
 and, no longer doubtful of their purpose, Ben left the 
 window, fairly tumbled downstairs, and rushed through 
 the now deserted office into the equally deserted street. 
 
 The court-house square was but two blocks away ; but 
 the mob had a good lead, and when the youth arrived he 
 found the space within the surrounding chain fence fairly 
 covered. Where the people could all have come from 
 struck him even at that moment as a mystery. Certainly 
 all told the town could not in itself have mustered half 
 the number. Elbowing his way among them, however, 
 i [177] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 he began soon to understand. Here and there among the 
 mass he caught sight of familiar faces, Russell of the 
 @ Ranch, Stetson of the " XI," each taking no part, but 
 with hats slouched low over their eyes watching every 
 movement of the drama. Passing around a jam he could 
 not press through, Ben felt a detaining hand upon his arm, 
 and turning, he was face to face with Grannis. The grip 
 of the overseer tightened. 
 
 " I Ve been looking for you, Blair, 11 he said. " I know 
 what youVe been trying to do, but most of the crowd 
 don t and won t. They Ve ugly. You d better keep back." 
 
 For answer Ben eyed the cowboy squarely. 
 
 " I thought I left you in charge of the ranch," he said 
 evenly. 
 
 The weather-stained face of the foreman reddened in 
 the shifting lantern light, but the eyes did not drop. 
 
 "I have been. I just got here." A dignity which well 
 became him spoke in the steady voice. " I had a reason 
 for coming." 
 
 Ben released his gaze. 
 
 " The others are here too ? " 
 
 " No, they Ve all at the ranch. Graham and I attended 
 to that." 
 
 " I just saw Russell and Stetson. They could n t pos 
 sibly have got here to-day from home. Has has this 
 been planned ? " 
 
 Grannis nodded. " Yes. Kennedy and his gang have 
 been watching here and at the ranch for days. They 
 thought you \1 show up at one place or the other. The 
 whole country is out. There are lots of strangers here, 
 
 [178] 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 from ranches I never heard of before. Seems as though 
 everybody knew Rankin and heard of his being shot. 
 You d better let them have it their way. It 11 amount 
 to the same in the end, and death itself couldn t stop 
 them now." 
 
 He took a step forward ; for Ben, understanding all, 
 had at last moved on. 
 
 "Blair!"" he called after him, again extending a de 
 taining hand. His voice took on a new note intimate, 
 personal, a tone of which no one would have thought it 
 capable. " Blair, listen to me ! Stop ! " 
 
 But he might as well have spoken to the swiftly flowing 
 water beneath the ice of the great river. Of a sudden, 
 from out a passage leading into the cell-room of the court 
 house basement, a black swarm of men had emerged, bear 
 ing by sheer animal force a struggling object in their 
 midst. The silence of those who waited, the lull before 
 the storm, on the instant ended. A very Babel of voices 
 took its place. By common consent, as though drawn by 
 centripetal force, actors and spectators crowded together 
 until they were a solid block of humanity. Caught in 
 the midst, Grannis and Ben alike could for a moment 
 but move with the mass. So fierce was the crush that 
 their very breath seemed imprisoned in their lungs. 
 
 Like molten metal the crowd began to flow to the 
 right, in the direction of the railroad track. With each 
 passing moment the confusion was, if possible, greater 
 than before. Here and there a cowboy, unable to control 
 his excess of feeling, emptied his revolver into the air. 
 Once Ben heard the wailing yelp of a dog caught under 
 
 [ 179 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 foot of the mass. To his left, a little man with a white 
 collar, obviously a mere spectator, pleaded loudly to be 
 released from the pressure. Adding to the confusion, the 
 bell on the town-hall began ringing furiously. 
 
 On they went, a hundred yards, two hundred, reached 
 the railroad track, stopped. In the midst of the leaders, 
 looming over their heads, was a whitened telegraph pole. 
 Of a sudden a lariat shot up over the painted cross-arm, 
 and dropped, the two ends dangling free; and, under 
 standing it all, the spectators again became silent. Every 
 thing moved like clockwork. From somewhere in the 
 darkness a bare-backed pony was produced and brought 
 directly under the dangling rope. Astride him a dark- 
 bearded figure with hands tied behind his back was placed 
 and firmly held. Swiftly a running noose, fashioned from 
 the ends of the lariat, was slipped over the captive^s neck. 
 A man grasped the bit of the mustang. Before him, the 
 crowd began to give way. The great bull-necked leader 
 Mick Kennedy, every one now saw it was held up his 
 hand for silence, and turned to the helpless figure astride 
 the pony. 
 
 "Tom Blair ! " he said, and such was now the silence 
 that a whisper would have been audible, " Tom Blair, 
 have you anything you wish to say?" 
 
 The dark shape took no notice. Apparently it did 
 not hear. 
 
 Mick Kennedy hesitated. Upon his lips a repetition of 
 the question was forming but it got no farther. In the 
 midst of the mass of spectators there was a sudden tumult, 
 a scattering from one spot as from a lighted bomb. 
 
 [ 180 ] 
 
in the Grip of the Law 
 
 " Make way ! " demanded an insistent voice. " Let me 
 through ! " And for a moment, forgetting the other in 
 terest, the spectators turned to this newer one. 
 
 At first they could distinguish nothing perfectly ; then 
 amidst the confusion they made out the form of a 
 long -armed, long -faced youth, his head lowered, his 
 shoulder before him like a wedge, crowding his way to 
 the fore. 
 
 " Make room there ! " he repeated. " Make room ! " 
 and again into the crowd, like a snow-plough into a drift, 
 he penetrated until his momentum was exhausted, then 
 paused for a fresh plunge. 
 
 But before him a pathway was forming. Seemingly 
 the thing was impossible, but the trick of a spoken name 
 was sufficient. 
 
 " It s Ben Blair ! " someone had announced, and others 
 had loudly taken up the cry. " It s Ben Blair ! Let 
 him through ! " 
 
 Along the pathway thus cleared the youth made his way 
 and approached the centre of activity. Previously the 
 drama had moved swiftly, so swiftly that the specta 
 tors could merely watch developments, but under the 
 interruption it halted. The man at the pony s bridle 
 cowboy Buck it was paused, uncertain what to do, 
 doubtful of the intent of the long-faced man who so 
 suddenly had come beside him. Not so Mick Kennedy. 
 Well he knew what was in store, and reaching over he 
 gave tlie pony a resounding slap on the flank. 
 
 " Let him go, Buck ! " he commanded of the cowboy. 
 Hurry!" 
 
 f ii 1 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 But already he was too late. With a grip like a trap, 
 Ben s hand was likewise on the rein, holding the little 
 beast, despite his struggles, fairly in Jiis tracks. Ben s 
 head turned, met the bartender s Cyclopean eye squarely, 
 and held it with a look this bulldozer of men had never 
 before received in all his checkered career. 
 
 " Mick Kennedy," he said quietly, " another move like 
 that, and in five minutes you 11 be hanging from the other 
 side." 
 
 For the fraction of a second there was a pause ; but, 
 short as it was, the Irishman felt the sweat start. " The 
 day of such as you has passed, Mick Kennedy." 
 
 There was no time for more. As bystanders gather 
 around a street fight, the grim cowmen had closed in from 
 all sides. On the outskirts men mounted each other s 
 shoulders the better to see. Of a sudden, from behind, 
 Ben felt himself grasped by a multitude of hands. Angry 
 voices sounded in his ears. 
 
 " String him up too if he interferes ! " suggested one. 
 
 That s the talk ! " echoed a third. " Swing him, too ! " 
 
 The lust of blood was upon the crowd, crying to be 
 satisfied. But they had reckoned wrongly, and were soon 
 to learn their error. Every atom of the long youth s fight 
 ing blood was raised to boiling pitch. On the instant, the 
 all but superhuman strength at which we marvel in the 
 insane was his. Like flails, his doubled fists shot out in 
 every direction, meeting resistance at each blow. By the 
 dim light he caught the answering glint on sheath knives, 
 but he took no notice. His hat had come off, and his 
 abundant brown hair shook about his shoulders. His blue 
 
 [ 182} 
 
In the Grip of the Law 
 
 eyes blazed. A figure of war incarnate he stood, and a 
 vacant circle which no one cared to cross formed about 
 him. One long hand, with fingers outstretched, was raised 
 above his head. The brilliant eyes searched the surround 
 ing sea of faces for those he knew ; as one by one he found 
 them, lingered, conquered. Silence fell intense. 
 
 " Men ! Gentlemen ! " The words went out like pistol- 
 shots, reaching every acute ear. " Listen to me. I Ve 
 a right to speak. Stop a moment, all of you, and think. 
 This is the twentieth century, not the first. We Ve in 
 America, free America. Think, I say, think ! Don t act 
 blindly ! Think ! This man is guilty. We all know it. 
 He s caught red-handed. But he can t escape. Remem 
 ber this, men, and think ! As you value your own self- 
 respect, as you honor the country you live in, don t be 
 savages, don t do this deed you contemplate, this thing 
 you Ve started doing. Let the law take its course ! " 
 
 The speaker paused for breath, and, as though fascinated 
 by his audacity or something else, friend and enemy re 
 mained motionless and waiting. Well fitting the drama 
 was its setting : the darkness of night broken by the flick 
 ering lanterns ; on the pony the huddled helpless figure 
 with a running noose about its neck ; the row upon row 
 of rugged faces, of gleaming eyes ! 
 
 " Ranchers, stockmen ! " rushed on the insistent voice, 
 " you know responsibility ; it s to you I m talking. A 
 principle is at stake here, the principle of law or of 
 lawlessness. One of these you know which has run 
 this range too long ; it s gripping us at this moment. 
 Before we can be free we must call it halt. Let s do it 
 
 [183] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 now ; don t wait for the next time or the next, but now, 
 now ! " Once more he paused, his eyes for the last time 
 making the circle swiftly, his hand in the air, palm for 
 ward. " For law, the law of J. L. Ran kin, instead of 
 Judge Lynch ! " he challenged. " For civilization instead 
 of savagery not to-morrow but now, now ! Help me 
 to uphold the law ! " 
 
 So swiftly that the spectators scarcely realized what he 
 was doing, he stepped over to the limp figure upon the 
 pony, loosed the noose from around the neck, and lifted 
 him to the ground. 
 
 " Sheriff Ralston ! " he called ; " come and take your 
 prisoner ! Russell ! Stetson ! Grannis ! " designating each 
 by name, " every man who values life, help me now ! " 
 
 The cry was the trumpet for action. Instantly every 
 one was in motion. Again arose the Babel of voices, - 
 voices cursing, arguing, encouraging. The circle of malev 
 olent faces which had surrounded the youth would not 
 longer be stayed, closed hotly in. He felt the press of 
 their bodies against his, their breath in his face. With 
 an effort, marking his place, the extended right hand went 
 up once more into the air. The slogan again sprang to 
 his tongue. 
 
 " For the law of J. L. Rankin, men ! The law of " 
 
 The sentence died on his lips. Suddenly, something 
 lightning-like, scorching hot, caught him beneath his right 
 shoulder-blade. Before his eyes the faces, the lighted lan 
 terns, faded into darkness. A sound like falling waters 
 roared in his ears. 
 
 [184] 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 
 
 WHEN Ben Blair again woke to consciousness 
 the sunlight was pouring upon him steadily. 
 He was in a strange bed in a strange room ; 
 and he looked about him perplexedly. Amid the unfa- 
 miliarity his eye caught an object he recognized, the 
 broad angular back of a man. Memory slowly adjusted 
 itself. 
 
 "Grannis r 
 
 The back reversed, showing a rather surprised face. 
 
 " Where am I, Grannis ? " 
 
 The foreman came over to the bed. " In the hotel. In 
 the bridal chamber, they informed me, to be exact." 
 
 Ben did not smile. Memory was clear now. " What 
 happened after they got me last night ? " 
 
 Grannis s face showed distinct animation. " A lot of 
 things and mighty fast. You missed the best part." 
 Of a sudden he paused and looked at his charge doubt 
 fully. "But I forgot. You re not to talk : the doctor 
 said so." 
 
 Ben made a grimace. " But I can listen, can t I ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," still doubtfully. 
 
 "Well " 
 
 [ 185 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Grannis hearkened equivocally. No one was about, 
 likely to overhear him disobeying instructions, and the 
 temptation was strong. 
 
 " You know McFadden ? " he queried suddenly. 
 
 Blair nodded. 
 
 " Well, say, that Scotchman is a tiger. He got to the 
 front somehow when you called for reinforcements, and 
 when you went down he was Johnny-on-the-spot taking 
 your place. Some of the rest of us got in there pretty 
 soon, and for a bit things was lively. It was rather close 
 range for gun-work, but knives were as thick as frogs after 
 a shower." With a sudden movement Grannis slipped 
 up the sleeve of his left arm, showing a bandage through 
 which the blood had soaked and dried. "All of us got 
 scratched some. One fellow of the opposition Mick 
 Kennedy met with an accident." 
 
 " Serious ? " 
 
 "Rather. We planted him after things had quieted 
 down." 
 
 For a moment the two men looked at each other 
 steadily, and the subject was dropped. 
 
 " Well," suggested Blair once more. 
 
 "That s all, I guess except that Ralston has the 
 prisoner." A grim reminiscent smile came to the speaker s 
 lips. " Tnat is, he s got him if the floors of the cells here 
 are paved good and thick. Last time I saw T. Blair he 
 was fairly shaking post-holes into the ground with his 
 feet." 
 
 Ben tried to shift in bed, but with the movement a 
 sudden pain made him grit his teeth to keep from 
 
 [ 186 ] 
 
The Quick and the Dead 
 
 uttering a groan. For the first time he thought of 
 himself. 
 
 "How much am I hurt, Grannis ?" he queried directly. 
 
 The foreman busied himself doing nothing about the 
 room. " You ? " cheerfully. " Oh, you re all right." 
 
 Ben looked at the other narrowly. " Nothing to bother 
 about, I judge ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not." 
 
 Beneath the bedclothes the long body lifted, but de 
 spite anything it could do the face went pale. 
 
 "Very well, I guess I ll get up then." 
 
 Instantly Grannis was beside him, motioning him back, 
 genuine concern upon his face. 
 
 No, please don t. Not yet." 
 
 " But if I m not hurt much " 
 
 Grannis fingered his forelock in obvious discomfort. 
 
 "Well, between you and me, it s this way. They 
 ripped a seam for you so far," he indicated, " and it s 
 open yet." 
 
 Turning his free left arm, Ben touched the bandage at 
 his side, and the hand came back moist and red. Now 
 that it occurred to him, he was ridiculously weak. 
 
 " I see. I m liable to rip it more," he commented 
 slowly. 
 
 The other nodded. "Yes; don t talk. I ought to 
 have stopped you before this." 
 
 " Grannis ! " There was no escaping the blue eyes this 
 time. " Honestly, now, am I liable to be done for, or 
 not?" 
 
 The foreman became instantly serious. " Honest, if 
 [ 187] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 you keep quiet you re all right. Doc said so not an 
 hour ago. At first he thought different, that you d 
 never wake up ; you bled like a pig with its throat cut ; 
 but this is what he told me when he left. * Keep him 
 quiet. It may take a month for that gap to heal, but if 
 you Ye careful he ll pull through. " Again the look of 
 concern, and this time of contrition as well. " I ought 
 to be ashamed of myself for letting you talk at all ; but 
 this is straight. Now don t say any more." 
 
 This time Ben obeyed. He could n t well do otherwise. 
 He had suddenly grown weak and drowsy, and almost 
 before Grannis was through speaking he was again asleep. 
 
 The doctor was right about the time of healing. Dur 
 ing the remainder of that month and well into the next, 
 despite his restless protests, Ben Blair was a prisoner in 
 that dull little room ; and through it all Grannis remained 
 with him. 
 
 " You don t have to stay with me unless you like," Ben 
 had said more than once; but each time Grannis had 
 displayed his own wound, at first openly, at last, carefully 
 concealed by bandages, whimsically. 
 
 " Got to take good care of this arm of mine," he 
 explained. " Blood poisoning s liable to set in at any 
 minute, and that s something awful, they tell me." 
 
 The invalid made no comment. 
 
 It was the evening following the afternoon of Blair s 
 return to the [R^ ranch. In the cosey kitchen, around the 
 new range which Rankin had imported the previous Fall, 
 sat three people, Grannis, Graham, and Ma Graham. 
 
The Quick and the Dead 
 
 The two men were smoking steadily and silently. The 
 woman, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes glued to 
 the floor, was breathing loudly with the difficulty of 
 the very corpulent. Of a sudden, interrupting, the door 
 connecting with the room adjoining opened and Ben Blair 
 appeared. 
 
 " Grannis," he requested, " come here a moment, please." 
 
 In silence Blair closed the door behind them, motioned 
 his companion to a seat, and took another opposite him. 
 He was very quiet, even for his taciturn self ; and, glanc 
 ing at a heap of papers on a near-by table, Grannis under 
 stood. For a long minute the two men eyed each other 
 silently. Not without result had they lived the events of 
 the last months together. It was the younger man who 
 first spoke. 
 
 " Grannis," he said impassively, " I m going to ask 
 you a question, and I want an honest answer. Whatever 
 you may think it leads to must cut no figure. Will you 
 give it?" 
 
 Equally impassively the elder man nodded, " Yes." 
 
 Blair selected a paper from the litter, and looked at it 
 steadily. " What I want to know is this : have I, has 
 anyone, no matter what the incentive may be, the right to 
 make known after another s death things which during 
 that person s life were carefully concealed ? " 
 
 The steady gaze shifted to his companion, held there 
 compellingly. tt In other words, is a tragedy any less a 
 tragedy, any more public property, because the actors are 
 dead ? Answer me honest, Grannis." 
 
 Impassively as before the overseer shook his head. 
 
 189 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " No, I think not," he said. " Let the dead past bury its 
 dead." 
 
 A moment longer the other remained motionless, then, 
 before his companion realized what he was doing, Ben had 
 opened the door of the sheet-iron heater and tossed the 
 paper in his fingers fair among the glowing coals. 
 
 "Thank you, Grannis," he said, U I agree with you." 
 He stood a second looking into the suddenly kindled 
 blaze. " As you say, to the living, life. Let the dead 
 past bury its dead." 
 
 The flame died down until upon the coals lay a thin, 
 curling film of carbon. Grannis shifted in his seat. 
 
 " Nevertheless," he commented indifferently, " you Ve 
 done a foolish act." A pause ; then he went on deliber 
 ately as before. " You ve destroyed the only evidence 
 that proves you Rankings son." 
 
 Involuntarily Blair stiffened, seeming about to speak. 
 But he did not. Instead, he closed the stove and resumed 
 his former seat. 
 
 ",By the way," he digressed, " I just received a letter 
 from Scotty Baker. I wrote him some time ago about 
 Mr. Rankin. He answered from England." 
 
 Grannis made no comment, and, the conversation being 
 obviously at an end, after a bit he rose, and with a taciturn 
 " Good-night," left the room. 
 
 Days and weeks passed. The dead rigor of Winter gave 
 way to traces of Spring. On the high places the earth 
 began to turn brown, the buffalo grass to peep into view. 
 By day the water slushed under the feet of the cattle, and 
 
 [ 190] 
 
The Quick and the Dead 
 
 ran merrily in the draws of the rolling country. By night 
 it froze into marvellous frost-work ; daintier and more in 
 tricate of pattern than any made by man. Overhead, flocks 
 of wild ducks in irregular geometric patterns sailed north 
 at double the speed of express trains. With their mellow 
 " Honk honk," sweetest sound of all to a frontiersman s 
 ears, harbingers of Spring indeed, far above the level of 
 the ducks, amid the very clouds themselves, the geese, in 
 regular triangles, winged their way toward the snow-lands. 
 At first they seemed to pass only by day ; then, as the 
 season advanced, the nights were melodious with the sound 
 of their voices. Themselves invisible, far below on the sur 
 face of earth the swish of their migratory wings sounded 
 so distinctly that to a listening human ear it almost 
 seemed it were a troop of angels passing overhead. 
 
 After them came the myriad small birds of the prairie, 
 the countless flocks of blackbirds, whose " fl-ee-ce," 
 in continuous chorus filled all the daylight hours ; the 
 meadow-larks, singly or in pairs, announcing their arrival 
 with a guttural " tuerk " and a saucy flit of the tail, or 
 admonishing " fill your tea-kettle, fill your tea-kettle " with 
 a persistence worthy a better cause. 
 
 Ere this the earth was bare and brown. The chatter 
 of the snow streams had ceased. In the high places, on 
 southern slopes, there was even a suggestion of green. At 
 last, on the sunny side of a knoll, there peeped forth the 
 blue face of an anemone. The following day it had sev 
 eral companions. Within a week a very army of blue had 
 arrived, stood erect at attention so far as the eye could 
 reach and beyond. No longer was there a doubt of the 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 season. Not precursors of Spring, but Spring itself had 
 come. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the [R_ ranch everything moved on as of 
 yore. Save on that first night, Ben Blair made no man 
 his confidant, accepted without question his place as 
 Ran kin s successor. Most silent of these silent people, he 
 did his work and did it well, burying deep beneath an im 
 penetrable mask his thoughts and feelings. Not until an 
 early Summer was almost come did he make a move. 
 Then at last a note of three sentences went eastward : 
 
 " Miss BAKER : I 11 be in New York in a few days, and if 
 convenient to you will call. The prairies send greetings in 
 advance. I saw the first wild rose of the season to-day. 
 
 "BEN BLAIR." 
 
 A week later, after giving directions for the day s work 
 to Grannis one morning, Ben added some suggestions for 
 the days to follow. As to time, they were rather indefi 
 nite, and the overseer looked a question. 
 
 "I m going away for a bit," explained Ben, simply, in 
 answer. Then he turned to Graham. "Hitch up the 
 buckboard right away, please. I want you to take me to 
 town in time to catch the afternoon train East." 
 
 [ 192] 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 GLITTER AND TINSEL 
 
 CLARENCE SIDWELL Chad, his friends called 
 him leaned farther back in the big wicker chair, 
 with an involuntary motion adjusted his well- 
 creased trousers so there might be no tension at the knees, 
 and looked across the tiny separating table at his vis-a-vis^ 
 while his eyelids whimsically tightened. 
 
 " Well/ he queried, " what do you think of it ? " 
 
 The little brunette, his companion, roused herself almost 
 with a start, while a suggestion of conscious red tinged her 
 face. " I beg your pardon ? " she said, inquiringly. 
 
 The man smiled. " Forgotten already, was n t I ? " he 
 bantered. 
 
 " No, certainly not. I " 
 
 A hand, delicate and carefully manicured as a woman s, 
 was raised in protest. " Don t prevaricate, please. The 
 occasion is n t worth it." The hand returned to the chair- 
 arm with a play of light upon the solitaire it bore. The 
 smile broadened. "You were caught. Confess, and the 
 sentence will be lighter." 
 
 As a wave recedes, the red flood began to ebb from the 
 girl s face. " I confess, then. I was thinking." 
 
 " And I was forgotten. My statement was correct." 
 13 [ 193 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 She looked up, and the two smiled companionably. 
 
 " Admitted. I await the penalty. 11 
 
 The man s expression changed into mock sternness. 
 " Very well, Miss Baker ; having heard your confession 
 and remembering a promise to exercise clemency, this 
 court is about to impose sentence. Are you prepared to 
 listen ? " 
 
 " I m growing stronger every minute."" 
 
 The court frowned, the heavy black eyebrows making 
 the face really formidable. 
 
 " I fear the defendant does n t realize the enormity of 
 the offence. However, we 11 pass that by. The sentence, 
 Miss Baker, brings me back to the starting-point. You 
 are directed to answer the question just propounded, the 
 question which for some inexplicable reason you did n t 
 hear. What do you think of it this roof-garden, and 
 things in general ? " The stern voice paused ; the brows 
 relaxed, and he smiled again. " But first, you re sure you 
 won t have something more an ice, a wee bottle 
 anything?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 " Then let s make room here at this table for a better 
 man ; to hint at vacating for a better woman would be 
 heresy ! It s pleasanter over there in the corner out of 
 the light, where one can see the street." 
 
 They found a vacant bench behind a skilfully arranged 
 screen of palms, and Sidwell produced a cigar. 
 
 " In listening to a tale or a confession," he explained, 
 " one should always call in the aid of nicotine. I fancy 
 Munchausen s listeners must have been smokers." 
 
 [19*] 
 
Glitter and Tinsel 
 
 The girl steadily inspected the dark mobile face, half 
 concealed in the shadow. " You Ye making sport of me," 
 she announced presently. 
 
 Instantly her companion s smile vanished. " I beg your 
 pardon, Miss Baker, but you misunderstood. I thought 
 by this time you knew me better than that." 
 
 "You really are interested, then? Would you truly 
 like to know what you asked ? " 
 
 " I truly would." 
 
 Florence hesitated. Her breath came a trifle more 
 quickly. She had not yet learned the trick of repression 
 of the city folk. 
 
 "I think it s wonderful," she said. "Everything is 
 wonderful. I feel like a child in fairyland; only the 
 fairies must be giants. This great building, for instance, 
 I can t make it seem a product of mere six-foot man ! 
 In spite of myself, I keep expecting a great genie to 
 emerge somewhere. I suppose this seems silly to you, 
 but it s the feeling I have, and it makes me realize my 
 own insignificance." 
 
 Sid well smoked in silence. 
 
 "That s the first impression -r the most vivid one, I 
 think. The next is about the people themselves. I ve 
 been here nearly a half-year now, but even yet I stare at 
 them as you caught me staring to-night almost with 
 open mouth. To see these men in the daylight hours 
 down town one would think they cared more for a minute 
 than for their eternal happiness. I m almost afraid to 
 speak to them, my little affairs seem so tiny in comparison 
 with the big ones it must take to make men work as they 
 
 [195] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 do. And then, a little later, apparently for no other 
 reason than that the sun has ceased to shine, I see them, 
 as here, for instance, unconscious that not minutes but 
 hours are going by. They all seem to have double lives. 
 I get to thinking of them as Jekylls and Hydes. It makes 
 me a bit afraid." 
 
 Still Sid well smoked in silence, and Florence observed 
 him doubtfully. " You really wish me to chatter on in 
 this way ? " she asked. 
 
 " I was never more interested in my life." 
 
 The girl felt her face grow warm. She was glad they 
 were in the shadow, so the man could not see it too clearly. 
 For a moment she looked about her, at the host of skilful 
 waiters, at the crowd of brightly dressed pleasure-seekers, 
 at the kaleidoscopic changes, at the lights and shadows. 
 From somewhere invisible the string orchestra, which for 
 a time had been silent, started up anew, while her answer 
 ing pulses beat to swifter measure. The air was a familiar 
 one, heard everywhere about town ; and she was conscious 
 of a childish desire to join in singing it. The novelty of 
 the scene, the sparkle, the animation, the motion intoxi 
 cated her. She leaned back in her seat luxuriously. 
 
 " This is life," she murmured. " I never grasped the 
 meaning of the word until within the last few months, but 
 now I begin to understand. To work mightily when one 
 works, to abandon one s self completely when one rests 
 that is the secret of life." 
 
 The man in the shadow shifted his position, and, look 
 ing up, Florence found his eyes upon her. " Do you really 
 believe that ? " he asked. 
 
 [196] 
 
Glitter and Tinsel 
 
 " I do, most certainly." 
 
 Sidwell lit a fresh cigar, and for a moment the light of 
 the burning match showed his face clearly. He seemed 
 about to say more ; but he did not, and Florence too was 
 silent. In the pause that followed, the great express ele 
 vator stopped softly at the roof floor. The gate opened 
 with a musical click, and a woman and a man stepped out. 
 Both were immaculately dressed, both had the unmistaka 
 ble air of belonging to the leisure class. They spied the 
 place Florence and Sidwell had left vacant, and leisurely 
 made their way to it. A waiter appeared, a coin changed 
 hands, an order was given. The man drew out a cigar 
 ette case that flashed in colors from the nearby arc-light. 
 Smilingly the woman held a match, and a moment later 
 wreath after wreath of curling blue smoke floated above 
 them into the night. 
 
 Florence Baker watched the scene with a strange fasci 
 nation. She was conscious of having at some time visited 
 a play wherein a similar action had taken place. She had 
 thought it merely a creation of the writer s imagination at 
 the time, but in her present broadened experience she 
 knew better. It was real, real as the air she breathed. 
 She simply had not known the meaning of life then ; she 
 was merely existing. Now she knew ! 
 
 The waiter returned, bearing something in a cooler. 
 There were a few swift motions, a pop distinctly heard 
 above the drone of the orchestra. The man tossed aside 
 his cigarette and leaned forward. Two glasses with slen 
 der stems, each containing a liquid that effervesced and 
 sparkled, one in the man s hand, one in the woman s, met 
 
 [197] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 midway of the board. The empty glasses returned to the 
 table. 
 
 Many other seekers of pleasure were about, but Florence 
 had no eyes for them. This pair alone, so indifferent to 
 their surroundings, so thoroughly a part of them, perfectly 
 fulfilled her newly formed conception. They had solved 
 this puzzle of existence, solved it so completely that she 
 wondered it could ever have appealed to her as a puzzle at 
 all. Again the formula, distinct as the handwriting upon 
 the wall, stood revealed before her. One had but to live 
 life, not reason it, and all would be well. 
 
 Again and again, the delicate glasses sparkled to wait 
 ing lips, and returned empty to the table. The man lit 
 another cigarette, and its smoke mingled with the dark 
 ness above. In the hands of the waiter the cooler disap 
 peared, and was returned ; a second cork popped as had 
 the first. The woman s eyes sparkled as brilliantly as the 
 gems upon her fingers. The languor of the man had 
 passed. With the old action repeated, the brimming 
 glasses touched across the board, were exchanged after the 
 foreign fashion, and again were dry. The figure of the 
 man leaned far over the table. He spoke earnestly, rap 
 idly. Unconscious motions of his hands added emphasis 
 to his words. Neither he nor she who listened was smil 
 ing now. Instead, there was a look, identical upon either 
 face, a look somehow strangely familiar to the watcher, 
 one she had met with before, somewhere somewhere. 
 Memory flew back on lightning wings, searched all the 
 paths of her experience, the dim all-but-forgotten cran 
 nies, stopped with pointing finger ; and with a tug at 
 
 [ 198] 
 
Glitter and Tinsel 
 
 her very being, she looked, and unbelieving looked 
 again. Ah, could it be possible could it ? Yes, there 
 it was, unmistakable ; the same expression as this before 
 her there, blazing from the eyes of a group of strange 
 street-loafers, as she herself, she, Florence Baker, passed 
 by! 
 
 In the shadow the face of the spectator crimsoned, the 
 hot flood burned at her ears, a tightness like a physical 
 hand gripped at her throat ; but it seemed that her eyes 
 could not leave the figures before her. Not the alien in 
 terest of a watcher at the play, but a more intense, a more 
 personal meaning, was in her gaze now. Something of 
 vital moment to her own life was taking place out there so 
 near, and she must see. A fleeting wonder as to whether 
 her own companion was likewise watching came to her, but 
 she did not turn to discover. The denouement, inevitable 
 as death, was approaching, might come if she for an in 
 stant looked away. 
 
 The man out there under the electric globe was still 
 talking ; the woman, his companion, still listened. Flor 
 ence caught herself straining her ears to hear what he was 
 saying ; but to no purpose. She heard only the repressed 
 murmur of his well- modulated, resonant voice ; yet that 
 in itself was enough. The old song of the sirens was flow 
 ing from his lips, and passion flamed in his eyes. Farther 
 and farther across the tiny intervening table, nearer the 
 woman s face, his own approached. The last empty bot 
 tle, the thin-stemmed glasses, stood in his way, and he 
 moved them aside with his elbow. So near now was he 
 that their breaths mingled, and as the drone of his voice 
 
 [ 199] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 ceased, the music of the orchestra, a waltz, flowed into the 
 rift with its steady one-two-three. He was motionless ; 
 but his eyes, intense blue eyes under long lashes, were 
 fixed absorbingly on hers. 
 
 It was the woman s turn to move. Gradually, grace 
 fully, unconsciously, her own face came forward toward 
 his. Sparkling in the light, a jewelled hand rested on the 
 surface of the table. A tinge of crimson mounted the 
 long white neck, and colored it to the roots of her hair. 
 The arteries at the throat throbbed under the thin skin. 
 Simultaneously, the opening gate of the elevator clicked, 
 and a man another with that unmistakable air of lei 
 sure approached ; but still she did not notice, did not 
 hear. Instead, with a sudden motion, heedless of sur 
 roundings, reckless of spectators, her face crossed the gap 
 intervening between her and her companion ; her lips 
 touched his lips, caught fire with the contact, met them 
 again and again. 
 
 Watching, scarcely breathing, Florence saw the figure 
 of the man come closer. His eyes also were upon the 
 paiF. He caught their every motion; but he did not 
 hurry. On he came, leisurely, impassively, as though out 
 for a stroll. He stopped by their side, a darkening 
 shadow with a mask-like face. Instinctively the two 
 glanced up. There was a crash of glassware, as the tiny 
 table lurched in the woman s hand and they were on 
 their feet. A moment the three looked into each others 
 eyes, looked deep and long ; then together, without a 
 word, they turned toward the elevator. Again, droning 
 monotonously, the car appeared and disappeared. After 
 
 [ 200 ] 
 
Glitter and Tinsel 
 
 them, vibrant, mocking, there beat the unvarying rhythm 
 of the waltz, one-two-three, one-two-three. 
 
 In the shadow, Florence Baker s face dropped into her 
 hands. When at last she glanced up another couple, 
 likewise immaculate of attire, likewise debonair and smil 
 ing, were seated at the little table. She turned to her 
 companion. His cigar was still glowing brightly. He 
 had not moved. 
 
 " I think 1 11 go home now, if you please," she said, and 
 every trace of animation had left her voice. " I m rather 
 tired." 
 
 The man roused himself. " It s early yet. There 11 be 
 vaudeville here in a little while, after the theatre." 
 
 The girl observed him curiously. " It s early, did you 
 say?" 
 
 Sidwell smiled indulgently. " Beg your pardon. I had 
 forgotten our standards were not yet in conformity. It 
 is so considered here." 
 
 Florence was very quiet until they reached the steps 
 of her own home. A light was in the open vestibule, 
 another in the library, where Scotty, his feet comfortably 
 enclosed in carpet-slippers and elevated above his head, 
 was reading. Then she turned to her escort. 
 
 "You won t be offended, Mr. Sidwell, if I ask you a 
 question ? " 
 
 The electric light on the nearby corner shone full 
 upon her soft brown face, a very serious face now, and 
 the man s glance lingered there. "Certainly not," he 
 answered. 
 
 Florence hesitated. Somehow, now that the moment 
 [201 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 for speaking had arrived, the thing she had in mind to 
 say did not seem so easy after all. At last she spoke, 
 hesitatingly: "You seem to be interested in me, seem 
 to take pleasure in being in my company. For the last 
 few months we have been together almost daily, but up 
 to that time we had lived lives as unlike as as the city 
 is from the prairie. I know you have many other friends, 
 friends you Ve known all your life, whose ideals and points 
 of view came from the same experience as your own. 1 " She 
 straightened with dignity. " Why is it that you leave 
 those friends to come here? Why do you find pleasure 
 in taking me about as you do? Why is it?" 
 
 Not once while she was speaking had the man s eyes 
 left her face; not once had he stirred. Even after she 
 was silent he remained so; and despite the compelling 
 influence which had prompted the question, Florence 
 could not but realize what she had done, what she had 
 all but suggested. The warm color flooded her face, 
 though she held her eyes up bravely. "Tell me why," 
 she repeated firmly. 
 
 Sidwell still hesitated. Complex product of the higher 
 civilization, mixture of good and bad, who knows what 
 thoughts were running riot in his brain ? At last he 
 aroused and came closer. " You ask me a very hard 
 question," he said steadily ; " the most difficult, I think, 
 you could have chosen ; one, also, which perhaps I have 
 already asked myself." Again he took a step nearer. 
 " It is a question, Florence, that admits of but one answer ; 
 one both adequate and inadequate. It is because you are 
 you and woman, and I am I and man." Of a sudden his 
 
 f 202 ] 
 
Glitter and Tinsel 
 
 dark face grew swarthier still, his voice lapsed from its 
 customary impersonal. " It means, Florence Baker " 
 
 But the sentence was not completed. As suddenly as 
 the change had come to the man s face, the girl had 
 understood. With an impulse she could not have ex 
 plained to herself, she had drawn away and swiftly 
 mounted the steps of the house. Not until she reached 
 the porch did she turn. 
 
 " Don t, don t, please ! " she urged. " I beg your par 
 don. I should n t have asked what I did. Forget that 
 I spoke at all." She was struggling for words, for breath. 
 Her color came and went. "Good-night." And not 
 trusting herself to look back, oblivious of courtesy, she 
 almost ran into the house. 
 
 Standing as she had left him, his hat in his hand, 
 Clarence Sidwell watched her pass through the lighted 
 vestibule into the darkness beyond. 
 
 [203] 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 PAINTER AND PICTURE 
 
 SCOTTY BAKER dropped a lump of sugar into 
 his coffee and stirred the mixture carefully, glanc 
 ing the while smilingly at his wife and daughter. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he exclaimed ; " it seems good to be back 
 here again."" 
 
 Mrs. Baker was deep in a letter she had just opened, 
 but Florence returned the smile companionably. 
 
 " And it seems mighty good to have you back, daddy,"" 
 she replied. " Just think of our being alone, a pair of 
 poor defenceless women, three whole months without a 
 man about the house! If you ever dare do it again 
 you re liable to find one in your place when you return. 
 Isn t he, mamma?" 
 
 Her mother looked up reproachfully. "For shame, 
 Florence ! " she cried. 
 
 But Scotty only observed his daughter quizzically. " I 
 did almost, this time, did n t I ? " he bantered. " By 
 the way, who is this wonderful being, this Sidwell, I ve 
 heard so much about the last few hours?" He was as 
 obtuse as a post to his wife s meaning look. "Tell me 
 about him, won t you?" 
 
 Florence laughed a bit unnaturally. It seemed her 
 words had a way of returning like a boomerang. 
 
 [ 204 ] 
 
Painter and Picture 
 
 "He s a writer, 11 she explained laconically. 
 
 "A writer? 11 Scotty paused, a teaspoonful of coffee 
 between the cup and his mouth. "A real one? 11 
 
 The smile left the girl s face. " His family is one 
 of the oldest in the city, 11 she explained coldly. "His 
 work sells by the thousand. You can judge for your 
 self. 11 
 
 Scotty sipped his coffee impassively, but behind the big 
 glasses the twinkle left his eyes. 
 
 "The inference you suggest would have been more 
 obvious if you had n^t made the first remark, 11 he said 
 a little sharply. " I Ve noticed the matter of good family 
 has quite an influence in this world. 11 
 
 The subject was dropped, but nevertheless it left its 
 aftermath. Easy-going Scotty did not often say an un 
 pleasant thing, and for that very reason Florence knew 
 that when he did it had an especial significance. 
 
 " By the way, 11 he observed after a moment, " we ought 
 to celebrate to-day in some manner. I rather expected to 
 find a band at the station to welcome me yesterday upon 
 my return, but I did n t, and I fear there s been no public 
 demonstration arranged. What do you say to our packing 
 up our dinner, taking the elevated, and spending the day 
 in the country ? What say you, Mollie ? " 
 
 His wife looked at her daughter helplessly. "Just as 
 Florence says. I m willing, 11 she replied. 
 
 "What speaks the oracle? 11 smiled Scotty. "Shall we 
 or shall we not? Personally, I feel a desire for cooling 
 jprings, to step on a good-sized plat of green without 
 having a watchful bluecoat loom in the distance. 1 
 
 [205] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Florence fingered the linen of the tablecloth with genu 
 ine discomfort. "You two can go. I ll help you get 
 ready ," she ventured at last. " I m sorry, but I promised 
 Mr. Sid well last night I d visit the art gallery with him 
 this afternoon. He says they ve some new canvases hung 
 lately, one of them by a particular friend of his. He s 
 such a student of art, and I know so little about it that I 
 hate to miss going." 
 
 Again the smile left Scotty s eyes. " Can t you write a 
 note explaining, and postpone the visit until some other 
 time ? " It took quite an effort for this undemonstrative 
 Englishman to make the request. 
 
 The girl glanced out the window with a look her father 
 understood very well. "I hardly think so," she said. 
 " He s going away for the Summer soon, and his time is 
 limited." 
 
 Scotty said no more, and soon after he left the table 
 and went into the library. Florence sat for a moment 
 abstractedly; then with her old impulsive manner she 
 followed him. 
 
 " Daddy," the girl s arms clasped around his neck, her 
 cheek pressed against his, "I m awful sorry I can t go 
 with you to-day. I d like to, really." 
 
 But for one of the very few times that Florence could 
 remember her father did not respond. Instead, he re 
 moved her arms rather coldly. 
 
 "Oh, that s all right," he said; "I hope you ll have a 
 good time." And picking up the morning paper he lit 
 a cigar and moved toward the shady veranda. 
 
 Watching him, the girl had a desire to follow, to pre- 
 [206] 
 
Painter and Picture 
 
 vent his leaving her in that way. But she hesitated and 
 the moment passed. 
 
 Yet, although a cloud shadowed Florence Baker s morn 
 ing, by afternoon it had departed. Sid well s carriage 
 came promptly, creating something of a stir behind the 
 drawn shades of the adjoining residences for the Bakers 
 were not located in a fashionable quarter. Sid well himself, 
 immaculate, smiling, greeted her with the deference which 
 became him well, and in itself conveyed a delicate com 
 pliment. Neither made any reference to the incident of 
 the night before. His manner gave no hint of the con 
 straint which under the circumstances might have been 
 expected. A few months before, the girl would have 
 thought he had taken her request literally, and had for 
 gotten ; but now she knew better. In this fascinating 
 new life one could pass pleasantries with one s dearest 
 enemy and still smile. In the old life, under similar cir 
 cumstances, there would have been gun-play, and probably 
 later a funeral ; but here they knew better how to live. 
 Already, in the few social events she had attended, she 
 had seen them juggle with emotions as a conjurer with 
 knives to emerge unhurt, unruffled. To be sure, she 
 could not herself do it yet ; but she understood, and 
 admired. 
 
 Out of doors the sun was uncomfortably hot, but within 
 the high walled gallery it was cool and pleasant. Florence 
 had been there before, but earlier in the season, and many 
 other visitors were present. To-day she and Sidwell were 
 practically alone, and she faced him with a little receptive 
 gesture. 
 
 [ 207 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " You Ye always getting me to talk," she said. " To 
 day I m going to exchange places. Don t expect me to 
 do anything but listen." 
 
 Sidwell smiled. " Won t you even condescend to sug 
 gest channels in which my discourse may flow ? " he 
 bantered. 
 
 The girl hesitated. "Perhaps," she ventured, "if I 
 find it necessary." 
 
 For an hour they wandered about, moving slowly, and 
 pausing often to rest. Sidwell talked well, but somewhat 
 impersonally. At last, in an out-of-the-way corner, they 
 came to the modest canvas of his friend, and they sat 
 down before it. The picture was unnamed and unsigned. 
 Without being extraordinary as a work of art, its subject 
 lent its chief claim to distinction. Interested because her 
 companion seemed interested, Florence looked at it stead 
 ily. At first there appeared to her nothing but a moun 
 tain, steep and rugged, and a weary man who, climbing 
 it, had lain down to rest. Far down at the mountain s 
 base she saw where the figure had begun its ascent. The 
 way was easy there, and the trail, through the abundant 
 grasses crushed underfoot, was of one who had moved rap 
 idly. Gradually, with the upward incline, obstacles had 
 increased, and the footprints drew nearer together. Still 
 higher, from a straight line the trail had become tortuous 
 and irregular. Here the climber had passed around a 
 thicket of trees ; there a great boulder had stood in the 
 path ; but, ever indomitable, the way had been steadily 
 upward toward some point the climber had in view. 
 Steeper and steeper the way had grown. The prints on 
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
Painter and Picture 
 
 the rocky mountain-side, from being those of feet only, 
 merged into those made by hands. The man had begun 
 to crawl, making his way inch by inch. Fragments of 
 his torn clothing hung on the points of rocks. Dim 
 brown lines showed the path his body had taken, as he 
 sometimes slipped back. Breaks in the scant vegetation 
 told where his fingers had clutched desperately to halt his 
 descent. Yet each time the reverse had been but temporary; 
 he had returned, and mounted higher and higher. But at 
 last there had come the end. He had reached his present 
 place in the picture. By gripping tightly he could hold 
 his own, but to advance was impossible. Straight above 
 him, a sheer wall, many times his own height, was the 
 blank, unbroken face of the rock. That he had tried to 
 scale even this was evident, for finger-marks from bleeding 
 hands were thick thereon ; but he had finally abandoned 
 the effort. Physically, he was conquered. It seemed that 
 one could almost hear the quick coming and going of his 
 breath. Yet, prostrate as he lay, his eyes were turned 
 toward the barrier his body could not scale, to a some 
 thing which crowned its utmost height, something indefi 
 nite and unattainable, the supreme desire and purpose 
 of his life. 
 
 The two spectators sat silent. Other visitors came 
 near, glanced at the canvas and at the pair of observers, 
 and passed on with muffled footsteps. 
 
 The girl turned, and, as on the night at the roof- 
 garden, found the man s eyes upon her. 
 
 " What name does your friend give to his work ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 14 [ 209 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 He calls it The Unattainable. 1 " 
 
 " And what is its meaning ? " 
 
 " Ambition, perfection, complete happiness anything 
 striven for with one s whole soul." 
 
 Florence was studying her companion now as steadily as 
 he had been studying her a moment before. " To your 
 friend it meant " 
 
 " Happiness/ 
 
 The girl s hands were elapsed in her lap in a way she 
 had when her thoughts were concentrated. "And he 
 never found it ? " she asked. 
 
 Unconsciously one of Sidwell s hands made a downward 
 motion of deprecation. " He did not. We made the cir 
 cuit of the earth together in pursuit of it but all was 
 useless. It seemed as though the more he searched the 
 more he was baffled in his quest." 
 
 For a moment the girl made no reply, but in her lap her 
 hands clasped tighter and tighter. A thought that made 
 her finger-tips tingle was taking form in her mind. A 
 dim comprehension of the nature of this man had first 
 suggested it ; the fact that the canvas was unsigned had 
 helped give it form. The speaker s last words, his even 
 tone of voice, had not passed unnoticed. She turned to 
 the canvas, searched the skilfully concealed outlines of the 
 tattered figure with the upturned eyes. The clasped hands 
 grew white with the tension. 
 
 " I did n t know before you were an artist as well as a 
 writer," she said evenly. 
 
 Sid well turned quickly. The girl could feel his look. " I 
 fear," he said, " I fail to grasp your meaning. You think " 
 
Painter and Picture 
 
 Florence met the speaker s look steadily. " I don t 
 think," she said, " I know. You painted the picture, Mr. 
 Sidwell. That man there on the mountain-side is you ! " 
 
 Her companion hesitated. His face darkened ; his lips 
 opened to speak and closed again. 
 
 The girl continued watching him with steady look. " I 
 can hardly believe it," she said absently. " It seems 
 impossible."" 
 
 Sidwell forced a smile. Impossible ? What ? That I 
 should paint a daub like that ? " 
 
 The girl s tense hands relaxed wearily. 
 
 " No, not that you paint, but that the man there the 
 one finding happiness unattainable should be you." 
 
 The lids dropped just a shade over Sid well s black eyes. 
 " And why, if you please, should it be more remarkable 
 that I am unhappy than another ? " 
 
 This time Florence took him up quickly. " Because," 
 she answered, " you seem to have everything one can think 
 of that is needed to make a human being happv wealth, 
 position, health, ability all the prizes other people work 
 their lives out for or die for." Again the voice dropped. 
 " I can t understand it." She was silent a moment. " I 
 can t understand it," she repeated. 
 
 From the girl s face the man s eyes passed to the canvas, 
 and rested there. " Yes," he said slowly, " I suppose it is 
 difficult, almost impossible, for you to realize why I am 
 as I am. You have never had the personal experience 
 and we only understand what we have felt. The trouble 
 with me is that I have experienced too much, felt too much. 
 I ve ceased to take things on trust. Like the youth and 
 
 [211] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 the key flower I Ve forgotten the best." The voice paused, 
 but the eyes still kept to the canvas. 
 
 " That picture," he went on, " typifies it all. I painted 
 it, not because I m an artist, but because in a fashion it 
 expresses something I could n t put into words, or express 
 in any other way. When I began to climb, the object 
 above me was not happiness but ambition. Wealth and 
 social place, as you say, I already had. They meant 
 nothing to me. What I wanted was to make a name in 
 another way as a literary man." The dark eyes shifted 
 back to the listeners face, the voice spoke more rapidly. 
 
 " I went after the thing that I wanted with all the 
 power and tenacity that was in me. I worked with the 
 one object in view ; worked without resting, feverishly. I 
 had successes and failures, failures and successes a long 
 line of both. At last, as the world puts it, I arrived. I 
 got to a position where everything I wrote sold, and sold 
 well ; but in the meantime the thing above me, which had 
 been ambition, gradually took on another shape. Perfec 
 tion it was I longed for now, perfection in my art. It was 
 not enough that the public had accepted me as I was ; I 
 was not satisfied with my work. Try as I might, nothing 
 that I wrote ever reached my own standard in its execu 
 tion. I worked harder than ever ; but it was useless. I 
 was confronting the blank wall the wall of my natural 
 limitations." 
 
 The voice paused, and for a moment lowered. " I won t 
 say what I did then ; I was mad almost the finger 
 marks of it are on the rock." 
 
 The girl could not look longer into the speaker s eyes. 
 [212] 
 
Painter and Picture 
 
 She felt as if she were gazing upon a naked human soul, 
 and turned away. 
 
 " At last," he went on in his confession, " I came to 
 myself, and was forced to see things as they were. I saw 
 that as well as I thought I had understood life I had not 
 even grasped its meaning. I had fancied the attainment 
 of my object the supreme end, and by every human stand 
 ard I had succeeded in my purpose ; but the thing I had 
 gained was trash. Wealth, power, notoriety what were 
 they ? Bubbles, nothing more ; bubbles that broke in the 
 hand of him who clasped them. The real meaning and 
 object of existence lay deeper, and had nothing whatever 
 to do with the estimate of a person by his fellows. It was 
 a frame of mind of the individual himself." 
 
 Florence s face turned farther away, but Sidwell did not 
 notice. " Then, for the last time," he hurried on, " the un 
 attainable changed form for me, and became what it seems 
 now happiness. For a little time I think I was happy 
 happy in merely having made the discovery. Then 
 came the reaction. I was as I was, as I am now a prod 
 uct of my past life, of a civilization essentially artificial 
 In striving for a false ideal I had unfitted myself for the 
 real when at last I discovered it." 
 
 Unconsciously the man had come closer, and his eyes 
 glowed. At last his apathy was shaken off, and his words 
 came in a torrent. "What I was then I am to-day. 
 Mentally, I am like an inebriate, who no longer finds 
 satisfaction in plain food and drink, but craves stimulants. 
 I demand activity, excitement, change. In every hour of 
 my life I realize the narrowness and artificiality of it 
 
 [ 213 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 all ; but without it I am unhappy. I sometimes think 
 Mother Nature herself has disowned me ; when I try to 
 get near her she draws away I fancy with a shudder. 
 Solitude of desert, of forest, or of prairie is no longer 
 solitude to me. It is filled with voices accusing voices ; 
 and I rush back to the crowd and the unrest of the city. 
 Even my former pleasures seem to have deserted me. 
 You have spoke often of accomplishing big things, doing 
 something better than anyone else can do it, as an ex 
 ample of pleasure supreme. If you realized what you 
 were saying you would know its irony. You cannot do 
 a thing better than anyone else. People, like water, 
 strike a dead level. No matter how you strive, dozens of 
 others can do the thing you are doing. Were you to die, 
 your place would be filled to-morrow, and the world 
 would wag on just the same. There is always someone 
 just beneath you watchfully waiting, ready to seize your 
 place if you relax your effort for a moment. The term 
 big things is relative. To speak it is merely to refer to 
 something you do not personally understand. Nothing 
 seems really big to the one who does it. Nothing is 
 difficult when you understand it. The growing of pota 
 toes in a backyard is just as wonderful a performance as 
 the painting of one of these pictures ; it would be more 
 so were it not so common and so necessary. The construc 
 tion of a steam-engine or an electric dynamo is incom 
 parably more remarkable than the merging of separate 
 thousands of capital into millions of combination, yet 
 multitudes of men everywhere can do either of the former 
 things and are unnoticed. We worship what we do not 
 
 [ 214] 
 
Painter and Picture 
 
 understand, and call it big; but the man in the secret 
 realizes the mockery and smiles." 
 
 Closer came the dark face. The black eyes, intense and 
 flashing, held the listener in their gaze. 
 
 " I said that even my pleasures seem to have deserted 
 me. It is true. I used to like to wander about the city, 
 to see it at its busiest, to loiter amid the hum and the 
 roar and the ceaseless activity. I saw in it then only 
 friendly rivalry, like a hurdle race or a football game 
 something pleasing and stimulating. Now it all affects 
 me in just the reverse way. I look beneath the surface, 
 and my heart sinks to find not friendly competition, but 
 a battle, where men and women fight for daily bread, 
 where the weak are crowded and trampled upon by the 
 strong. In ordinary battle the maimed and the crippled 
 are spared, but here they still fight on. Mercy or quarter 
 is unknown. Oh, it is ghastly ! I used to take pleasure in 
 books, in the work of others ; but even this satisfaction 
 has been taken from me except such grim satisfaction 
 as a physician may feel at a post mortem. The very labor 
 that made me a success in literature caused me to be a 
 dissector of things around me. To learn how others 
 attained their ends I must needs tear their work apart 
 and study the fragments. This habit has become a part 
 of me. I overlook the beauty of the product in the 
 working of the machinery that produced it. I watch the 
 mixing of literary confections, served to the reader so that 
 upon laying down the book he may have a good taste in 
 his mouth. People themselves, those I meet from day to 
 day, inevitably go through the same metamorphosis. I 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 see them as characters in a book. Their foibles and 
 peculiarities are grist for my mill. Everything, everyone, 
 when I appear, slips into the narrow confines of a printed 
 page. I can t even spare myself. Fragments of me can be 
 had for a price at any of the book-stalls. I ve become 
 public property and with no one to blame but myself." 
 
 The flow of speech halted. The speaker s face was so 
 near now that the girl could not avoid looking at it. 
 
 "Do you wonder," he concluded, "that I am not 
 happy ? " 
 
 The girl looked up. The two pairs of brown eyes met. 
 Outwardly, she who answered was calm ; but in her lap 
 the small hands were clasping each other tightly, so that 
 the blood had left the fingers. 
 
 " No, I do not wonder now," she answered simply. 
 
 66 And you understand ? " 
 
 " Yes, I no, there s so much Oh, take me home, 
 please ! " The sentence ended abruptly in a plea. The 
 slender body was trembling as with cold. "Take me 
 home, please. I want to to think." 
 
 " Florence ! " The word was a caress. " Florence ! " 
 
 But the girl was already on her feet. " Don t say any 
 more to-day ! I can t stand it. Take me home ! " 
 
 Sidwell looked at her closely for a moment ; then the 
 mask of conventionality, which for a time had lifted from 
 his face, dropped once more, and he also arose. In silence, 
 side by side, the two made their way down the long hall 
 to the exit. Out of doors, the afternoon sun, serene and 
 smiling, gave them a friendly greeting. 
 
 [216] 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A VISITOR FROM THE PLAINS 
 
 T[~"\APA," said Florence, next morning, as they two 
 
 1^ sat alone at breakfast, her mother having 
 -* reported a headache and failed to appear, 
 "let s go somewhere, away from folks, for a week or 
 so." 
 
 " Why this sudden change of front ? " her father queried. 
 " Not being of the enemy I m entitled to the plan of cam 
 paign, you know." 
 
 Florence observed him steadily, and the father could not 
 but notice how much more mature she seemed than the 
 prairie girl of a few months ago. 
 
 " There is no change of front or plan of campaign as 
 far as I know," she replied. " I simply want to get away 
 a bit, that s all." She returned to her neglected breakfast. 
 " There s such a thing as mental dyspepsia, you know, and 
 I feel a twinge of it now and then. I think this new life is 
 being fed to me in doses too large for my digestion." 
 
 Mr. Baker eventually acquiesced, as anyone who knew 
 him could have foretold he would do. His wife, also, 
 when the plan was broached to her, hesitatingly agreed, 
 but at the last moment balked and declined to go ; so they 
 left without her. 
 
 [217] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The small town to which they went had ample grass and 
 trees, and a small lake convenient. A farmer s family re 
 luctantly consented to board and lodge them ; also to give 
 them the use of a bony horse and a disreputable one-seated 
 wagon. After their arrival they promptly proceeded to 
 segregate themselves from their fellow-boarders. The first 
 day they fished a little, talked, read, slept, meditated, and 
 smoked that is, Mr. Baker did, enough for two; and 
 Florence assisted by rolling cigarettes when the bowl of 
 the meerschaum grew uncomfortably hot. The next day 
 they repeated the programme, and also the next, and the 
 next. 
 
 " I think I could stay here always," said Mr. Baker. 
 
 " I rather like it myself," Florence admitted. 
 
 Nevertheless, they returned promptly on schedule-time. 
 Mrs. Baker was awaiting them, her stiff mariner indicating 
 that she had not been doing much else while they were 
 away. Without finesse, one member of the two delin 
 quents was informed that a certain man of considerable 
 social prominence, Clarence Sidwell by name, had called 
 daily, and, Mrs. Baker fancied, with increasing dissatisfac 
 tion at their absence. Florence found in her mail a short 
 note, which after some consideration she handed without 
 comment to her father. 
 
 He read and read again. " When was this mailed ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Over a week ago," answered Florence. " It has been 
 here for several days." 
 
 It was therefore no surprise to the Englishman when 
 that very evening, as he sat on the front veranda, his heels 
 
A Visitor From the Plains 
 
 on the railing, watching the passage of equipages swift and 
 slow, he saw a tall young man, at whom passers-by stared 
 more than was polite, coming leisurely up the sidewalk, 
 inspecting the numbers on the houses. As he came closer, 
 Mr. Baker took in the details of the long free stride, of 
 the broad chest, the square uplifted chin, with something 
 akin to admiration. Vitality and power were in every mo 
 tion of the supple body ; health a life free as the air 
 and sunshine was written in the brown of the hands, the 
 tan of the face. Even his clothes, though not the conven 
 tional costume of city streets, seemed a part of their 
 wearer, and had a freedom all their own. The broad- 
 brimmed felt hat was obviously for comfort and protec 
 tion, not for show. The light-brown flannel shirt was the 
 color of the sinewy throat. The trousers, of darker wool, 
 rolled up at the bottom, exposed the high-heeled riding- 
 boots. About the whole man for he was very near now 
 there was that immaculate cleanliness which the world 
 prizes more than godliness. 
 
 Scotty dropped his feet from the railing and advanced 
 to the steps. " Hello, Ben Blair ! " he said. 
 
 The visitor paused and smiled. "How do you do, 
 Mr. Baker?" he answered. "I thought I d find you 
 along here somewhere."" He swung up the short walk, 
 and, mounting the steps, grasped the Englishman s ex- 
 tended hand. For a moment the two said nothing. 
 Then Scotty motioned to a chair. "Sit down, won t 
 you ? " he invited. 
 
 Ben stood as he was. The smile left his face. " Would 
 you really like me to ? " he asked directly. 
 
 [ 219 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " I really would, or I would n t have asked you," Scotty 
 returned, with equal directness. 
 
 Ben took the proffered chair, and crossed his legs com 
 fortably. The two sat for a moment in silent com 
 panionship. 
 
 " Tell me about Rankin," suggested Scotty at last. 
 
 Ben did so. It did not take long, for he scarcely men 
 tioned himself, and quite omitted that last incident of 
 which Grannis had been witness. 
 
 " And the man who shot him ? " Scotty found it a 
 bit difficult to put the query into words. 
 
 "They swung him a few days later. Things move 
 rather fast out there when they move at all."" 
 
 " Were they the cowboys? " 
 
 "No, the sheriff and the rest. It was all regular 
 scarcely any spectators, even, I heard." 
 
 " And now about yourself. Shall you be in the city 
 long?" 
 
 " I hardly know. I came partly on business but that 
 won t take me long." He looked at his host significantly. 
 " I also had another purpose in coming." 
 
 Scotty moved uncomfortably in his seat. " Ben," he 
 said at last, " I M like to ask you to stay with us if I could, 
 but "he paused, looking cautiously in at the open door 
 " but Mollie, you know It would mean the dickens 
 own time with her." 
 
 Ben showed neither surprise nor resentment. " Thank 
 you," he replied. " I understand. I could n t have ac 
 cepted had you invited me. Let s not consider it." 
 
 Again the seat which usually fitted the Englishman so 
 [ 220 ] 
 
A Visitor From the Plains 
 
 well grew uncomfortable. He was conscious that through 
 the curtains of the library window some one was watching 
 him and the new-comer. He had a mortal dread of a scene, 
 and one seemed inevitable. 
 
 " How s the old ranch ? " he asked evasively. 
 
 " It s just as you left it. I have n t got the heart 
 somehow to change anything. We use up a good many 
 horses one way and another during a year, and when I get 
 squared around I m going to start a herd there with one 
 of the boys to look after it. It was Rankings idea too." 
 
 " You expect to keep on ranching, then ? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I thought, perhaps, now that you had plenty to do 
 with You re young, you know." 
 
 Ben looked out across the narrow plat of turf deliber 
 ately. 
 
 " Am I young ? Really, I d never thought of it in 
 that way." 
 
 The Englishman s feet again mounted the railing in an 
 attempt at nonchalance. 
 
 " Well, usually a man at your age " He laughed. 
 " If it were an old fellow like me " 
 
 " Mr. Baker, I thought you said you really wished me 
 to sit down and chat awhile ? " 
 
 Scotty colored. " Why, certainly. What makes you 
 think " 
 
 "Let s be natural then." 
 
 Scotty stiffened. His feet returned to the floor. 
 
 " Blair, you forget " But somehow the sentence, 
 bravely begun, halted. Few people in real life acted a 
 
 [ 221 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 part with Benjamin Blair s blue eyes upon them. " Ben," 
 he said instead, "I m an ass, and I beg your pardon. 
 I ll call Florence." 
 
 But the visitor s hand restrained him. 
 
 " Don t, please. She knows I am here. I saw her a 
 bit ago. Let her do as she wishes." He drew himself up 
 in the cane rocker. " You asked me a question. As far 
 as I know I shall ranch it always. It suits me, and it s 
 the thing I can do best. Besides, I like being with live 
 things. The only trouble I have," he smiled frankly, " is 
 in selling stock after I raise them. I want to keep them 
 as long as they live, and put them in greener pastures 
 when they get old. It s the off season, but I brought a 
 couple of car-loads along with me to Chicago, to the 
 stock-yards. I 11 never do it again. It has to be done, 
 I know ; people have to be fed ; but I Ve watched those 
 steers grow from calves." 
 
 Scotty searched his brain for something relevant and im 
 personal, but nothing suggested itself. " Ben Blair," he 
 ventured, " I like you." 
 
 " Thank you," said Ben. 
 
 They were silent for a long time. Pedestrians, singly 
 and in pairs, sauntered past on the walk. Vehicle after 
 vehicle scurried by in the street. At last a team of brown 
 thoroughbreds, with one man driving, drew up in front 
 of the house. The man alighted, tied the horses to the 
 stone hitching-post, and came up the walk. Simultane 
 ously Ben saw the curtains at the library window sway as 
 though in a sudden breeze. 
 
 " Splendid horses, those," he commented. 
 [ 222 ] 
 
A Visitor From the Plains 
 
 "Yes," answered Scotty, wishing he were somewhere 
 else just then. " Yes," he repeated, absently. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Baker ! " said the smiling driver of 
 the thoroughbreds. 
 
 "^Good-evening," echoed Scotty. Then, with a gesture, 
 he indicated the passive Benjamin. "My friend Mr. 
 Blair, Mr. Sidwell." 
 
 Sidwell mounted the steps. . Ben arose. The library 
 curtains trembled again. The two men looked each other 
 fairly in the eyes and then shook hands. 
 
 " Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blair," said Sidwell. 
 
 " Thank you," responded Ben, evenly. 
 
 Down in the depths of his consciousness, Scotty was 
 glad this frontier youth had seen fit to come to town. 
 Taking off his big glasses he polished them industriously. 
 
 " Won t you sit down ? " he invited the new-comer. 
 
 Sidwell moved toward the door. " No, thank you. 
 With your permission 1 11 go inside. I presume Miss 
 Baker " 
 
 But the Englishman was ahead of him. "Yes," he 
 said, "she s at home. I ll call her," and he disap 
 peared. 
 
 Watching the retreating figure, Sidwell s black eyes 
 tightened, but he returned and took the place Scotty 
 had vacated. He gave his companion a glance which, 
 swift as a flash of light upon a sensitized plate, took 
 in every detail of the figure, the bizarre dress, the strik 
 ing face. 
 
 46 You are from the West, I judge, Mr. Blair?" he 
 interrogated. 
 
 [ 223 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " Dakota," said Ben, laconically. 
 
 SidwelTs gaze centred on the sombrero. K Cattle raising, 
 perhaps ? " he ventured. 
 
 Ben nodded. " Yes, I have a few head east of the 
 river." He returned the other s look, and Sid well had 
 the impression that a searchlight was suddenly shifted 
 upon him. "Ever been out there?" 
 
 The city man indicated an affirmative. " Yes, twice : 
 the last time about four years ago. I went out on pur 
 pose to see a steer-roping contest, on the ranch of a man 
 by the name of Gilbert, I remember. A cowboy they 
 called Pete carried off the honors ; had his critter down 
 and tied in forty-two seconds. They told me that was 
 slow time, but I thought it lightning itself." 
 
 " The trick can be done in thirty-five with the wildest," 
 commented Ben. 
 
 Sidwell looked out on the narrow street meditatively. 
 " I think that cowboy exhibition," he went on slowly, 
 " was the most typically American scene I have ever wit 
 nessed. The recklessness, the dash, the splendid animal 
 activity there s never been anything like it in the 
 world." His eyes returned to Ben s face. " Ever hear of 
 Gilbert, did you ? " 
 
 " I live within twenty-three miles of him." 
 
 Sidwell looked interested. "What ranch, if I may 
 ask ? " 
 
 " The Right Angle Triangle we call it." 
 
 " Oh, yes," Sidwell nodded in recollection. " Ran kin is 
 the proprietor a big man with a grandfather s-shay 
 buckboard. I saw him while I was there." 
 
 [224] 
 
A Visitor From the Plains 
 
 Involuntarily one of Ben s long legs swung over the 
 other. " That s the place ! You have a" good memory." 
 
 Sidwell smiled. " I could n t help having in this case. 
 He reminded me of the satraps of ancient Persia. He 
 was monarch of all he surveyed." 
 
 Ben said nothing. 
 
 " He s still the big man of the country, I presume ? " 
 
 "He is dead." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 " I said so." 
 
 The light of understanding came to the city man. " I 
 see," he observed. " He is gone, and you " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Sidwell," interrupted the 
 other, "but suppose we change the subject?" 
 
 Sidwell colored, then he laughed. " I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. Blair. No offence was intended, I assure you. Mr. 
 Rankin interested me, that was all." 
 
 Again Ben said nothing, and the conversation lapsed. 
 
 Meanwhile within doors another drama had been taking 
 place. A very discomposed young lady had met Scotty 
 just out of hearing. 
 
 " What made you stop Mr. Sidwell, papa ? " she asked 
 indignantly. " Why did n t you let him come in ? " 
 
 " Because I did n t choose to," explained Scotty, bluntly. 
 
 " But I wanted him to," she said imperiously. " I don t 
 care to see Ben to-night." 
 
 Her father looked at her steadily. " And I wish you 
 to see him," he insisted. "You must be hypnotized 
 to behave the way you re doing ! You forget yourself 
 completely ! " 
 
 15 [ 225 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The brown eyes of the girl flashed. " And you forget 
 yourself ! I m no longer a child ! I won t see him to 
 night unless I wish to ! " 
 
 Easy-going Scotty was aroused. His weak chin set 
 stubbornly. 
 
 " Very well. You will see neither of them, then. I 
 won t have a man insulted without cause in my own house. 
 I ll tell them both you re sick." 
 
 " If you do," flamed Florence, " I 11 never forgive you ! 
 You re horrid, if you are my father. I " She took 
 refuge in tears. " Oh, you ought to be ashamed to treat 
 your daughter so!" 
 
 The Englishman flicked a speck of ash off his lounging 
 coat. " I am ashamed," he admitted ; " but not of what 
 you suggest." He turned toward the door. 
 
 " Daddy," said a pleading voice, " don t you care for 
 me any more ? " 
 
 An expression the daughter had never seen before, but 
 one that ever after haunted her, flashed over the father s 
 face. 
 
 " Care for you ? " he exclaimed. " Care for you ? 
 That is just the trouble! I care for you have always 
 cared for you too much. I have sacrificed my self- 
 respect to humor you, and it s all been a mistake. I see 
 it now too late." 
 
 For a moment the two looked at each other ; then the 
 girl brushed past him. " Very well," she said calmly, 
 " if I must see them both, at least permit me to see them 
 by myself." 
 
 The men on the porch arose as Florence appeared. 
 [ 226 ] 
 
A Visitor From the Plains 
 
 Their manner of doing so was characteristic of each. Sid- 
 well got to his feet languidly, a bit stiffly. He had not 
 forgotten the past week. Ben Blair arose respectfully, 
 almost reverently, unconscious that he was following a 
 mere social form. Six months had passed since he had 
 seen this little woman, and his soul was in his eyes as he 
 looked at her. 
 
 Just without the door the girl halted, her color like the 
 sunset. It was the city man she greeted first. 
 
 " I m very glad to see you again," she said, and a dainty 
 hand went out to meet his own. 
 
 Sidwell was human. He smiled, and his hand detained 
 hers longer than was really necessary. 
 
 " And I m happy indeed to have you back,*" he re 
 sponded. " I missed you." 
 
 The girl turned to the impassive but observing 
 Benjamin. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, too, Mr. Blair," she said, but 
 the voice was as formal as the handshake. " Papa intro 
 duced you to Mr. Sidwell, I suppose ? " 
 
 Her reserve was quite unnecessary. Outwardly, Ben was 
 as coldly polite as she. He placed a chair for her deferen 
 tially and took another himself, while Sidwell watched the 
 scene with interest. Somewhere, some time, if he lived, 
 that moment would be reproduced on a printed page. 
 
 " Yes," responded Ben, " Mr. Sidwell and I have met." 
 He turned his chair so that he and the girl faced each 
 other. " You like the city, your new life, as well as you 
 expected, I trust ? " 
 
 They chatted a few minutes as impersonally as two 
 [ 227 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 chance acquaintances meeting by accident; then again 
 Ben arose. " I judge you were going driving," he said 
 simply. " I 11 not detain you longer." 
 
 Florence melted. Such delicate consideration was 
 unexpected. 
 
 " You must call again while you are in town," she said. 
 
 " Thank you, I shall," Ben responded. 
 
 Sidwell felt that he too could afford to be generous. 
 
 " If there s anything in the way of amusement or 
 otherwise that I can do for you, Mr. Blair, let me know," 
 he said, proffering his address. " I am at your service at 
 any time." 
 
 Ben had reached the walk, but he turned. For a mo 
 ment wherein Florence held her breath he looked steadily 
 at the city man. 
 
 " We Western men, Mr. Sidwell," he said at last slowly, 
 " are more or less solitaries. We take our recreation as 
 we do our work, alone. In all probability I shall not 
 have occasion to accept your kindness. But I may call 
 on you before I leave." He bowed to both, and replaced 
 his hat. A "good-night" and he was gone. 
 
 Watching the tall figure as it disappeared down the 
 street, Sidwell smiled peculiarly. * Rather a positive 
 person, your friend," he remarked. 
 
 Like an echo, Florence took up the word. " Positive ! " 
 The small hands pressed tightly together in the speaker s 
 lap. "Positive! You didn t get even a suggestion of 
 him by that. I saw a big prairie fire once. It swept 
 over the country for miles and miles, taking everything 
 clean ; and the men fighting it might have been so many 
 
 [ 228 ] 
 
A Visitor From the Plains 
 
 children in arms. I always think of it when I think of 
 Ben Blair. They are very much alike." 
 
 The smile left Sidwell s face. " One can start a back 
 fire on the prairie," he said reflectively. " I fancy the 
 same process might work successfully with Blair also." 
 
 " Perhaps," admitted Florence. The time came when 
 both she and Sidwell remembered that suggestion. 
 
 But the subject was too large to be dropped immediately. 
 
 " Something tells me," Sidwell added, after a moment, 
 " that you are a bit fearful of this Blair. Did the gentle 
 man ever attempt to kidnap you or anything ? " 
 
 Florence did not smile. " No," she answered. 
 
 " What was it, then ? Were you in love, and he cold 
 or the reverse ? * 
 
 Florence dropped her chin into her hands. " To be 
 frank with you, it was the reverse; but I would rather 
 not speak of it." She was silent for a moment. " You 
 are right, though," she continued, rather recklessly, " when 
 you say I m afraid of him. I don t dare think of him, 
 even. I want to forget he was ever a part of my life. He 
 overwhelms me like sleep when I m tired. I am helpless." 
 
 Unconsciously Sidwell had stumbled upon the closet 
 which held the skeleton. " And I "he queried, " are 
 you afraid of me ? " 
 
 The girl s great brown eyes peered out above her hands 
 steadily. 
 
 " No ; with us it is not of you I m afraid it s of my 
 self." She arose slowly. " I m ready to go driving if you 
 wish," she said. 
 
 [ 229 ] 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 CLUB CONFIDENCES 
 
 LATE the same evening, in the billiard-room of the 
 " Loungers Club " Clarence Sidwell met one Win 
 ston Hough, seemingly by chance, though in fact 
 very much the reverse. Big and blonde, addicted to 
 laughter, Hough was one of the few men with whom 
 Sidwell fraternized, why, only the Providence which 
 makes like and unlike attract each other could have 
 explained. However, it was with deliberate intent that 
 Sidwell entered the most brilliantly lighted room in 
 the place and sought out the group of which Hough was 
 the centre. 
 
 " Hello, Chad ! " the latter greeted the new-comer. " I Ve 
 just trimmed up Watson here, and I m looking for new 
 worlds to conquer. 1 11 roll you fifty points to see who 
 pays for a lunch afterward."" 
 
 Sidwell smiled tolerantly. " I think it would be better 
 for my reputation to settle without playing. Put up your 
 stick and I m with you." 
 
 Hough shook his head. " No," he objected, " I "m not a 
 Weary Willie. I prefer to earn my dole first. Come on." 
 
 But Sidwell only looked at him. " Don t be stubborn," 
 he said. " I want to talk with you." 
 
 [ 230 ] 
 
Club Confidences 
 
 Hough returned his cue to the rack lingeringly. " Of 
 course, if you put it that way there s nothing more to 
 be said. As to the stubbornness, however " He paused 
 suggestively. 
 
 Sidwell made no comment, but led the way directly 
 toward the street. 
 
 "What s the matter?" queried Hough, when he saw 
 the direction they were taking. " Is n t the club grill 
 room good enough for you ? " 
 
 Sidwell pursued his way unmoved. " I said I wished to 
 talk with you." 
 
 " I guess I must be dense," Hough answered gayly. " I 
 certainly never saw any house rules that forbid a man to 
 speak." 
 
 Sidwell looked at his companion with a whimsical ex 
 pression. " The trouble is n t with the house rules but 
 with you. A fellow might as well try to monopolize the 
 wheat-pit on the board of trade as to keep you alone 
 here. You re too confoundedly popular, Hough! You 
 draw people as the proverbial molasses-barrel attracts 
 flies." 
 
 The big man laughed. " Your compliment, if that s 
 what it was, is a bit involved, but I suppose it 11 have to 
 do. Lead on ! " 
 
 Sidwell sought out a modest little cafe in a side street 
 and selected a secluded booth. 
 
 " What 11 you have ? " he asked, as the waiter appeared. 
 
 Hough s blue eyes twinkled. "Are you with me, 
 whatever I order?" 
 
 Sidwell nodded. 
 
 [231 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 "Club sandwiches and a couple of bottles of beer," 
 Hough concluded. 
 
 His companion made no comment. 
 
 "Been some time, hasn t it, since you surprised your 
 stomach with anything like this ? " bantered the big man, 
 when the order had arrived and the waiter departed. 
 
 Sidwell smiled. " I shall have to confess it," he admitted. 
 
 " I thought so," remarked Hough dryly. " Next time 
 you depict a plebeian scene you can remember this and 
 thank me."" 
 
 This time Sidwell did not smile. " You re hitting me 
 rather hard, old man," he said. 
 
 " You deserve it," laconically answered Hough. 
 
 " But not from you ! " 
 
 Hough meditatively watched the beads bursting on the 
 surface of the liquor. 
 
 " Admitted," he said ; " but the people who ought to 
 touch you up are afraid to do so, and someone ought to." 
 He smiled across the table. " Pardon the brutal frankness, 
 but it s true." 
 
 Sidwell returned the glance. " You think it s the duty 
 of some intimate to perform the kindness of this touch 
 ing up process occasionally, do you ? " 
 
 Hough drank deep and sighed with satisfaction. " Jove ! 
 that tastes good ! I limbered up my joints with a two- 
 mile walk before I went to the club this evening, and I Ve 
 been as dry as a harvest-hand ever since. All the wine in 
 France or elsewhere won t touch the spot like a little good 
 old brew when a man is really healthy." He recalled him 
 self. " Your pardon, Sidwell. Seriously, I do think 
 
 [ 232 ] 
 
Club Confidences 
 
 it s the duty of our best friends to bring us back to earth 
 now and then when we ve strayed too far away. No one 
 who does n t care for us will take the trouble." 
 
 " Our very best friends, I judge," suggested Sidwell. 
 
 " Certainly." The big man wondered what was coming 
 next. 
 
 "A wife, for instance." 
 
 Hough straightened in his chair. His jolly face grew 
 serious. 
 
 "Are you in earnest, Chad," he queried, "or are you 
 just drawing me out ? " 
 
 " I never was more in earnest in my life." 
 
 Hough lost sight of the original question in the revela 
 tion it suggested. 
 
 " Do you mean you Ve really going to get married at 
 last?" 
 
 Sidwell forced a smile. "If the matter were already 
 settled, it would be too late to consider the advisability 
 of the move, would n t it ? " he returned. " It would be 
 an established fact, and as such useless to discuss. I 
 have n t asked the lady, if that answers your question." 
 
 Hough made a gesture of impatience. " Theoretically, 
 yes, but practically, no. In your individual case, desire 
 and gratification amount to the same. You re mighty 
 fascinating with the ladies, Chad. Few women would 
 refuse you, if you made an effort to have them do the 
 reverse." 
 
 "Thank you," said Sidwell, equivocally. 
 
 His companion scowled. " Appreciation is unnecessary. 
 I m not even sure the remark was complimentary." 
 
 [ 233 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 They sat a moment in silence, while the beer in their 
 glasses grew stale. 
 
 " Suppose I were to consider marriage, as you suggest," 
 said Sidwell at last. " What do you think would be the 
 result? Judging from your expression, some opinion 
 thereon is weighing heavily upon your mind." 
 
 The blonde man looked up keenly. One would hardly 
 have recognized him as the easy-going person of a few 
 moments before. 
 
 "It will, of course, depend entirely upon whom you 
 choose. That s hackneyed. From the motions of straws, 
 though, this Summer, I presume it s admissible that I 
 jump at conclusions concerning the lady." 
 
 The other nodded. 
 
 " In that case, Chad, as surely as night follows day it 11 
 be a failure." The blue eyes all but flashed. " Moreover, 
 it s a hideous injustice to the girl." 
 
 Sidwell stiffened involuntarily. 
 
 " Your prediction sounds a bit strong from one who is 
 himself a benedict," he returned coldly. " Upon what, if 
 you please, do you base your opinion ? " 
 
 Hough fidgeted in his chair. 
 
 " You want me to be frank, brutally frank, once more?" 
 
 "Anything you wish. I d like to know why you spoke 
 as you did." 
 
 " The reason, then, is this. You two would no more 
 mix than oil and water." 
 
 SidwelPs face did not change. "You and Elise seem 
 to jog along fairly well together," he observed. 
 
 Hough scowled as before. " Yes, but there s no pos- 
 [ 234 ] 
 
Club Confidences 
 
 sible similarity between the cases. You and I are no 
 more alike than a dog and a rabbit. To come down to 
 the direct issue, you re city bred, and Miss Baker has been 
 reared in the country. She " 
 
 Sidwell held up his hand deprecatingly. "To re 
 turn to the illustration, Elise was originally from the 
 country." 
 
 " And to repeat once more,"" exclaimed Hough, " there s 
 again no similarity. Elise and I have been married eight 
 years. We met at college, and grew together normally. 
 We were both young and adaptable. Besides, at the risk 
 of being tedious, I reiterate that you and I are totally 
 unlike. I m only partially urban ; you are completely so 
 to your very finger-tips. I m half savage, more than half. 
 I like to be out in the country, among the mountains, 
 upon the lakes. I like to hunt and fish, and dawdle 
 away time ; you care for none of these things. I can 
 make money because I inherited capital, and it almost 
 makes itself; but it s not with me a definite ambition. 
 I have no positive object in life, unless it is to make the 
 little woman happy. You have. Your work absorbs the 
 best of you. You have n t much left for friendships, even 
 mild ones like ours. I ve been with you for a good many 
 years, old man, and I know what I m talking about. 
 You are old, older than your years, and you re not young 
 even in them. You re selfish pardon me, but it s 
 true abominably selfish. Your character, your point 
 of view, your habits are all formed. You 11 never 
 change ; you would n t if you could. Miss Baker is hardly 
 more than a child. I know her I ve made it a point 
 
 [ 235 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 to know her since I saw you were interested in her. 
 Everything in the world rings genuine to her as yet. 
 She has n t learned to detect the counterfeit, and when the 
 knowledge does come it will hurt her cruelly. Shell 
 want to get back to nature as surely as a child with a 
 bruised finger wants its mother; and you can t go with 
 her. Most of all, Chad, she s a woman. You don t 
 know what that means no unmarried man does know. 
 Even we married ones never grasp the subtleties of woman- 
 nature completely. I ve been studying one for eight 
 years, and at times she escapes me. But one thing I 
 have learned ; they demand that they shall be first in the 
 life of the man they love. Florence Baker will demand 
 this, and after the first novelty has worn off you won t sat 
 isfy her. I repeat once more, you re too selfish for that. 
 As sure as anything can be, Chad Sid well, if you marry 
 that girl it will end in disaster in divorce, or something 
 worse." 
 
 The voice ceased, and the place was of a sudden very 
 quiet. Sidwell tapped on his thin drinking-glass with his 
 finger-nail. His companion had never seen him nervous 
 before. At last he looked up unshiftingly. " You ve 
 given me a pretty vivid portrait of myself, of what I m 
 good for, and what not," he said. " Would you like me 
 to return the compliment ? " 
 
 Again Hough wondered what was coming. "Yes, I 
 suppose so," he answered hesitatingly. 
 
 " You ve often remarked," said Sidwell, slowly, " that 
 you knew of no work for which you were especially 
 adapted. I think I could fit you out exactly to your 
 
 [ 236 ] 
 
Club Confidences 
 
 liking. Just get a position as guard to a lake of brim 
 stone in the infernal regions/ 
 
 Hough laughed, but Sid well did not. "I fancy, 11 he 
 continued monotonously, " I see you now, a long needle- 
 pointed spear in your hands, jabbing back the poor sinners 
 who tried to crawl out."" 
 
 "Chad!" interrupted the other reproachfully. "Chad!" 
 But Sidwell did not stop. 
 
 " You d stand well back, so that the sulphur fumes 
 would n t irritate your own nostrils, and so that when the 
 bubbles from the boiling broke they would n t spatter 
 you, and with the finest kind of intuition and the most 
 delicate aim you d select the tenderest place in your 
 intended victim s anatomy for your spear-point." He 
 smiled ironically at the picture. " Gad ! you d be a howl 
 ing success there, old man ! " 
 
 An expression of genuine contrition formed on Hough s 
 jolly face. " 1 m dead sorry I hurt you, Chad," he said, 
 " but you asked me to be frank." 
 
 " You certainly were frank," rejoined the other bluntly. 
 
 " What I said, though, was true," reiterated Hough. 
 
 Sidwell leaned a bit forward, his face, handsome in spite 
 of its shadings of discontent, clear in the light. 
 
 "Perhaps," he went on. "The trouble with you is 
 that you don t give me credit for a single redeeming 
 virtue. No one in this world is wholly good or wholly 
 bad. You forget that I m a human being, with natural 
 feelings and desires. You make me out a sort of machine, 
 cunningly constructed for a certain work. You limit my 
 life to that work alone. A human being, even one born 
 
 [237] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 of the artificial state called civilization, isn t a contriv 
 ance like a typewriter which you can make work and 
 then shut up in a box until it is wanted again. There 
 are certain emotions, certain wants, you can t suppress 
 by logic. Even a dog, if you imprison him alone, will 
 go mad in time. I m a living man, with red blood in 
 stead of ink in my veins, not an abstract mathematical 
 problem. I Ve had my full share of work and unhappi- 
 ness. You 11 have to give me a better reason for re 
 maining without the gate of the promised land than 
 you ve yet done." 
 
 Hough looked at the speaker impotently. " You mis 
 understood me, Chad, if you thought I was trying to 
 keep you from your due, or from anything which would 
 really make for your happiness. I was simply trying to 
 prevent something I feel morally certain you 11 regret. 
 Because one is n t entirely happy is no adequate reason 
 why he should make himself more unhappy. I can t say 
 any more than I ve already said ; there s nothing more 
 to say. My best reason for disapproving your contem 
 plated action I gave you first, and you ve not considered 
 it at all. It s the injustice you do to a girl who 
 doesn t realize what she is doing. With your disposi 
 tion, Chad, you d take away from her something which 
 neither God nor man can ever give her back her trust 
 in life." 
 
 Sidwell s long fingers restlessly twirled the glass before 
 him. The remainder of the untouched beer was now as 
 so much stagnant water. 
 
 " If I don t undeceive her someone else will," he said. 
 [ 238 ] 
 
Club Confidences 
 
 "It s inevitable. She ll have to adjust herself to things 
 as they are, as we all have to do." 
 
 Hough made a motion of deprecation. 
 
 " Miss Baker is no longer a child, 1 continued Sidwell. 
 " If you Ve studied her as you say you ve done, you ve 
 discovered that she has very definite ideas of her own. 
 It s true that I haven t known her long, but she has had 
 an opportunity to know me well such as no one else has 
 ever had, not even you. No one can say that she is 
 leaping in the dark. Time and time again, at every 
 opportunity, I have stripped my very soul bare for her 
 observation. The thing has not been easy for me ; in 
 deed, I know of nothing I could have done that would 
 have been more difficult. Though the present instance 
 seems to give the statement the lie, I am not easily confi 
 dential, my friend. I have had a definite object in doing 
 as I have done with Miss Baker. I am trying, as I never 
 tried before in my life, to get in touch with her as 1 11 
 never try again, no matter how the effort results, to get 
 in touch with a person. She knows the good and bad of 
 me from A to Z. She knows the life I lead, the kind of 
 people who make up that life, their aims, their amuse 
 ments, their standards, social and moral, as thoroughly as 
 I can make her know them. I have taken her everywhere, 
 shown her every phase of my surroundings. For once in 
 my life at least, Hough, I have been absolutely what I 
 am, absolutely frank. Farther than that I cannot go. 
 I am not my brother s keeper. She is an individual in a 
 world of individuals; a free agent, mental, moral, and 
 physical. The decision of her future actions, the choice 
 
 [ 239 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 she makes of her future life, must of necessity rest with 
 her. For some reason I cannot point to a definite ex 
 planation and say this or that is why she is attractive 
 to me. She seems to offer the solution of a want I feel. 
 No system of logic can convince me that, after having 
 been honest as I have been with her, if she of her own 
 free will consents to be my wife, I have not a moral 
 right to make her so." 
 
 Again Hough made a deprecatory motion. " It is use 
 less to argue with you,"" he said helplessly, " and I won t 
 attempt it. If I were to try, I could n t make you realize 
 that the very methods of frankness you have used to make 
 Miss Baker know you intimately have defeated their own 
 purpose, and have unconsciously made you an integral part 
 of her life. I said before that when you wish you re irre 
 sistibly fascinating with women. All that you have 
 said only exemplifies my statement. It does not, how 
 ever, in the least change the homely fact that oil and 
 water won t permanently mix. You can shake them to 
 gether, and for a time it may seem that they are one ; 
 but eventually they ll separate, and stay separate. As 
 I said before, though, I do not expect you to realize 
 this, or to apply it. I can t make what I know by in 
 tuition sufficiently convincing. I wish I could. I feel 
 that somehow this has been my opportunity and I have 
 failed." 
 
 For the instant Sidwell was roused out of himself He 
 looked at his companion with appreciation. "At least 
 you can have the consolation of knowing you have honestly 
 tried," he said earnestly. 
 
 [240] 
 
Club Confidences 
 
 Hough returned the look with equal steadiness. " But 
 nevertheless I have failed." 
 
 Sidwell put on his hat, its broad brim shading his eyes 
 and concealing their expression. 
 
 " Providence willing," he said finally, " I shall ask Miss 
 Baker to be my wife." 
 
 is [ 241 ] 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 LOVE IN CONFLICT 
 
 THE habits of a lifetime are not changed in a day. 
 Ben Blair was accustomed to rising early, and he 
 was astir next morning long before the city 
 proper was thoroughly awake. In the hotel where he was 
 stopping, the night clerk looked his surprise as he nodded 
 a stereotyped " Good-morning." The lobby was in con 
 fusion, undergoing its early morning scrubbing, and the 
 guest sought the street. The sun was just risen, but 
 the air was already sultry, casting oppression and languor 
 over every detail of the scene. The bare brick and stone 
 fronts of the buildings, the brown cobblestones of the 
 pavements, the dull gray of the sidewalks, all looked in 
 hospitable and forbidding. Few vehicles were yet in 
 motion distributors of necessities, of ice, of milk, of 
 vegetables and they partook of the general indolence. 
 The horses ears swayed listlessly, or were set back in 
 dogged endurance. The drivers lounged stolidly in their 
 seats. Even the few passengers on the monotonously 
 droning cars but added to the impression of tacit con 
 formity to the inevitable. Poorly dressed as a rule, tired 
 looking, they gazed at their feet or glanced out upon the 
 street with absent indifference. It was all depressing. 
 
 [ 242 ] 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 Ben, normal, vigorous, country bred, shook himself and 
 walked on. He was as susceptible as a child to surround 
 ing influences, and to those now about him he was dis 
 tinctly antagonistic. Life, as a whole, particularly work, 
 the thing that does most to fill life, he had found good. 
 That others should so obviously find it different grated 
 upon him. He wanted to get away from their presence ; 
 and making inquiry of the first policeman he met, he 
 sought the nearest park. 
 
 All his life he had heard of the beauty of the New York 
 parks. The few people he knew who had visited them 
 emphasized this beauty above all other features. Perhaps 
 in consequence he was expecting the impossible. At least, 
 he was disappointed. Here was nature, to be sure, but 
 nature imprisoned under the thumb of man. The visitor 
 had a healthy desire to roll on the grass, to turn himself 
 loose, to stretch every joint and muscle ; yet signs on each 
 side gave warning to " keep off." The trees, it must be 
 admitted, were beautiful and natural, they could not 
 live and be otherwise ; but somehow they had the air of 
 not being there of their own free-will. 
 
 Ben chose a bench and sat down. A listlessness was 
 upon him that the ozone of the prairies had never let him 
 feel. He felt cramped for room, as though, should he draw 
 as full a breath as he wished, it would exhaust the supply. 
 A big freshly-shaven policeman strolled by, eying him 
 suspiciously. It gave the young man the impression of 
 being a prisoner out on good behavior ; and in an indefi 
 nite way it almost insulted his self-respect. For the lack 
 
 of something better to do he watched the minion of the 
 
 [ 243 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 law as he pursued his beat. Not Ben Blair alone, but 
 every person the officer passed, went through this chal 
 lenging inspection. The countryman had been too much 
 preoccupied to notice that he had companions ; but now 
 that his interest was aroused, he began inspecting the oc 
 cupants of the other benches. The person nearest him 
 was a little old man in a crumpled linen suit. Most of 
 the time his nose was close to his morning paper ; but 
 now and then he raised his face and looked away with an 
 absent expression in his faded near-sighted eyes. Was he 
 enjoying his present life ? Ben would have taken his oath 
 to the contrary. Again there flashed over him the im 
 pression of a prison with this fellow-being in confinement. 
 There was indescribable pathos in that dull retrospective 
 gaze, and Ben looked away. In the land from which he 
 came there could not be found such an example of hope 
 less and useless age. There the aged had occupation, 
 the care of their children s children, a garden, an in 
 terest in crops and growing things, a fame as prophets 
 of weather, but such apathy as this, never. 
 
 A bit farther away was another type, also a man, badly 
 dressed and unshaven. His battered felt hat was drawn 
 low over the upper half of his face, and he was stretched 
 flat upon the narrow bench. He was far too long for his 
 bed, and to accommodate his superfluous length his knees 
 were bent up like a jack-knife. Carrying with them the 
 baggy trousers, he wore no underclothes, they left 
 a hairy expanse between their ends and the yellow, rusty 
 shoes. His chest rose and fell in the motion of sleep. 
 
 Ben Blair had seen many a human derelict on the 
 [ 244 ] 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 frontier; the country was full of them, adventurers, 
 searchers after lost health popularly denominated "one- 
 lungers" soldiers of fortune; but he had never known 
 such a class as this man represented, useless cumberers 
 of the earth, wanderers by day, sleepers on the benches of 
 public parks by night. Had he been a student of sociol 
 ogy he might have found a certain morbid interest in the 
 spectacle ; but it was merely depressing to him ; it de 
 stroyed what pleasure he might otherwise have taken in 
 the place. This man was but a step beneath those dull 
 toilers he had seen on the cars. They had not yet given 
 up the struggle against the inevitable, or were too stolid 
 to rebel; while he 
 
 Ben sprang to his feet and began retracing his steps. 
 People bred in the city might be callous to the miseries of 
 their fellows ; those provided with plenty might be con 
 tent to live their lives side by side with such hopeless 
 poverty, might even apply to their own profit the necessi 
 ties of others ; but his was the hospitality and considera 
 tion of the frontier, the democracy that shares its last 
 loaf with its fellow no matter who he may be, and shares 
 it without question. The heartless selfishness of the con 
 ditions he was observing almost made his blood boil. He 
 felt that he was amid an alien people: their standards 
 were not as his standards, their lives were not of his life, 
 and he wanted to hurry through with his affairs and get 
 away. He returned to the hotel. 
 
 Breakfast was ready by this time, and after some ex 
 ploration he succeeded in finding the dining-room. The 
 head-waiter showed him to a seat and held his chair obse- 
 
 [245] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 quiously. Another, a negro of uncertain age, fairly ex 
 uding dignity and impassive as a sphinx, poured water 
 over the ice in his glass with a practised hand, produced 
 the menu, and waited for his order. Without intending 
 it, the countryman had selected a rather fashionable place, 
 and the bill of fare was unintelligible as Sanskrit to him. 
 He looked at it helplessly. A man across the table, ob 
 serving his predicament, smiled involuntarily. Ben caught 
 the expression, looked at its bearer meaningly, looked until 
 it vanished, and until a faint red, obviously a stranger to 
 that face, took its place. By a sudden inspiration Blair s 
 hand went to his pocket and returned with a silver coin. 
 
 "Bring me what a healthy man usually eats at this 
 time of day, and plenty of it," he said. He glanced ab 
 sently, blandly past his companion. 
 
 The gentleman of color looked at the speaker as though 
 he were a strange animal in a " zoo." 
 
 " Yes, sah," he said. 
 
 While he was waiting, Ben looked around him with in 
 terest. The room was big, high, massive of pillars and of 
 beams. Every detail had been carefully arranged. The 
 heavy oak tables, the spotless linen, the sparkling silver 
 and glassware appealed to the sense of luxury. The 
 coolness of the place, due to unseen ventilating fans which 
 he heard faintly droning somewhere in the ceiling, and in 
 creased by the tile floor and the skilfully adjusted shades, 
 was delightful. The few other people present were as 
 immaculate as bath, laundry, tailor, and modiste could 
 make them. From one group at which Ben looked came 
 the suppressed sound of a woman s laugh ; from another, 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 a man s voice, well modulated, illustrated a point with a 
 story. At a small table in an alcove sat four young men, 
 and notwithstanding the fact that for them it was yet very 
 early in the day, the pop of a champagne cork was heard, 
 and soon repeated. Blair, fresh from a glimpse of the 
 outer and under world, observed it all, and drew compar 
 isons. Again he saw the huddled figure of the tramp on 
 the bench ; and again he heard the careless music of the 
 woman s laugh. He saw the dull animal stare of workers 
 on their way to uncongenial toil ; the hands still unsteady 
 from yesterday s excesses lifting to dry lips the wine that 
 would make them still more unsteady on the morrow. 
 Could these contrasts be forever continued ? he wondered. 
 Would they be permitted to exist indefinitely side by 
 side ? Again, problem more difficult, could it be possible 
 that the condition in which they existed was life? He 
 could not believe it. His nature rebelled at the thought. 
 No ; life was not an artificial formula like this. It was 
 broad and free and natural, as the prairies, his prairies, 
 were natural and free. This other condition was a delir 
 ium, a momentary oblivion, of which the four young men 
 in the alcove were a symbol. Transient pleasure, the life 
 might mean ; but the reverse, the inevitable reaction as 
 from all intoxication, that 
 
 Finishing his breakfast, Ben lit a cigar and sauntered 
 out to the street. He had intended spending the morning 
 seeing the town ; but for the present he felt he had had 
 enough all he could mentally digest. Without at first 
 any definite destination, in mere excess of healthy animal 
 activity, he began to walk ; but his principal object in 
 
 [ 247 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 coming to the city, the object he made no effort to con 
 ceal, acted upon him like a lodestone, and almost ere he 
 was aware he was well out in the residence portion of the 
 city and headed directly for the Baker home. He was 
 unaware that morning was not the fashionable time to 
 call upon a lady. To him the fact of inclination and of 
 presence in the vicinity was sufficient justification ; and 
 mounting the well-remembered steps he rang the doorbell 
 stoutly. A prim maid in cap and diminutive apron, a re 
 cent addition to the household, answered his ring. 
 
 " I d like to see Miss Baker, if you please, 1 said Ben. 
 
 The girl inspected the visitor critically. Beneath her 
 surface decorum he had a suspicion that she was inclined 
 to smile. 
 
 " I hardly think Miss Baker is up yet," she announced 
 at last. " Will you leave your card ? " 
 
 Ben looked at the sun, now well elevated in the sky, 
 with an eye trained in the estimate of time. He drew 
 mental conclusions silently. 
 
 " No," he said. " I will call later." 
 
 He did call later, two hours later, to receive from 
 Scotty himself the intelligence that Florence was out but 
 would soon return. Evidently the Englishman had been 
 instructed ; for, though he added an invitation to wait, it 
 was only half-hearted, and being declined the matter was 
 not pressed. 
 
 Ben returned to the hotel, ate his lunch, and considered 
 the situation. A lesser man would have given up the 
 fight and hidden his bruise ; but Benjamin Blair was in 
 no sense of the word a little man. He had come to town 
 
 [24,8] 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 with definite intent of seeing a certain girl alone, and see 
 her alone he would. At four o clock in the afternoon he 
 again pressed the button on the Baker door-post, and again 
 waited. 
 
 Again it was the maid who answered, and at the ex 
 pected query she smiled outright. It seemed to her a 
 capital joke that she was assisting in playing upon this 
 man of unusual attire. 
 
 "Miss Baker is engaged, 1 she announced, with the 
 glibness of previous preparation. 
 
 To her surprise the visitor did not depart. Instead, 
 he gave her a look which sent her mirth glimmering. 
 
 " Very well," he said. The door leading into the ves 
 tibule and from thence into the library was open, and 
 without form of invitation he entered. " Tell her, please, 
 that I will wait until she is not engaged." 
 
 The girl hesitated. This particular exigency had not 
 been anticipated. 
 
 " Shall I give her a name ? " she suggested, with an 
 attempt at formality. 
 
 Ben Blair did not turn. " Tell her what I said." 
 
 He chose a chair facing the entrance and sat down. 
 Departing on her mission, he heard the maid open another 
 door on the same floor. There was for a moment a mur 
 mur of feminine voices, one of which he recognized ; then 
 silence again, as the door closed. 
 
 A half-hour passed, lengthened into an hour, all but 
 repeated itself, and still apparently Florence was en 
 gaged ; and still the visitor sat on. No power short of 
 fire or an earthquake could have moved him now. Every 
 
 [ 249 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 fragment of the indomitable perseverance of his nature 
 was aroused, and instead of discouraging him each minute 
 as it passed only made his determination the stronger. 
 He shifted his chair so that it faced the window and 
 the street, crossed his legs comfortably, half closed his 
 eyes, resting yet watchful, and meditatively observed the 
 growing procession of homeward bound wage-earners in car 
 and on foot. 
 
 Suddenly there was the rustle of a woman s skirts, and 
 he was conscious that he was no longer alone. He turned 
 as he saw who it was, sprang to his feet, and despite the 
 intentional slight of the long wait, a smile flashed to his 
 face. He started to advance, but stopped. 
 
 " You wished to see me, I understand," a voice said 
 coldly, as the speaker halted just within the doorway. 
 
 Ben Blair straightened. The hot blood mounted to his 
 brain, throbbing at his throat and temples. It was not 
 easy for him to receive insult ; but outwardly he gave no 
 sign. 
 
 " I think I have demonstrated the fact you mention," 
 he replied calmly. 
 
 Florence Baker clasped her hands together. " Yes, 
 your persistency is admirable," she said. 
 
 Ben Blair caught the word. "Persistency," he re 
 marked, " seems the only recourse when past friendship 
 and common courtesy are ignored." 
 
 Florence made no reply, and going forward Ben placed 
 a chair deferentially. " It seems necessary for me to re 
 verse the position of host and guest," he said. " Won t 
 you be seated?" 
 
 [ 250 ] 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 The girl did not stir. 
 
 " I hardly think it necessary," she answered. 
 
 " Florence, 1 Ben Blair s great chin lifted meaningly, " I 
 will not be offended whatever you may do. I have some 
 thing I wish to say to you. Please sit down." 
 
 The girl hesitated, and almost against her will looked 
 the man fairly in the eyes, while her own blazed. Once 
 more she felt his dominance controlling her, felt as she did 
 when, in what seemed the very long ago, he had spread 
 his blanket for her upon the prairie earth. 
 
 She sat down. 
 
 Ben drew up another chair and sat facing her. "Why," 
 he was leaning a bit forward, his elbow on his knee, "why, 
 Florence Baker, have you done everything in your power to 
 prevent my seeing you ? What have I done of late, what 
 have I ever done, to deserve this treatment from you ? " 
 
 The girl evaded his eyes. " It is not usually considered 
 necessary for a lady to give her reasons for not wishing to 
 see a gentleman," she parried. The handkerchief in her 
 lap was being rolled unconsciously into a tight little ball. 
 " The fact itself is sufficient." 
 
 Ben s free hand closed on the chair-arm with a mighty 
 grip. " I beg your pardon," he said, " but I cannot agree 
 with you. There s a certain amount of courtesy due be 
 tween a woman and a man, as there is between man and 
 man. It is my right to repeat the question." 
 
 The girl felt the cord drawing tighter, felt that in the 
 end she would bend to his will. 
 
 " And should I refuse ? " she asked. 
 
 " You won t refuse. 1 
 
 [251] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The girl s eyes returned to his. Even now she won 
 dered that they did so, that try as she might she could 
 not deny him. His dominance over her was well-nigh 
 absolute. Yet she was not angry. An instinct that she 
 had felt before possessed her ; the longing of the weaker 
 for the stronger the impulse to give him what he 
 wished. Her whole womanhood went out to him, with 
 an entire confidence that she would never give to an 
 other human being. Naturally, he was her mate; natu 
 rally, but she was not natural. She hesitated as she 
 had done once before, a multitude of conflicting desires 
 and ambitions seething in her brain. If she could but 
 eliminate the artificial in her nature, the desire for the 
 empty things of the world, then But she could not 
 yet give them up, and he could never be made to care 
 for them with her. She was nearer now to giving them 
 up, to giving up everything for his sake, than when she 
 had sat alone with him out on the prairie. She realized 
 this with an added complexity of emotion; but even yet, 
 even yet 
 
 A minute passed in silence, a minute of which the girl 
 was unconscious. It was Ben Blair s voice repeating his 
 first question that recalled her. This time she did not 
 hesitate. 
 
 " I think you know the reason as well as I do. If we 
 were mere friends or acquaintances I would be only too 
 glad to see you ; but we are not, and never can be merely 
 friends. We have got to be either more or less." The 
 voice, brave so far, dropped. A mist came over the brown 
 eyes. " And we can t be more," she added. 
 
 [ 252 ] 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 The man s grip on the chair-arm loosened. He bent 
 his face farther forward. "Miss Baker,"" he exclaimed. 
 " Florence ! " 
 
 Interrupting, almost imploring, the girl drew back. 
 " Don t ! Please don t ! " she pleaded ; then, as she saw 
 the futility of words, with the old girlish motion her face 
 dropped into her hands. "Oh, I knew it would mean this 
 if I saw you ! " she wailed. " You see for yourself we 
 cannot be mere friends ! " 
 
 The man did not stir, but his eyes changed color and 
 seemed to grow darker. "No," he said, "we cannot be 
 mere friends ; I care for you too much for that. And I 
 cannot be silent when I came away off here to see you. 
 I would never respect myself again if I were. You can 
 do what you please, say what you please, and I 11 not re 
 sent it because it is you. I will love you as long as I 
 live. I am not ashamed of this, because it is you I love, 
 Florence Baker." He paused, looking tenderly at the 
 girl s bowed head. 
 
 " Florence," he went on gently, " you don t know what 
 you are to me, or what your having left me means. I 
 often go over to your old ranch of a night and sit there 
 alone, thinking of you, dreaming of you. Sometimes it 
 is all so vivid that I almost feel that you are near, and 
 before I know it I speak your name. Then I realize 
 you are not there, and I feel so lonely that I wish I were 
 dead. I think of to-morrow, and the next day, and 
 the next the thousands of days that I ll have to live 
 through without you and I wonder how I am going to 
 do it." 
 
 [253] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The girl s face sank deeper into her hands. A muffled sob 
 escaped her. " Please don t say any more I " she pleaded. 
 " Please don t ! I can t stand it ! " 
 
 But the man only looked at her steadily. 
 
 " I must finish," he said. " I may never have a chance 
 to say this to you again, and something compels me to tell 
 you of myself, for you are my good angel. In many ways 
 it is of necessity a rough life I lead, but you are always 
 with me, and I am the better for it. I have n t drank a 
 drop since I came to know that I loved you, and we ranch 
 ers are not accustomed to that, Florence. But I never 
 will drink as long as I live ; for I 11 think of you, and I 
 could n t then if I would. Once you saved me from some 
 thing worse than drink. There was a man who shot Mr. 
 Rankin and before this, from almost the first thought I 
 can remember, I had sworn that if I ever met him I 
 would kill him. We did meet. I followed him dav 
 after day until at last I caught up with him, until he was 
 down and my hands were upon his throat. But I did n t 
 hurt him, Florence, after all; I thought of you just in 
 time." 
 
 He was silent, and suddenly the place seemed as still as 
 an empty church. The girl s sobs were almost hysterical. 
 The man s mood changed ; he reached over and touched 
 her gently on the shoulder. 
 
 "Forgive me for hurting you, Florence," he said. "I 
 I could n t help telling you." 
 
 Involuntarily the girlish figure straightened. 
 
 " Forgive you ! " A tear-stained face was looking into 
 his. " Forgive you ! I 11 never be able to forgive myself! 
 
 [ 254 ] 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 You are a million times too good for me, Ben Blair. For 
 give you ! I ought never to cease asking you to forgive 
 me!" 
 
 " Florence ! " pleaded the man. " Florence ! " 
 
 But the girl, in her turn, went on. " I have felt all the 
 while that certain things I saw here were unreal, that they 
 were net what they seemed. I have prevaricated to you 
 deliberately. I have n t really been here long, but it seems 
 to me now that it s been years. As you said I would, 
 I Ve looked beneath the surface and seen the sham. At 
 first I would n t believe what I saw ; but at last I could n t 
 help believing it, and, oh, it hurt ! I never expect to be 
 so hurt again. I couldn t be. One can only feel that 
 way once in one s life." The small form trembled with 
 the memory, and the listener made a motion as if to stop 
 her ; but she held him away. 
 
 " It is n t that I m any longer blind ; I am acting now 
 with my eyes wide open. It is something else that keeps 
 me from you now, something that crept in while I was 
 learning my lesson, something I can t tell you." Once 
 more the girl could not control herself, and sobbing, 
 trembling, she covered her face. " Ben, Ben," she wailed, 
 " why did you ever let me come here ? You could have 
 kept me if you would you can do anything. I would 
 have loved you I did love you all. the time ; only, only 
 " She could say no more. 
 
 For a second the man did not understand ; then like a 
 flash came realization, and he was upon his feet pacing up 
 and down the narrow room. To lose an object one cares 
 for most is one thing; to have it filched by another is 
 
 [ 255 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 something very different. He was elemental, this man 
 from the plains, and in some phases very illogical. The 
 ways of the higher civilization, where man loves many 
 times, where he dines and wines in good fellowship with 
 him who is the husband of a former love these were not 
 his ways. White anger was in his heart, not against the 
 woman, but against that other man. His fingers itched 
 to be at his throat, regardless of custom or law. Tempo 
 rarily, the rights and wishes of the woman, the prize of 
 contention, were forgotten. Two young bucks in the 
 forest do not consider the feelings of the doe that is the 
 reward of the victor in the contest when they meet ; and 
 Ben Blair was very like these wild things. Only by an ef 
 fort of the will could he keep from going immediately to 
 find that other man, intuition made it unnecessary to 
 ask his name. As it was, he wanted now to be away. 
 The tiny room seemed all at once stifling. He wanted to 
 be out of doors where the sun shone, out where he could 
 think. He seized his hat, then suddenly remembered, 
 paused to glance and that instant was his undoing, and 
 another man s Clarence Sidwell s salvation. 
 
 And Florence Baker, at whom he had glanced ? She 
 was not tearful or hysterical now. Instead, she was look 
 ing at him out of wide-open eyes. Well she knew this 
 man, and knew the volcano she had aroused. 
 
 " You won t hurt him, Ben ! " she said. " You won t 
 hurt him ! For my sake, say you won t ! " 
 
 The devil lurking in the qowboy s blue eyes vanished, 
 but the great jaw was still set. He reached out and 
 caught the girl by the shoulder. " Florence Baker," he 
 
 [ 256 ] 
 
Love in Conflict 
 
 said, " on your honor, is he worth it is he worth the 
 sacrifice you ask of me ? Answer ! " 
 
 But the girl did not answer, did not stir. " You won t 
 hurt him ! " she repeated. " Say you won t ! " 
 
 A moment longer Ben Blair held her ; then his hands 
 dropped and he turned toward the vestibule. 
 
 " I don t know," he said. " I don t know." 
 
 11 [ 257 ] 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 TWO FRIENDS HAVE IT OUT 
 
 CLARENCE SIDWELL was alone in his down 
 town bachelor quarters ; that is, alone save for 
 an individual the club-man s friends termed his 
 " Man Friday," an undersized and very black negro named 
 Alexander Hamilton Brown, but answering to the contrac 
 tion " Alec." Valet, man of all work, steward, Alec was 
 as much a fixture about the place as the floor or the ceil 
 ing ; and, like them, his presence, save as a convenience, 
 was ignored. 
 
 The rooms themselves were on the eleventh floor of a 
 down-town office-building, as near the roof as it had been 
 possible for him to secure suitable quarters. For eight 
 years Sidwell had made them his home when he was in 
 town. The circle of his friends had commented, his 
 mother and sisters (his father had been long dead) had 
 protested, when, a much younger man, he first severed 
 himself from the semi-colonial mansion which for three 
 generations had borne the name of Sidwell ; but as usual, 
 he had had his own way. 
 
 " I want to work when I feel so inclined, when the mood 
 is on me, whether it s two o clock of the afternoon or of 
 the morning," he had explained ; " and I can t do it with 
 out interruption here with you and your friends." 
 
 [258] 
 
Two Friends Have it Out 
 
 For the same reason he had chosen to live near the sky. 
 There, high above the noise and confusion, he could ob 
 serve and catch the influence of the activity which is in 
 itself a powerful stimulant, without experiencing its un 
 pleasantness. Essentially, the man was an aesthete. If he 
 went to a race or a foot-ball game he wished to view it at 
 a distance. To be close by, to mingle in the dust of ac 
 tion, to smell the sweat of conflict, to listen to the low- 
 voiced imprecations of the defeated, detracted from his 
 pleasure. He could not prevent these features there 
 fore he avoided them. 
 
 This particular evening he was doing nothing, which 
 was very unusual for him. The necessity for society, or for 
 activity, physical or mental, had long ago become as much 
 a part of his nature as the desire for food. Dilettante 
 musician as well as artist, when alone at this time of the 
 evening he was generally at the upright piano in the cor 
 ner. Even Alec noticed the unusual lack of occupation on 
 this occasion, and exposed the key-board suggestively ; but, 
 observing the action, Sidwell only smiled. 
 
 " Think I ought to, Alec ? " he queried. 
 
 The negro rolled his eyes. Despite his long service, he 
 had never quite lost his awe of the man he attended. 
 
 " Sho, yo always do that, or something, sab," he said. 
 
 Sidwell smiled again ; but it was not a pleasant smile. 
 So this was the way of it ! Even his servant had observed 
 his habitual restlessness, and had doubtless commented 
 upon it to his companions in the way servants have of 
 passing judgment upon their employers. And if Alec had 
 noticed this, then how much more probable it was that 
 
 [259] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 others of SidwelPs numerous acquaintances had noticed 
 it also ! He winced at the thought. That this was his 
 skeleton, and that he had endeavored to keep it hidden, 
 Sid well did not attempt to deny to himself. One of the 
 reasons he had not given to his family for establishing 
 these down-town quarters was this very one. Time and 
 again, when he had felt the mood of protest strong upon 
 him, he had come here and locked the doors to fight it out 
 alone. But after all, it had been useless. The fact had 
 been obvious, despite the trick ; mayhap even more so on 
 account of it. Like the Wandering Jew he was doomed, 
 followed by a relentless curse. 
 
 He shook himself, and walking over to the sideboard 
 poured out a glass of Cognac and drank it as though it 
 were wine. Sidwell did not often drink spirits. Experi 
 ence had taught him that to begin usually meant to end 
 with regret the following day ; but to-night, with his 
 present mood upon him, the action was as instinctive as 
 breathing. He moved back to his chair by the window. 
 
 The evening was hot, on the street depressingly so, but 
 up here after the sun was set there was always a breeze, 
 and it was cool and comfortable. The man looked out 
 over the sooty, gravelled roofs of the surrounding lower 
 buildings, and down on the street, congested with its 
 flowing stream of cars, equipages, and pedestrians. Times 
 without number he had viewed the currents arid counter- 
 currents of that scene, but never before had he so caught 
 its vital spirit and meaning. Born of the elect, reared 
 and educated among them, the supercilious superiority 
 of his class was as much a part of him as his name. While 
 
 [260] 
 
Two Friends Have it Out 
 
 he realized that physically the high and the low were con 
 structed on practically the same plan, he had been wont 
 to consider them as on totally separate mental planes. 
 That the clerk and the roustabout on ten dollars a week, 
 breathing the same atmosphere, seeing daily, hourly, min 
 ute by minute, from separate viewpoints, the same life, 
 that they should have in common the constant need of 
 diversion had never before occurred to him. Multitudes 
 of times, as a sociologist, or as a literary man in search 
 of realism, he had visited the haunts of the under-man. 
 Languidly, critically, as he would have observed at the 
 " zoo " an animal with whose habits he was unacquainted, 
 he had watched this rather curious under-man in his fool 
 ish, or worse than foolish, endeavor to find amusement or 
 oblivion. He had often been interested, as by a clown at a 
 circus ; but more frequently the sight had merely inspired 
 disgust, and he had returned to his own diversions, his 
 own efforts to secure the same end, with an all but un 
 conscious thankfulness that he was not such as that other. 
 To-night, for the first time, and with a wonder we all 
 feel when the obvious but long unseen suddenly becomes 
 apparent, the primary fact of human brotherhood, irre 
 spective of caste, came home to him. To-night and now 
 he realized, diminutive in the distance as they were, that 
 the swarm of figures that he had hitherto considered mere 
 animals vain of display were impelled upon the street, 
 compelled to keep moving, moving, without a pre-arranged 
 destination, by the same spirit of unrest that had sent him 
 to the buffet. At that moment he was probably nearer to 
 his fellow-man than ever before in his life ; but the truth 
 
 [261] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 revealed made him the more unhappy. He had grown to 
 consider his own unhappiness totally different and infi 
 nitely more acute than that of others ; he had even taken 
 a sort of morbid, paradoxical pleasure in considering it 
 so ; and now even this was taken from him. Not only 
 had his own secret skeleton been visible when he believed 
 it concealed, but all around him there suddenly sprang up 
 a very cemetery of other skeletons, grinning at his blind 
 ness and discomfiture. His was not a nature to extract 
 content from common discomfort, and but one palliative 
 suggested itself, the dull red decanter on the sideboard. 
 Rising again and filling a glass, he returned and stood for 
 a moment full before the open casement of the window 
 gazing down steadily. 
 
 How long he stood there he hardly knew. Once Alec s 
 dark face peered into the room, and disappeared as sud 
 denly. At last there was a knock at the door. 
 
 " Come in," invited Sid well, without moving. The door 
 opened and closed, and Winston Hough stood inside. 
 The big man gave one glance at the surroundings, saw the 
 empty glass, and backed away. "Pardon my intrusion," 
 he said with his hand on the knob. 
 
 Sidwell turned. " Intrusion nothing ! " He placed 
 the decanter with glasses and a box of cigars on a conven 
 ient table. " Come and have a drink with me," and the 
 liquor flowed until both glasses were nearly full. 
 
 Hough hesitated in a reluctance that was not feigned. 
 He felt that discretion was the better part of valor, and 
 that it would be well to escape while he could, even at the 
 price of discourtesy. 
 
 [ 262 ] 
 
Two Friends Have it Out 
 
 Really," he said, " I only dropped in to say hello. 
 j 
 
 "Nonsense!" interrupted Sidwell. "You must think 
 I m as innocent as a new-born lamb. Come over here 
 and sit down. 11 
 
 Hough hesitated, but yielded. 
 
 Sidwell lifted his glass. "Here s to whatever the 
 trouble may be that brought you here. People don t visit 
 me for pleasure, or unless they have nowhere else to go. 
 Drink deep!" 
 
 They drank ; and then Sidwell looking at Hough said, 
 " Well, what is it this time ? Going to reform again, or 
 something of that kind, are you ? " 
 
 Hough did not attempt evasion. He knew it would be 
 useless. " No," he said ; " to tell you the truth, I m lone 
 some beastly lonesome." 
 
 Sidwell smiled. " Ah, I thought so. But why, pray ? 
 Are n t you a married man with an ark of refuge always 
 waiting ? " 
 
 Hough made a grimace. " Yes, that s just the trouble. 
 I m too much married, too thoroughly domesticated." 
 
 The other looked blank. " I fail to understand. Cer 
 tainly you and Elise have n t at last " 
 
 "No, no; not that." Hough repelled the suggestion 
 with a gesture as though it were a tangible object. " Elise 
 left to-day to spend a month with her uncle up in north 
 ern Wisconsin, and I can t get out of town for a week. 
 I feel as I fancy a small bird feels when it has fallen out 
 of the nest while its mother is away. The bottom seems 
 to have dropped out of town and left me stranded." 
 
 [ 263 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The host observed his guest humorously a bit ma 
 liciously. " It is good for you, you complacent benedict," 
 he remarked unsympathetically. " You can understand 
 now the normal state of mind of bachelors. Perhaps after 
 a few more days you 11 have been tortured enough to re 
 tract the argument you made to me about matrimony. 
 I repeat, it ""s poetic justice, and good for a man now and 
 then to have a dose of his own medicine." 
 
 Hough smiled as at an oft-heard joke. " All right, old 
 man, have it as you please ; only let s steer clear of a use 
 less discussion of the subject to-night." 
 
 "With all my heart," said Sidwell. The decanter was 
 once more in his hand. " Let s drink to the very good 
 health of Elise on her journey." 
 
 Hough hesitated. He had a feeling that there was an 
 obscure desecration in the toast, but it was not tangible 
 enough to resent. " To her very good health," he repeated 
 in turn. 
 
 For a moment he looked steadily into the face of his 
 companion, now a trifle flushed. Again an inward moni 
 tor warned him it were better to go ; but the first flood of 
 the liquor had reached his brain, and the temptation to 
 remain was strong. 
 
 " By the way, how are you coming on with your own 
 affair of the heart ? Have you propounded the moment 
 ous question to the lady ? " 
 
 Sidwell pulled forward the box of cigars and helped 
 himself to one. " No," he returned with deliberation. " I 
 have n t had a good opportunity. A gentleman from the 
 West, where they wear their hair long and their coat-tails 
 
 [ 264, ] 
 
Two Friends Have it Out 
 
 short, has suddenly appeared like an obscuring cloud on 
 the Baker sky. I have a suspicion that he has aspirations 
 for the hand of the lady in question. Anyhow, he s 
 haunted the house like a ghost to-day. Mother Baker has 
 for some reason taken a fancy to your humble servant, and 
 over the phone she has kept me informed of the stranger s 
 tribulations. He seems to be meeting with sufficient diffi 
 culties without my interposition, so out of the goodness of 
 my heart I Ve given him an open field. I hope you ap 
 preciate my consideration. I fear he s not of a stripe to 
 do so himself." 
 
 Hough lit his cigar. " Yes, it certainly was kind of 
 you," he said. "Very kind." 
 
 With a sweep of his hand Sidwell brought the two 
 glasses together with a click. " I think so. Kind enough 
 to deserve commemoration by a taste of the elixir of life, 
 don t you agree ? " and the liquor flowed beneath a hand 
 steady in the first stages of intoxication. 
 
 Hough pushed back his chair. "No," he protested. 
 "I ve had enough." 
 
 " Enough ! " The other laughed unmusically. " Enough ! 
 You have n t begun yet. Drink, and forget your loneli 
 ness, you benedict disconsolate ! " 
 
 But again the big man shook his head. " No," he re 
 peated. " I ve had enough, and so have you. We 11 be 
 drunk, both of us, if we keep up this clip much longer." 
 
 The smile left the host s face. " Drunk ! " he echoed. 
 " Since when, pray, has that exalted state of the conscious 
 ness begun to inspire terror in you ? Drunk ! Winston 
 Hough, you re the last man I ever thought would fail to 
 
 [ 265 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 prove game on an occasion like this ! We re no nearer 
 being babes than we were the last time we got together, 
 unless the termination of life approximates the beginning. 
 Drink!" 
 
 But still, this time in silence, Hough shook his head. 
 From a partially open door leading into the adjoining 
 room the negro s eyes peered out. 
 
 Sidwell shifted in his seat with exaggerated deliberation 
 and leaned forward. His dark mobile face worked passion 
 ately, compellingly. " Winston Hough," he challenged, " do 
 you wish to remain my friend ? " 
 
 " I certainly do." 
 
 " Then you know what to do." 
 
 Deep silence fell upon the room. Not only the eyes but 
 the whole of Alec s face appeared through the doorway. 
 Hough could no more have resisted longer than he could 
 have leaped from the open window. They drank together. 
 
 "Now," said Sidwell, "just to show that you mean it, 
 we ll have another." 
 
 And soon the enemy that puerile man puts into his 
 mouth to steal his brains was enthroned. 
 
 Sidwell sank into his chair, and lighting his cigar sent 
 a great cloud of smoke curling up over his head. Hand 
 and tongue were steady, unnaturally so, but the mood of 
 irresponsible confidence was upon him. 
 
 " Since you ve decided to remain my friend," he said, 
 " I m going to tell you something confidential, very confi 
 dential. You won t give it away ? " 
 
 " Never ! " Hough shook his head. 
 
 " On your honor ? " 
 
 [ 266 ] 
 
Two Friends Have it Out 
 
 The big man crossed his hands over his heart in the 
 manner of small boys. 
 
 Sidwell was satisfied. "All right, then. This is the 
 last time you and I will ever get this way together." 
 
 Hough looked as solemn as though at a funeral. " Why 
 so ? " he protested. " Are you angry with me yet ? " 
 
 " No, it s not that. I ve forgiven you. 1 
 
 "What is it, then? 1 Hough felt that he must know 
 the reason of his lost position, and if in his power re 
 move it. 
 
 " I m going to quit drinking after to-night, for one 
 thing," explained Sidwell. " It is n t adequate. But even 
 if I did n t, I don t expect we 11 ever be together again 
 after a few days, after you go away." 
 
 The listener looked blank. Even with his muddled 
 brains he had an intimation that there was more in the 
 statement than there seemed. 
 
 " I don t see why," he said bewilderedly. 
 
 Again Sidwell leaned forward. Again his face grew 
 passionate and magnetic. 
 
 " The reason why is this. I have had enough, and 
 more than enough, of this life I Ve been living. Unless 
 I can find an interest, an extenuation, I would rather be 
 dead, a hundred times over. I ve become a nightmare to 
 myself, and I won t stand it. In a few days you 11 have 
 departed, and before you return I 11 probably have gone 
 too. Nothing but an intervention of Providence can 
 prevent my marrying Florence Baker now. Life isn t a 
 story-book or we who live it undiscerning clods. She knows 
 I am going to ask her to marry me, and I know what her 
 
 [ 267 1 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 answer will be. We 11 be away on our wedding-trip long 
 before you and Elise return in the FalL" The speaker s 
 voice was sober. Only the heightened color of his face 
 betrayed him. 
 
 " I say I m through with this sort of thing," he re 
 peated, " and I mean it. I ve tried everything on the 
 face of the earth to find an interest but one and 
 Florence Baker represents that one. I hope against hope 
 that 1 11 find what I m searching for there, but I am 
 skeptical. I have been disappointed too many times to 
 expect happiness now. This is my last trump, old man, 
 and I m playing it deliberately and carefully. If it fails, 
 Florence will probably return ; but before God, I never 
 will ! I have thought it all out. I will leave her more 
 money than she can ever spend enough if she wishes to 
 buy the elect of the elect. She is young, and she will 
 soon forget if it s necessary. With me, my actions 
 have largely ceased to be a matter of ethics. I am desper 
 ate, Hough, and a desperate man takes what presents 
 itself." 
 
 But Hough was in no condition to appreciate the 
 meaning of the selfish revelation of his friend s true 
 character. Since he married his lapses had been infre 
 quent, and already his surroundings were becoming a bit 
 vague. His one ambition was to appear what he was not 
 sober ; and he straightened himself stiffly. 
 
 u I see," he said, " sorry to lose you, old pal, very 
 sorry ; but what must be must be, I s pose," and he 
 drew himself together with a jerk. 
 
 Sidwell glanced at the speaker sarcastically, almost with 
 [ 268 ] 
 
Two Friends Have it Out 
 
 a shade of contempt. " I know you re sorry, deucedly 
 sorry," he mocked. " So sorry that you d probably like 
 to drown your excess of emotion in the flowing bowl." 
 Again the ironic glance swept the other s face. " An 
 other smile would be good for you, anyway. You re 
 entirely too serious. Here you are ! " and the decanter 
 once more did service. 
 
 Hough picked up his glass and nodded with gravity. 
 66 Yes, I always was a sad devil." By successive move 
 ments the liquor approached his lips. " Lots of troubles 
 and tribulations all my " 
 
 The sentence was not completed ; the Cognac remained 
 untasted. At that moment there was a knock upon the 
 door. 
 
 [269] 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE BACK-FIRE 
 
 WHEN Ben Blair left the Baker home he went 
 back to his room at the hotel, closed and 
 locked the door, and, throwing off coat and 
 hat, stretched himself full-length upon the floor, gazing 
 up at the ceiling but seeing nothing. It had been a hard 
 fight for self-control there on the prairie the day Florence 
 rejected him, but it was as nothing to the tumult that 
 now raged in his brain. Then, despite his pain, hope had 
 remained. Now hope was lost, and in its place stood a 
 maddening might-have-been. Under the compulsion of 
 his will, the white flood of anger had passed, but it only 
 made more difficult the solution of the problem confront 
 ing him. Under the influence of passion the situation 
 would have been a mere physical proposition ; but with op 
 portunity to think, another s wishes and another s rights 
 those of the woman he loved challenged him at every 
 turn. 
 
 At first it seemed that a removal of his physical pres 
 ence, a going away never to return, was adequate solution 
 of the difficulty; but he soon realized that it was not. 
 Deeper than his own love was his desire for the happiness 
 of the girl he had known from childhood. Had he been 
 
 [270] 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 certain that she would be happy with the man who had 
 fascinated her, he could have conquered self, could have 
 returned to his prairies, his cattle, his work, and have con 
 cealed his hurt. But it was impossible for him to believe 
 she would be happy. Without volition on his part he 
 had become an actor in this drama, this comedy, this 
 tragedy, whatever it might prove to be ; and he felt 
 that it would be an act of cowardice upon his part to 
 leave before the play was ended. He was not in the least 
 religious in the sense of creed and dogma. In all his life 
 he had scarcely given a thought to religion. His knowl 
 edge of the Almighty by name had been largely confined 
 to that of a word to conjure with in mastering an ob 
 streperous bronco ; but, in the broad sense of personal 
 cleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core. 
 He would not shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility 
 faced him now. 
 
 Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain sug 
 gested one course after another, all, upon consideration, 
 proving inadequate. Gradually out of the chaos one 
 fundamental fact became distinct in his mind. He must 
 know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could 
 leave the city, and this decision brought him to his feet. 
 Under the circumstances, a strategist might have em 
 ployed others to gather surreptitiously the information 
 desired ; but such was not the nature of Benjamin Blair. 
 One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows, which 
 was that the most effective way to secure the thing one 
 wished was to go direct to the man who had it to give. 
 In this case Sidwell was the man. With a grim smile 
 
 [271] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Ben remembered the invitation and the address he had 
 received the first night he was in town c He would avail 
 himself of both. 
 
 Night had fallen long ere this ; when Ben arose the 
 room was in darkness, save for the reflected light which 
 came through the heavily curtained windows from the 
 street lamps. He turned on an electric bulb and made a 
 hasty toilet. In doing so his eye fell upon the two big 
 revolvers within the drawer of the dresser ; and the same 
 impulse that had caused him to bring them into this land 
 of civilization made him thrust them into his hip pockets. 
 It was more habit than anything else, just as a man with 
 a dog friend feels vaguely uncomfortable unless his pet is 
 with him. Blair had the vigorously recurring appetite of 
 a healthy animal, and it suddenly occurred to him that he 
 had not yet dined. Descending to the street, he sought a 
 cafe and ate a hearty meal. 
 
 A half-hour later, the elevator boy of the Metropolitan 
 Block, where Sidwell had his quarters, was surprised, on 
 answering the indicator, to find a young man in an abnor 
 mally broad hat and flannel shirt awaiting him. The 
 youth was of vivid imagination, and knowing that a Wild 
 West troupe was performing in town, one glance at Ben s 
 hat, his suspicions became certainty. 
 
 "Eleventh floor," he announced, when the passenger 
 had told his destination ; then as the car moved upward 
 he gathered courage and looked the rancher fair in the eye. 
 
 " Say, Mister," he ventured, " give me a pass to the show, 
 will you ? " 
 
 For an instant Ben looked blank ; then he understood, 
 [272] 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 and his hand sought his trousers pocket. " Sorry," 
 he explained, " but I don t happen to have any with 
 me. Will this do instead?" and he produced a half- 
 dollar. 
 
 The boy brought the car deftly to a stop within a half- 
 inch of the level of the desired floor. " Thank you. Mr. 
 Sidwell straight ahead, and turn to the left down the 
 short hall," he said obligingly. 
 
 Blair stepped out, saying, " Don t fail to be around to 
 morrow when I do my stunt." 
 
 With open-mouthed admiration the boy watched the 
 frontiersman s long free stride a movement that struck 
 the floor with the springiness of a cat, very different from 
 the flat-footed jar of pedestrians on paved streets. 
 
 " I won t ! " he called after him. " I d rather see t than 
 a dozen ball-games ! I 11 look for you, Mister ! " 
 
 At the interrupting tap upon the door, Sidwell voiced a 
 languid "Come in," and merely shifted in his seat; but 
 his big companion, with the hospitality of inebriation, had 
 returned his glass unsteadily to the table and arisen. He 
 had taken a couple of uncertain steps, as if to open the 
 door, when, in answer to the summons, Ben Blair stepped 
 inside. Hough halted with a suddenness which all but 
 cost him his equilibrium. The expansive smile upon his 
 face vanished, and he stared as though the bottomless pit 
 had opened at his feet. For a fraction of a minute not 
 one of the three men spoke or stirred, but in that time the 
 steady blue eyes of the countryman took in the details of 
 the scene the luxurious furnishings, the condition of 
 the two men with the rapidity and minuteness of a 
 18 [ 273 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 sensitized plate. Ironic chance had chosen an unpropitious 
 night for his call. Intoxication surrounding a bar, under the 
 stimulus of numbers, and preceding or following some ex 
 citing event, he could understand, could, perhaps, condone ; 
 but this solitary dissipation, drunkenness for its own sake, 
 was something new to him. The observing eyes fastened 
 themselves upon the host s face. 
 
 " In response to your invitation," he said evenly, " I ve 
 called." 
 
 Sidwell roused himself. His face flushed. Despite the 
 liquor in his brain, he felt the inauspicious chance of the 
 meeting. 
 
 "Glad you did," he said, with an attempt at ease. 
 " Deucedly glad. I don t know of anyone in the world 
 I d rather see. Just speaking of you, were n t we ? " he 
 said, appealing to Hough. " By the way, Mr. er 
 Blair, shake hands with Mr. Hough, Mr. Winston Hough. 
 Mighty good fellow, Hough, but a bit melancholy. 
 Needs cheering up a bit now and then. Needed it badly 
 to-night almost cried for it, in fact " ; and the speaker 
 smiled convivially. 
 
 Hough extended his hand with elaborate formality. 
 "Delighted to meet you," he managed to articulate. 
 
 "Thank you," returned^the other shortly. 
 
 Sidwell meanwhile was bringing a third chair and glass. 
 "Come over, gentlemen," he invited, "and we ll celebrate 
 this, the proudest moment of my life. You drink, of course, 
 Mr. Blair?" 
 
 Ben did not stir. " Thank you, but I never drink," he 
 said. 
 
 [ 274 J 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 " What ! " Sidwell smiled sceptically. " A cattle-man, 
 and not refresh yourself with good liquor ? You refute all 
 the precedents ! Come over and take something ! " 
 
 Ben only looked at him steadily. "I repeat, I never 
 drink," he said conclusively. 
 
 Sidwell sat down, and Hough followed his lead. 
 
 " All right, all right ! Have a cigar, then. At least 
 you smoke ? " 
 
 " Yes," assented Blair, " I smoke sometimes." 
 
 The host extended the box hospitably. " Help your 
 self. They re good ones, 1 11 answer for that. I import 
 them myself." 
 
 Ben took a step forward, but his hands were still in his 
 pockets. " Mr. Sidwell," he said, " we may as well save 
 time and try to understand each other. In some ways I 
 am a bit like an Indian. I never smoke except with a 
 friend, and I am not sure you are a friend of mine. To 
 be candid with you, I believe you are not." 
 
 Hough stirred in his chair, but Sidwell remained im 
 passive save that the convivial smile vanished. 
 
 A quarter of a minute passed. Once the host took up 
 his glass as if to drink, but put it down untasted. At 
 last he indicated the vacant chair. 
 
 " Won t you be seated ? " he invited. 
 
 Ben sat down. 
 
 "You say," continued Sidwell, "that I am not your 
 friend. The statement and your actions carry the implica 
 tion that of necessity, then, we must be enemies." 
 
 The speaker was sparring for time. His brain was not 
 yet normal, but it was clearing rapidly. He saw this was 
 
 [ 275 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 no ordinary man he had to deal with, no ordinary circum 
 stance ; and his plan of campaign was unevolved. 
 
 " I fail to see why," he continued. 
 
 "Do you?" said Ben, quietly. 
 
 Sidwell lit a cigar nonchalantly and smoked for a 
 moment in silence. 
 
 "Yes," he reiterated. "I fail to see why. To have 
 made you an enemy implies that I have done you an 
 injury, and I recall no way in which I could have offended 
 you." 
 
 Ben indicated Hough with a nod of his head. "Do 
 you wish a third party to hear what we have to say ? " he 
 inquired. 
 
 Sidwell looked at the questioner narrowly. Deep in 
 his heart he was thankful that they two were not alone. 
 He did not like the look in the countryman s blue eyes. 
 
 " Mr. Hough," he said with dignity, " is a friend of mine. 
 If either of you must leave the room, most assuredly it 
 will not be he." His eyes returned to those of the visitor, 
 held there with an effort. " By the bye," he challenged, 
 " what is it we have to say, anyway ? So far as I can see, 
 there s no point where we touch." 
 
 Ben returned the gaze steadily. "Absolutely none?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Absolutely none." Sidwell spoke with an air of 
 finality. 
 
 The countryman leaned a bit forward and rested his 
 elbow upon his knee, his chin upon his hand. 
 
 " Suppose I suggest a point then : Miss Florence 
 Baker." 
 
 [ 276 ] 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 Sidwell stiffened with exaggerated dignity. "I never 
 discuss my relations with a lady, even with a friend. 
 I should be less apt to do so in speaking with a 
 stranger." 
 
 The lids of Ben s eyes tightened just a shade. "Then 
 I 11 have to ask you to make an exception to the rule," 
 he said slowly. 
 
 " In that case," Sidwell responded quickly, " 1 11 refuse." 
 
 For a moment silence fell. Through the open window 
 came the ceaseless drone of the shifting multitude on the 
 street below. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I insist," said Ben, calmly. 
 
 SidwelPs face flushed, although he was quite sober now. 
 " And I must still refuse," he said, rising. " Moreover, I 
 must request that you leave the room. You forget that 
 you are in my home!" 
 
 Ben arose calmly and walked to the door through which 
 he had entered. The key was in the lock, and turning it 
 he put it in his pocket. Still without haste he returned 
 to his seat. 
 
 " That this is your home, and that you were its dictator 
 before I came and will be after I leave, I do not contest," 
 he said ; " but temporarily the place has changed hands. 
 I do not think you were quite in earnest when you refused 
 to talk with me." 
 
 For answer, Sidwell jerked a cord beside the table. A 
 bell rang vigorously in the rear of the apartments, and 
 the big negro hurried into the room. 
 
 " Alec," directed the master, " call a policeman at once 5 
 At once do you hear ? " 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 ** Yes, sah," and the servant started to obey ; but the 
 visitor s eye caught his. 
 
 "Alec," said Ben, steadily, " don t do that ! I 11 be the 
 first person to leave this room ! r 
 
 Instantly Sidwell was on his feet, his face convulsed 
 with passion. "Curse you!" he cried. "You ll pay 
 for this ! I 11 teach you what it means to hold up a 
 man in his own house ! " He turned to his servant with a 
 look that made the latter recoil. " I want you to under 
 stand that when I give an order I mean it. Go ! " 
 
 Blair was likewise on his feet, his long body stretched 
 to its full height, his blue eyes fastened upon the face of 
 the panic-stricken darky. 
 
 "Alec," he repeated evenly, "you heard what I said." 
 Without a motion save of his head he indicated a seat 
 in the corner of the room. " Sit down ! " 
 
 Sidwell took a step forward, his clenched fists raised 
 menacingly. 
 
 "Blair! you you w 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You " 
 
 "Certainly, I " 
 
 That was all. It was not a lengthy conversation, or a 
 brilliant one, Jbut it was adequate. Face to face, the two 
 men stood looking in each other s eyes, each taking his 
 opponent s measure. Hough had also risen ; he expected 
 bloodshed ; but not once did Blair stir as much as an eye 
 lid, and after that first step Sidwell also halted. Beneath 
 his supercilious caste dominance he was a physical coward, 
 and at the supreme test he weakened. The flood of anger 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving him impotent. 
 He stood for a moment, and then the clenched fist dropped 
 to his side. 
 
 For the first time, Ben Blair moved. Unemotionally as 
 before, his nod indicated the chair in the corner. 
 
 " Sit over there as long as I stay, Alec," he directed ; 
 and the negro responded with the alacrity of a well- 
 trained dog. 
 
 Ben turned to the big man. "And you, too, Hough. 
 My business has nothing to do with you, but it may be 
 well to have a witness. Be seated, please/ 
 
 Hough obeyed in silence. Sober as Sidwell now, his 
 mind grasped the situation, and in spite of himself he felt 
 his sympathy going out to this masterful plainsman. 
 
 Ben Blair now turned to the host, and as he did so his 
 wiry figure underwent a transformation that lived long in 
 the spectators minds. With his old characteristic motion, 
 his hands went into his trousers pockets, his chest ex 
 panded, his great chin lifted until, looking down, his eyes 
 were half closed. 
 
 " You, Mr. Sidwell," he said, " can stand or sit, as you 
 please ; but one thing I warn you not to do don t lie 
 to me. We re in the home of lies just now, but it can t 
 help you. Your face says you are used to having your 
 own way, right or wrong. Now you ll know the reverse. 
 So long as you speak the truth, I won t hurt you, no 
 matter what you say. If you don t, and believe in God, 
 you d best make your peace with Him. Do you doubt 
 that?" 
 
 One glance only Sidwell raised to the towering face, 
 [ 279 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 and his eyes fell. Every trace of fight, of effrontery, had 
 left him, and he dropped weakly into his chair. 
 
 " No, I don t doubt you," he said. 
 
 Ben likewise sat down, but his eyes were inexorable. 
 
 " First of all, then," he went on, " you will admit you 
 were mistaken when you said there was no point where we 
 touched?" 
 
 " Yes, I was mistaken." 
 
 "And you were not serious when you refused to talk 
 with me?" 
 
 A spasm of repugnance shot over the host s dark face. 
 He heard the labored breathing of the negro in the 
 corner, and felt the eyes of his big friend upon him. 
 
 " Yes, I was not serious," he admitted slowly. 
 
 Ben s long legs crossed, his hands closed on the chair- 
 arms. 
 
 "Very well, then," he said. "Tell me what there is 
 between you and Miss Baker." 
 
 Sidwell lit a cigar, though the hand that held the 
 match trembled. 
 
 " Everything, I hope," he said. " I intend marrying 
 her." 
 
 The ranchman s face gave no sign at the confession. 
 
 " You have asked her, have you ? " 
 
 "No. Your coming prevented. I should otherwise 
 have done so to-day." 
 
 The long fingers on the chair-arms tightened until they 
 grew white. 
 
 " You knew why I came to town, did you not ? " 
 
 Sidwell hesitated. 
 
 [ 280 ] 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 ** I had an intuition," he admitted reluctantly. 
 
 Again silence fell, and the subdued roar of the city came 
 to their ears. 
 
 "You have not called at the Baker home to-day, 11 
 continued Blair. "Was it consideration for me that 
 kept you away ? " The thin, weather - browned face 
 grew, if possible, more clean-cut. " Remember to talk 
 straight. 11 
 
 Sidwell took the cigar from his lips. An exultation he 
 could not quite repress flooded him. His eyes met the 
 other s fair. 
 
 " No, 11 he said, " it was anything but consideration for 
 you. I knew she was going to refuse you. 11 
 
 In the corner the negro^ eyes widened. Even Hough 
 held his breath ; but not a muscle of Ben Blair s body 
 stirred. 
 
 " You say you knew, 11 he said evenly. " How did you 
 know ? " 
 
 Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily. He was 
 regaining, if not his courage, at least some of his presence 
 of mind. This seeming desperado from the West was a 
 being upon whom reason was not altogether wasted. 
 
 " I knew because her mother told me about all there 
 was to tell, I guess of your relations before Florence 
 came here. I knew if she refused you then she would be 
 more apt to do so now. 11 
 
 Still the figure in brown was that of a statue. 
 
 " She told you what you say ? w 
 
 Sidwell shifted uncomfortably. He saw breakers ahead. 
 
 " The main reason at least," he modified. 
 [281 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " Which was " insistently. 
 
 Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing 
 like the smoke from his cigar. But there was no escape. 
 
 " The reason, she said, was because you were minus 
 a pedigree." 
 
 The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the 
 room. Ben Blair swiftly rose from his seat. The negro s 
 eyes rolled around in search of some place of concealment. 
 With a protesting movement Hough was on his feet. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! " he implored. " Gentlemen ! " 
 
 But the intervention was unnecessary. Ben Blair had 
 settled back in his seat. Once more his hands were on 
 the chair-arms. 
 
 " Do you,"" he insinuated gently, " consider the reason 
 she gave an adequate one ? Do you consider that it 
 had any rightful place in the discussion ? " 
 
 The question, seemingly simple, was hard to answer. 
 An affirmative trembled on the city man s tongue. He 
 realized it was his opportunity for a crushing rejoinder. 
 But cold blue eyes were upon him and the meaning of 
 their light was only too clear. 
 
 " I can understand the lady s point of view," he said 
 evasively. 
 
 Ben Blair leaned forward, the great muscles of his jaw 
 and temples tightening beneath the skin. 
 
 " I did not ask for the lady s point of view," he admon 
 ished, " I asked for your own." 
 
 Again Sidwell felt his opportunity, but physical coward 
 ice intervened. No power on earth could have made him 
 say " yes " when the other looked at him like that. 
 
 [ 282 ] 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 66 No," he lied, " I do not see that it should make the 
 slightest difference." 
 
 " On your honor, you swear you do not ? " 
 
 Sidwell repeated the statement, and sealed it with his 
 honor. 
 
 Ben Blair relaxed, and Hough mopped his brow with a 
 sigh of relief. Even Sidwell felt the respite, but it was 
 short-lived. 
 
 " I think," Ben resumed, " that what you Ve just said 
 and sworn to gives the lie to your original statement that 
 you have given me no cause for enmity. According to 
 your own showing you are the one existing obstacle be 
 tween Florence Baker and myself. Is it not so ? " 
 
 Like a condemned criminal, Sidwell felt the noose 
 tightening. 
 
 " I can t deny it," he admitted. 
 
 For some seconds Ben Blair looked at him with an 
 expression almost menacing. When he again spoke the 
 first trace of passion was in his voice. 
 
 "Such being the case, Clarence Sidwell," he went on, 
 " caring for Florence Baker as I do, and knowing you as 
 I do, why in God s name should I leave you, coward, in 
 possession of the dearest thing to me in the world?" For 
 an instant the voice paused, the protruding lower jaw 
 advanced until it became a positive disfigurement. " Tell 
 me why I should sacrifice my own happiness for yours. I 
 have had enough of this word-play. Speak ! " 
 
 In every human life there is at some time a supreme 
 moment, a tragic climax of events ; and Sidwell realized 
 that for him this moment had arrived. Moreover, it 
 
 [ 283 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 had found him helpless and unprepared. Artificial to 
 the bone, he was fundamentally disqualified to meet such 
 an emergency; for artifice or subterfuge would not serve 
 him now. One hasty glance into that relentless face 
 caused him to turn his own away. Long ago, in the 
 West, he had once seen a rustler hung by a posse of 
 ranchers. The inexorable expression he remembered on 
 the surrounding faces was mirrored in Ben Blair s. His 
 brain whirled; he could not think. His hand passed 
 aimlessly over his face ; he started to speak, but his voice 
 failed him. 
 
 Ben Blair shifted forward in his seat. The long sinewy 
 fingers gripped the chair like a panther ready to spring. 
 
 " I am listening," he admonished. 
 
 Sidwell felt the air of the room grow stifling. A 
 big clock was ticking on the wall, and it seemed to him 
 the second-beats were minutes apart. His downcast eyes 
 just caught the shape of the hands opposite him, and in 
 fancy he felt them already tightening upon his throat. 
 Like a drowning man, scenes in his past life swarmed 
 through his brain. He saw his mother, his sisters, at home 
 in the old family mansion ; his friends at the club, chat 
 ting, laughing, drinking, smoking. In an impersonal sort 
 of way he wondered how they would feel, what they would 
 say, when they heard. On the vision swept. It was 
 Florence Baker he saw now Florence, all in fleecy white ; 
 the girl and himself were on the broad veranda of the 
 Baker home. They were not alone. Another figure 
 yes, this same menacing figure now so near was on the 
 walk below them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but 
 [ 284 ] 
 
The Back-Fire 
 
 leaving. Florence was speaking; a smile was upon her 
 lips. 
 
 Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, 
 the present returned. At last came the solution once 
 before suggested, the back-fire ! Sidwell straightened, 
 every nerve in his body tense. He spoke and scarcely 
 recognized his own voice. 
 
 " There is a reason," he said, " a very adequate reason ; 
 one which concerns another more than it does us." With 
 a supreme effort of will the man met the blue eyes of his 
 opponent squarely. " It is because Florence Baker loves 
 me and does n t love you. Because she would never for 
 give you, never, if you did what you think of doing 
 now." 
 
 For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and 
 it seemed to Sidwell that his own pulse ceased beating ; 
 then the long sinewy body collapsed as under a physical 
 blow. 
 
 " God ! " said a low voice. " I forgot ! " 
 
 Not one of the three spectators stirred or spoke. Like 
 sheep, they awaited the lead of their master. 
 
 And it came full soon. Stiffly, clumsily, still in silence, 
 Ben Blair arose. His face was drawn and old, his step 
 was slow and halting. Like one walking in his sleep, he 
 made his way to the door, took the key from his pocket, 
 and turned the lock. Not once did he speak or glance 
 back. The door closed softly, and he was gone. 
 
 Behind him for a second there was silence, inactive in 
 credulity as at a miracle performed ; then, in a blaze of 
 long repressed fury, Sidwell stood beside the table. Not 
 
 [285 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 pausing for a glass, he raised the red decanter to his lips 
 and drank, drank, as though the liquor were water. 
 
 " Curse him ! I 11 marry that girl now if for no other 
 reason than to get even with him. If it s the last act 
 of my life, I swear 1 11 marry her ! " 
 
 [2861 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES 
 
 OUT on the street once more, Ben Blair looked 
 about him as one awakening from a dream. From 
 the darkened arch of a convenient doorway he 
 watched the endless passing throng with a dull sort of 
 wonder. He was surprised that the city should be awake 
 at that late hour ; and stepping out into the light he held 
 up his watch. The hands indicated a few minutes past 
 ten, and in surprise he carried the timepiece to his ear. 
 Yes, it was running, and must be correct. He had seemed 
 to be up there on the eleventh floor for hours ; but as a 
 matter of fact it had been only minutes. Practically, 
 the whole night was yet before him. 
 
 Slowly, in a listless way, he started to walk back to his 
 hotel. Instead of the night becoming cooler it had grown 
 sultrier, and in places the walk was fairly packed with 
 human beings. More than once he had to turn out of his 
 way to pass the chattering groups. In so doing he was 
 often conscious that the flow of small talk suddenly ceased, 
 and that, nudging each other, the chatterers pointed his 
 way. At first he looked about to see what had attracted 
 them, but he very soon realized that he himself was the 
 object of attention. Even here, cosmopolitan as were the 
 
 I 287 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 surroundings, he was a marked man, was recognized as a 
 person from a wholly different life ; and his feeling of 
 isolation deepened. He moved on more swiftly. 
 
 The sidewalk in front of his hotel was fringed with a 
 row of chairs, in which sat guests in various stages of 
 negligee costume. Nearly every man was smoking, and 
 the effect in the semi -darkness was like that of footlights 
 turned low. Steps and lobby were likewise crowded ; but 
 Ben made his way straight to his room. One idea now 
 possessed him. His business was finished, and he wanted 
 to be away. Turning on a light, he found a railroad 
 guide and ran down the columns of figures. There was no 
 late night train going West ; he must wait until morning. 
 Extinguishing the light, he drew a chair to the open 
 window and lit a cigar. 
 
 With physical inactivity, consciousness of his surround 
 ings forced themselves on his attention. Subdued, pulsa 
 ting, penetrating, the murmur of the great hotel came to 
 his ears ; the drone of indistinguishable voices, the patter 
 ing footsteps of bell-boys and habitties, the purr of the 
 elevator as it moved from floor to floor, the click of the 
 gate as it stopped at his own level, the renewed monotone 
 as it passed by. 
 
 Continuous, untiring, the sounds suggested the unthink 
 ing vitality of a steam-engine or of a dynamo in a power 
 house. A mechanic by nature, as a school-boy Ben had 
 often induced Scotty to take him to the electric light sta 
 tion, where he had watched the great machines with a fas 
 cination bordering on awe, until fairly dragged away by the 
 prosaic Englishman. This feeling of his childhood recurred 
 
 288 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 to him now with irresistible force. The throb of the 
 motor of human life was pulsating in his ears ; but added 
 to it was something more, something elusive, intangible, 
 but all-powerful. The moment he had arrived within the 
 city limits he had felt the first trace of its presence. As 
 he approached the centre of congestion it had deepened, 
 had become more and more a guiding influence. Since 
 then, by day or by night, wherever he went, augmenting 
 or diminishing, it was constantly with him. And it was 
 not with him alone. Every human being with whom he 
 came in contact was likewise consciously or unconsciously 
 under the spell. The crowds he had passed on the streets 
 were unthinkingly answering its guidance. The trolley 
 cars echoed its voice. It was the spirit of unrest a 
 thing ubiquitous and all-penetrating as the air that filled 
 their lungs a subtle stimulant that they took in with 
 every breath. 
 
 Ben Blair arose and put on his hat. He had been sit 
 ting only a few minutes, but he felt that he could not 
 longer bear the inactivity. To do so meant to think ; 
 and thought was the thing that to-night he was attempt 
 ing to avoid. Moreover, for one of the few times in 
 his life he could remember he was desperately lonely. It 
 seemed to him that nowhere within a thousand miles was 
 another of his own kind. Instinctively he craved relief; 
 arid that alleviation could come in but one way, 
 through physical activity. Again he sought the street. 
 
 To some persons a great relief from loneliness is found 
 in mingling with a crowd, even though it be of strangers ; 
 but Ben was not like these. His desire was to be away 
 19 [ 289 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 as far as possible from the maddening drone. Boarding 
 a street car, he rode out into the residence section, clear 
 to the end of the loop; then, alighting, he started to 
 walk back. A full moon had arisen, and outside the 
 shadow -blots of trees and buildings the earth was all 
 alight. The asphalt of the pavements and the cement of 
 the walks glistened white under its rays. Loth to sacri 
 fice the comparative out-of-door coolness for the heat 
 within, practically every house had its group on the 
 doorsteps, or scattered upon the narrow lawns. Accus 
 tomed to magnificent distances, to boundless miles of 
 surrounding country, to privacy absolute, Ben watched 
 this scene with a return of the old wonder, the old 
 feeling of isolation, of separateness. Side by side, young 
 men and women, obviously lovers, kept their places, in 
 different to his observation. Other couples, still more 
 careless, sat with circling arms and faces close together, 
 returning his gaze impassively. Nothing, apparently, in 
 the complex gamut of human nature was sacred to these 
 folk. To the solitary spectator, the revelation was more 
 depressing than even the down-town unrest; and he 
 hurried on. 
 
 Further ahead he came to the homes of the wealthy, 
 great piles of stone and brick, that seemed more like 
 hotels than residences. The forbidding darkness of many 
 of the houses testified that their owners were out of town, 
 at the seaside or among the mountains ; but others were 
 brilliantly lighted from basement to roof. Before one a 
 long line of carriages was drawn up. Stiffly liveried foot 
 men, impassive as automatons, waited the erratic pleasure 
 
 [ 290 ] 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 of their masters. A little group of spectators was already 
 gathered, and Ben likewise paused, observing the spectacle 
 curiously. 
 
 A social event of some sort was in progress. From 
 some concealed place came the music of a string orchestra. 
 Every window of the great pile was open for ventilation, 
 and Ben could hear and see almost as plainly as the 
 guests themselves. For a time, deep, insistent, throb 
 bing in measured beat, came the drone of the cello, the 
 wail of the clarionet, and, faintly audible beneath, the 
 rustle of moving feet. Then the music ceased ; and a 
 few seconds later a throng of heated dancers swarmed 
 through the open doorway to the surrounding veranda, 
 and simultaneously a chatter broke forth. Fans, like 
 gigantic butterfly wings, vibrated to and fro. Skilful 
 waiters, in black and white, glanced in and out. Laugh 
 ter, thoughtless and care-free, mingled in the general 
 scene. 
 
 The music still, Ben Blair was about to move on, when 
 suddenly a man and a girl in the shadow of a window on 
 the second floor caught and held his attention. As far as 
 he could see, they were alone. Evidently one or the other 
 of them knew the house intimately, and had deliberately 
 sought the place. From the veranda beneath, the flow of 
 talk continued uninterruptedly ; but they gave it no at 
 tention. The spectator could distinctly see the man as he 
 leaned back in the light and spoke earnestly. At times 
 he gesticulated with rapid passionate motions, such as one 
 unconsciously uses when deeply absorbed. Now and again, 
 with the bodily motions that we have learned to connect 
 
 [291 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 with the French, his shoulders were shrugged expressively. 
 He was obviously talking against time ; for his every mo 
 tion showed intense concentration. No spectator could 
 have mistaken the nature of his speech. Passion supreme, 
 abandon absolute, were here personified. As he spoke, he 
 gradually leaned farther forward toward the woman who 
 listened. His face was no longer in the light. Suddenly, 
 at first low, as though coming from a distance, increasing 
 gradually until it throbbed into the steady beat of a waltz, 
 the music recommenced. It was the signal for action and 
 for throwing off restraint. The man leaned forward ; his 
 arm stretched out and closed about the figure of the 
 woman. His face pressed forward to meet hers, again and 
 again. 
 
 Not Ben alone, but a half-dozen other spectators had 
 watched the scene. An overdressed girl among the num 
 ber tittered at the sight. 
 
 But Ben scarcely noticed. With the strength of in 
 sulted womanhood, the girl had broken free, and now 
 stood up full in the light. One look she gave to the 
 man, a look which should have withered him with its 
 scorn ; then, gathering her skirts, she almost ran from 
 the room. 
 
 Only a few seconds had the girl s face been clear of the 
 shadow ; yet it had been long enough to permit recogni 
 tion, and instantly liquid fire flowed in the veins of Benja 
 min Blair. His breath came quick and short as that of a 
 runner passing under the wire, and his great jaw set. The 
 woman he had seen was Florence Baker. 
 
 With one motion he was upon the terrace leading 
 [ 292 ] 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 toward the house. Another second, and he would have 
 been well upon his way, when a hand grasped him from 
 behind and drew him back. With a half-articulated im 
 precation Ben turned and stood fronting Scotty Baker. 
 The Englishman s face was very white. Behind the com 
 pound lenses his eyes glowed in a way Ben had not thought 
 possible ; but his voice was steady when he spoke. 
 
 " I saw too, Ben," he said, " and I understand. I know 
 what you want to do, and God knows I want to do the 
 same thing myself; but it would do no good; it would 
 only make the matter worse." He looked at the younger 
 man fixedly, almost imploringly. His voice sank. " As 
 you care for Florence, Ben, go away. Don t make a scene 
 that will do only harm. Leave her with me. I came to 
 take her home, and 1 11 do so at once." The speaker 
 paused, and his hand reached out and grasped the other s 
 with a grip unmistakable. " I appreciate your motive, my 
 boy, and I honor it. I know how you feel ; and whatever 
 I may have been in the past, from this time on I am your 
 friend. I am your friend now, when I ask you to go," and 
 he fairly forced his companion away. 
 
 Once outside the crowd, Ben halted. He gave the 
 Englishman one long look ; his lips opened as if to speak ; 
 then, without a word, he moved away. 
 
 There was no listlessness about him now. He was 
 throbbing with repressed energy, like a great engine with 
 steam up. His feet tapped with the regularity of clock- 
 ticks over mile after mile of the city walks. He longed 
 for physical weariness, for sleep ; but the day, with its 
 manifold mental exaltations and depressions, prevented. 
 
 [ 293 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 It seemed to him that he could never sleep again, 
 could never again be weary. He could only walk on 
 and on. 
 
 Down town again, he found the crowds smaller and the 
 border of chairs in front of his hotel largely empty. A 
 few cigars still burned in the half-light, but they were the 
 last flicker of a conflagration now all but extinguished. 
 The restless throb of the human dynamo was lower and 
 more subdued. The street cars were practically empty. 
 Instead of a constant stream of vehicles, an occasional cab 
 clattered past. The city was preparing for its brief hours 
 of fitful rest. 
 
 Straight on Ben walked, between the towering office 
 buildings, beside the now darkened department-store hives, 
 past the giant wholesale establishments and warehouses ; 
 until, quite unintentionally on his part, and almost before he 
 realized it, he found himself in another world, another city, 
 as distinct as though it were no part of the cosmopolitan 
 whole. Again he came upon throbbing life ; but of quite 
 another type. Once more he met people in abundance, 
 noisy, chattering human beings ; but more frequently than 
 his own he now heard foreign tongues that he did not 
 understand, and did not even recognize. No longer were 
 the pedestrians well dressed or apparently prosperous. In 
 stead, poverty and squalor and filth were rampant. More 
 loth even than the well-to-do of the suburbs to go within 
 doors, the swarming mass of humanity covered the steps of 
 the houses, and overflowed upon the sidewalk, even upon 
 the street itself. There were men, women, children ; the 
 lame, the halt, the blind. The elders stared at the visitor, 
 
 [ 294 ] 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 while the youngsters, secure in numbers, guyed him to 
 their hearts content. 
 
 It was all as foreign to any previous experience of this 
 countryman as though he had come from a different planet. 
 He had read of the city slums as of Stanley s Central 
 African negro tribes with unpronounceable names ; and 
 he had thought of them in much the same way. To him 
 they had been something known to exist, but with which 
 it was but remotely probable he would ever come in con 
 tact. Now, without preparation or premeditation, thrown 
 face to face with the reality, it brought upon him a sicken 
 ing feeling, a sort of mental nausea. Ben was not a phi 
 lanthropist or a social reformer ; the inspiring thought of 
 the inexhaustible field for usefulness therein presented had 
 never occurred to him. He wished chiefly to get away 
 from the stench and ugliness ; and, turning down a cross 
 street, he started to return. 
 
 The locality he now entered was more modern and 
 better lighted than the one he left behind. The decorated 
 building fronts, with their dazzling electric signs, partook 
 of the characteristics of the inhabitants, who seemed over 
 dressed and vulgarly ostentatious. The gaudily trapped 
 saloons, cafes ^ and music halls, spoke a similar message. 
 This was the recreation spot of the people of the quarter ; 
 their land of lethe. So near were the saloons and drinking 
 gardens that from their open doorways there came a 
 pungent odor of beer. Every place had instrumental 
 music of some kind. Mandolins and guitars, in the 
 hands of gentlemen of color, were the favorites. Pianos 
 of execrable tone, played by youths with defective com- 
 
 [295] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 plexions, or by machinery, were a close second. Before 
 one place, a crowd blocked the sidewalk ; and there Ben 
 stopped. A vaudeville performance was going on within 
 an invisible dialect comedian doing a German stunt to 
 the accompaniment of wooden clogs and disarranged verbs. 
 A barker in front, coatless, his collar loosened, a black 
 string tie dangling over an unclean shirt front, was tem 
 porarily taking a much-needed rest. An electric sign 
 overhead dyed his cheeks with shifting colors first red, 
 then green, then white. Despite its veneer of brazen 
 effrontery, the face, with its great mouth and two days 
 growth of beard, was haggard and weary looking. Ben 
 mentally pictured, with a feeling of compassion, other hu 
 man beings doing their idiotic " stunts " inside, sweltering 
 in the foul air ; and he wondered how, if an atom of self- 
 respect remained in their make-up, they could fail to de 
 spise themselves. 
 
 But the comedian had subsided in a roar of applause, 
 and again the barker s hands were gesticulating wildly. 
 
 " Now s your time, ladies and gentlemen," he harangued. 
 " It s continuous, you know, and Madame " 
 
 But Ben did not wait for more. Elbow first, he pushed 
 into the crowd, and as it instantly closed about him the 
 odor of unclean bodies made him fairly hold his breath. 
 
 Straight ahead, looking neither to right nor to left, went 
 the countryman ; he turned the coiner of the block, a 
 corner without a light. Suddenly, with an instinctive 
 tightening of his breath, he drew back. He had nearly 
 stepped upon a man, dead drunk, stretched half in a 
 darkened doorway, half on the walk. The wretch s head 
 
 [296] 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 was bent back over one of the iron steps until it seemed 
 as if he must choke, and he was snoring heavily. 
 
 Not a policeman was in sight, and Ben, in great physical 
 disgust, carried the helpless hulk to one side, out of the 
 way of pedestrians, took off the tattered coat and rolled 
 it into a pillow for the head, and then moved on with 
 the sound of the stertorous drunken breathing still in 
 his ears. 
 
 Still other experiences were in store for him. He made 
 a half block without further interruption ; then he sud 
 denly heard at his back a frightened scream, and a young 
 woman came running toward him, followed at a distance 
 by a roughly dressed man, the latter apparently the worse 
 for liquor. Blair stopped, and the girl coming up, caught 
 him by the arm imploringly. 
 
 " Help me, Mister, please ! " she pleaded breathlessly. 
 " He Tom, back there insulted me. I " A burst 
 of hysterical tears interrupted the confession. 
 
 Meanwhile, seeing the turn events had taken, the pur 
 suer had likewise stopped, and now he hesitated. 
 
 " All right, " 1 replied Ben. " Go ahead ! 1 11 see that 
 the fellow doesn t trouble you again." And he started 
 back. 
 
 But the girl s hand was again upon his arm. " No," she 
 protested, " not that way, please. He s my steady, Tom 
 is, only to-night he s drank too much, and and he 
 does n t realize what he s doing." The grip on his arm 
 tightened as she looked imploringly into his face. " Take 
 me home, please ! " A catch was in her voice. " I m 
 afraid." 
 
 [ 297 1 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Ben hesitated. Even in the half-light the petitioner s 
 face hinted brazenly of cosmetics. 
 
 " Where do you live ? " he asked shortly. 
 
 " Only a little way, less than a block, and it s the direc 
 tion you Ye going. Please take me ! " 
 
 " Very well,"" said Blair, and they moved on, the girl still 
 clinging to him and sobbing at intervals. Before a dark 
 three-story and basement building, with a decidedly sin 
 ister aspect, she stopped and indicated a stairway. 
 
 " This is the place." 
 
 " All right," responded Ben. " I guess you re safe now. 
 Good-night ! " 
 
 But she clung to him the tighter. " Come up with 
 me," she insisted. " We Ye only on the second floor, and 
 I have n t thanked you yet. Really, I m so grateful ! 
 You don t know what it means to be a girl, and and " 
 Her feelings got the better of her again, and she paused 
 to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. " My mother will be so 
 thankful too. She d never forgive me if I didn t bring 
 you up. Please come ! " and she led the way up the dark 
 ened stair. 
 
 Again Ben hesitated. He did not in the least like the 
 situation in which circumstances had placed him. The 
 prospect of the girl s mother, like herself, scattering grate 
 ful tears upon him was not alluring ; but it seemed the 
 part of a cad to refuse, and at last he followed. 
 
 His guide led him up a short flight of stairs and turned 
 to the right, down a dimly lighted hall. The ground- 
 floor of the building was used for store purposes. This 
 second floor was evidently a series of apartments. Lights 
 
 [ 298 ] 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 from within the rooms crept over the curtained transoms. 
 Voices sounded ; glasses clinked. A piano banged out 
 ragtime like mad. 
 
 At the fourth door the girl stopped. " Thank you so 
 much for coming," she said. " Walk right in," and throw 
 ing open the door she fairly shoved the visitor inside. 
 
 From out the semi-darkness, Ben now found himself in 
 a well-lighted room, and the change made him blink about 
 him. Instead of the motherly old lady in a frilled cap, 
 whom he had expected to see, he found himself in the com 
 pany of a half-dozen coatless young men and under-dressed 
 women, lounging in questionable attitudes on chairs and 
 sofas. At his advent they all looked up. A sallow youth 
 who had been operating the piano turned in his seat 
 and the music stopped. Not yet realizing the trick that 
 had been played upon him, Ben turned to look for his 
 guide; but she was nowhere in sight, and the door was 
 closed. His eyes shifted back and met a circle of amused 
 faces, while a burst of mocking laughter broke upon his 
 ears. 
 
 Then for the first time he understood, and his face 
 went white with anger. Without a word he started to 
 leave the room. But one of the women was already at 
 his side, her detaining hand upon his sleeve. "No, no, 
 honey ! " she said, insinuatingly. " We Ye all good 
 fellows ! Stay awhile ! " 
 
 Ben shook her off roughly. Her very touch was con 
 taminating. But one of the men had had time to get 
 between him and the doo r ; a sarcastic smile was upon his 
 face as he blocked the way. 
 
 [ 299 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " I guess it s on you, old man!" he bantered. " About 
 a half-dozen quarts will do for a starter ! " He nodded 
 to a pudgy old woman who was watching interestedly 
 from the background. " You heard the gent s order, 
 mother ! Beer, and in a hurry ! He looks dry and hot."" 
 
 Again a gale of laughter broke forth ; but Ben took no 
 notice. He made one step forward, until he was within 
 arm s reach of the humorist. 
 
 " Step out of my way, please," he said evenly. 
 
 Had the man been alone he would have complied, and 
 quickly. No human being with eyes and intelligence 
 could have misread the warning on Ben Blair s counten 
 ance. He started to move, when the girl who had first 
 come forward turned the tide. 
 
 " Aw, Charley ! " she goaded. " Is that all the nerve 
 you ve got ! " and she laughed ironically. 
 
 Instantly the man s face reddened, and he fell back into 
 his first position. 
 
 " Sorry I can t oblige you, pal," he said, " but you see 
 it s agin de house. Us blokes has got " 
 
 The sentence was never completed. Ben s fist shot out 
 and caught the speaker fair on the point of his jaw, and 
 he collapsed in his tracks. For a second no one in the 
 room stirred; then before Ben could open the door, the 
 other men were upon him. The women fled screaming 
 to the farthest corner of the room, where they huddled 
 together like sheep. Returning with the tray, the old 
 woman realized an only too familiar condition. 
 
 " Gentlemen ! " she pleaded. " Gentlemen ! " 
 
 But no one paid the slightest attention to her. Forced 
 [ 300 ] 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 by sheer odds of mass toward a corner, Ben s long arms 
 were working like flails. Another man fell, and was up 
 again. The first one also was upon his feet now, his 
 face white, and a tiny stream of blood trickling from his 
 bruised jaw. A heavy beer-bottle flung by one of the 
 women crashed on the wall over the countryman s head, 
 the contents spattering over him like rain. One of the 
 men had seized a chair and swung it high to strike, with 
 murder in his eye. Attracted by the confusion, the other 
 occupants of the floor had rushed into the hall. The door 
 was flung open and instantly blocked with a mass of 
 sinister menacing faces. 
 
 Until then, Ben had been silent as death, silent as one 
 who realizes that he is fighting for life against overwhelm 
 ing odds. Now of a sudden he leaped backward like a 
 great cat, clear of all the others. From his throat there 
 issued a sound, the like of which not one of those who 
 listened had ever heard before, and which fairly lifted 
 their hair the Indian war-whoop that the man had 
 learned as a boy. With the old instinctive motion, com 
 parable in swiftness to nothing save the passage of light, 
 the cowboy s hands went to his hips, and as swiftly re 
 turned with the muzzles of two great revolvers protruding 
 like elongated index fingers. With equal swiftness, his 
 face had undergone a transformation. His jaw was set 
 and his blue eyes flashed like live coals. 
 
 " Stand back, little folks ! " he ordered, while the twin 
 weapons revolved in circles of reflected flame about his 
 trigger fingers. " You seem to want a show, and you 
 shall have it ! " The whirling circles vanished. A deep 
 
 [ 301 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 report fell upon the silence, and a gaudy vase on the 
 mantle flew into a thousand pieces. "Stand back, people, 
 or you might get hurt ! " 
 
 Awed into dumb helplessness, the spectators stared 
 with widening eyes; but the spectacle had only begun. 
 Like the reports of giant fire-crackers, only seconds apart, 
 the great revolvers spoke. A nudely suggestive cast in 
 the corner followed the vase. A quaintly carved clock 
 paused in its measure of time, its hands chronicling the 
 minute of interruption. A decanter of whiskey burst spat 
 tering over a table. Two bacchanalian pictures on the 
 wall suddenly had yawning wounds in their centre. The 
 portrait of a queen of the footlights leaped into the air. 
 One of the beer-bottles, which the madame had placed 
 on a convenient table, popped as though it were cham 
 pagne. Fragments of glass and porcelain fell about like 
 hail. The place was lighted by a tuft of three big incan 
 descent globes ; and, last of all, one by one, they crashed 
 into atoms, and the room was in total darkness. Then 
 silence fell, startling in contrast to the late confusion, 
 while the pungent odor of burnt gunpowder intruded 
 upon the nostrils. 
 
 For a moment there was inaction ; then the assembly 
 brok,e into motion. No thought was there now of re 
 taliation or revenge; only, as at a sudden conflagration 
 or a wreck, of individual safety and escape. The hallway 
 was cleared as if by magic. Within the room the men and 
 women jostled each other in the darkness, or jammed im 
 precating in the narrow doorway. In a few seconds Ben 
 was alone. Calmly he thrust the empty revolvers back 
 
 [ 302 ] 
 
The Upper and the Nether Millstones 
 
 into his pockets and followed leisurely into the hall. 
 There the dim light revealed an empty space ; but here 
 and there a lock turned gratingly, and from more than 
 one room as he passed came the sound of furniture being 
 hastily drawn forward as a barricade. 
 
 No human being ever knew what occurred behind the 
 locked door of Ben Blair s room at the hotel that night. 
 Those hours were buried as deep as what took place in 
 his mind during the months intervening between the 
 coming of Florence Baker to the city and his own deci 
 sion to follow her. By nature a solitary, he fought his 
 battles alone and in silence. That he never once touched 
 his bed, the hotel maids could have testified the next 
 morning. As to the decision that followed those sleep 
 less hours, his own action gave a clue. He had left a call 
 for an early train West, and at daylight a tap sounded on 
 his door, while a voice announced the time. 
 
 tt Yes," answered the guest ; but he did not stir. 
 
 In a few minutes the tap was repeated more insistently. 
 " You Ve only time to make your train if you hurry," 
 warned the voice. 
 
 For a moment Blair did not answer. Then he said: 
 " I have decided not to go." 
 
 [ 303 j 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 OF WHAT AVAIL? 
 
 IT was late next morning, almost noon in fact, when 
 Florence Baker awoke ; and even then she did not at 
 once rise. A physical listlessness, very unusual to 
 her, lay upon her like a weight. A year ago, by this time 
 of day, she would have been ravenously hungry ; but now 
 she had a feeling that she could not have taken a mouthful 
 of food had her life depended on it. The room, although 
 it faced the west and was well ventilated, seemed hot and 
 depressing. A breeze stirred the lace curtains at the 
 window, but it was heated by the blocks of city pavements 
 over which it had come. The girl involuntarily compared 
 this awakening with that of a former life in what now 
 seemed to her the very long ago. She remembered the 
 light morning wind of the prairies, which, always fresh 
 with the coolness of dew and of growing things, had drifted 
 in at the tiny windows of the Baker ranch-house. She 
 recalled the sweet scent of the buffalo grass with a vague 
 sense of depression and irrevocable loss. 
 
 She turned restlessly beneath the covers, and in doing 
 so her face came in contact with the moistened surface of 
 her pillow. Propping herself up on her elbow, she looked 
 curiously at the tell-tale bit of linen. Obviously, she had 
 
 [304,] 
 
Of What Avail? 
 
 been crying in her sleep ; and for this there must have 
 been a reason. Until that moment she had not thought 
 of the previous night ; but now the sudden recollection 
 overwhelmed her. She was only a girl- woman a child 
 of nature, incapable of repression. Two great tears gath 
 ered in her soft brown eyes ; with instinctive desire of 
 concealment the fluffy head dropped to the pillow, and the 
 sobs broke out afresh. 
 
 Minutes passed ; then her mother s hesitating steps 
 approached the door. 
 
 " Florence," called a voice. " Florence, are you well ? " 
 
 The dishevelled brown head lifted, but the girl made no 
 motion to let her mother in. 
 
 " Yes I am well," she echoed. 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Baker hesitated, but she was too 
 much in awe of her daughter to enter uninvited. 
 
 " I have a note for you," she announced. " Mr. Sidwell s 
 man Alec just brought it. He says there s to be an 
 answer." 
 
 But still the girl did not move. It was an unpropitious 
 time to mention the club-man s name. The fascination 
 of such as he fades at early morning ; it demands semi- 
 darkness or artificial light. Just now the thought of him 
 was distinctly depressing, like the sultry breeze that 
 wandered in at the window. 
 
 " Very well," said Florence, at last. " Leave it, please, 
 and tell Alec to wait. 1 11 be down directly." 
 
 In response, an envelope with a monogram in the corner 
 was slipped in under the door, and the bearer s footsteps 
 tapped back into silence. 
 
 20 [ 305 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 Slowly the girl crawled from her bed, but she did not at 
 once take up the note. Instead, she walked over to the 
 dresser, and, leaning on its polished top, gazed into the 
 mirror at the reflection of her tear-stained face, with its 
 mass of disarranged hair. It was not a happy face that 
 she saw; and just at this moment it looked much older 
 than it really was. The great brown eyes inspected it 
 critically and relentlessly. 
 
 " Florence Baker," she said to the face in the mirror, 
 " you are getting to be old and haggard."" A prophetic 
 glimpse of the future came to her suddenly. " A few years 
 more, and you will not be even good-looking." 
 
 She stood a moment longer, then, walking over to the 
 door, she picked up the envelope and tore it open. 
 
 " Miss Baker, 1 ran the note, " there is to be an informal 
 little gathering music, dancing, and a few things cool 
 at the Country Club this evening. You already know 
 /most of the people who will be there. May I call for 
 you ? SIDWELL." 
 
 Florence read the missive slowly ; then slowly returned 
 it to its cover. There was no need to tell her the mean 
 ing of the unwritten message she read between the lines of 
 those few brief sentences. It is only in story-books that 
 human beings do not even suspect the inevitable until it 
 arrives. As well as she knew her own name, she realized 
 that in her answer to that evening s invitation lay the 
 choice of her future life. She was at the turning of the 
 ways a turning that admitted of no reconsideration. 
 Dividing at her feet, each equally free, were the trails of 
 the natural and the artificial. For a time they kept side 
 
 [ 306 ] 
 
Of What Avail? 
 
 by side ; but in the distance they were as separate as the 
 two ends of the earth. By no possibility could both be 
 followed. She must choose between them, and abide by 
 her decision for good or for ill. 
 
 As slowly as she had read the note, Florence dressed ; 
 and even then she did not leave the room. Bathing her 
 reddened eyes, she drew a chair in front of the window 
 and gazed wistfully down at the handful of green grass, 
 with the unhealthy-looking elm in its centre, which made 
 the Baker lawn. Against her will there came to her a 
 vision of the natural, impersonated in the form of Ben 
 Blair as she had seen him yesterday. Masterful, optimis 
 tic, compellingly honest, splendidly vital, with loves and 
 hates like elemental forces of nature, he intruded upon her 
 horizon at every crisis. Try as she would to eliminate 
 him from her life, she could not do it. With a little 
 catch of the breath she remembered that last night, when 
 that man had done what he did it was not of what 
 her father or Clarence Sidwell would think, if either of 
 them knew, but of what Ben Blair would think, what he 
 would do, that she most cared. Reluctant as she might 
 be to admit it even to herself, yet in her inner conscious 
 ness she knew that this prairie man had a power over her 
 that no other human being would ever have. Still, know 
 ing this, she was deliberately turning away from him. 
 If she accepted that invitation for to-night, with all that 
 it might mean, the separation from Ben would be ir 
 revocable. Once more the brown head dropped into the 
 waiting hands, and the shoulders rocked to and fro in 
 indecision and perplexity. 
 
 [ 307 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 * God help me ! " she pleaded, in the first prayer she 
 had voiced in months. " God help me ! " 
 
 Again footsteps approached her door, and a hand tapped 
 insistently thereon. 
 
 " Florence," said her father s voice. " Are you up ? " 
 
 The girl lifted her head. " Yes," she answered. 
 
 "Let me in, then." The insistence that had been in 
 the knock spoke in the voice. " I wish to speak with 
 you." 
 
 Instantly an expression almost of repulsion flashed over 
 the girl s brown face. Never in his life had the English 
 man understood his daughter. He was a glaring exam 
 ple of those who cannot catch the psychological secret of 
 human nature in a given situation. From the girl s child 
 hood he had been complaisant when he should have been 
 severe, had stepped in with the parental authority recog 
 nized by his race when he should have held aloof. 
 
 " Some other time, please," replied Florence. " I don t 
 feel like talking to-day." 
 
 Scotty s knuckles met the door- panel with a bang. 
 " But I do feel like it," he responded ; " and the incli 
 nation is increasing every moment. You would try the 
 patience of Job himself. Come, I m waiting ! " and he 
 shifted from one foot to the other restlessly. 
 
 Within the room there was a pause, so long that the 
 Englishman thought he was going to be refused point- 
 blank ; then an even voice said, " Come in," and he en 
 tered. 
 
 He had expected to find Florence defiant and aggressive 
 at the intrusion. If he did not understand this daughter 
 
 [ 308 ] 
 
Of What Avail ? 
 
 of his, he at least knew, or thought he knew, a few of her 
 phases. But she had not even risen from her seat, and 
 when he entered she merely turned her head until her eyes 
 met his. Scotty felt his parental dignity vanishing like 
 smoke, his feelings very like those of a burglar who, in 
 vading a similar boudoir, should find the rightful owner at 
 prayer. His first instinct was to beat a retreat, and he 
 stopped uncertainly just within the doorway. 
 
 "Well?" questioned Florence, and the pupils of her 
 brown eyes widened. 
 
 Scotty flushed, but memory of the impassive Alec wait 
 ing below returned, and his anger arose. 
 
 " How much longer are you going to keep that negro 
 waiting ? " he demanded. " He has been here an hour 
 already by the clock." 
 
 A look of almost childlike surprise came over the face 
 of the girl, an expression implying that the other was 
 making a mountain out of a mole-hill. " I really don t 
 know," she said. 
 
 Scotty took a chair, and ran his long fingers through 
 his hair perplexedly. " Florence, 1 he said, " at times you 
 are simply maddening ; and I do not want to be angry 
 with you. Alec says he is waiting for an answer. What 
 is it an answer to, please ? It is my right to know." 
 
 Again there was a pause, so long that Scotty expected 
 unqualified refusal : and again he was disappointed. With 
 out a word, the girl removed the note from the envelope 
 and passed it over to him. 
 
 Scotty read it and returned the sheet. 
 
 " You have n t written an answer yet, I judge ?" 
 [ 309 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 "No." 
 
 The Englishman s fingers were tapping nervously on the 
 edge of the chair-seat. 
 
 " I wish you to decline, then." 
 
 The childish expression left the girl s eyes, the listless- 
 ness left her attitude. 
 
 " Why, if I may ask ? " A challenge was in the query. 
 
 Scotty arose, and for a half-minute walked back and 
 forth across the disordered room. At last he stopped, 
 facing his daughter. 
 
 " The reason, first of all, is that I do not like this man 
 Sid well in any particular. If you respect my wishes you 
 will have nothing to do with him or with any of his class 
 in future. The second reason is that it is high time some 
 one was watching the kind of affairs you attend." The 
 speaker looked down on the girl sternly. "I think it 
 unnecessary to suggest that neither of us desires a repe 
 tition of last night s experience." 
 
 Of a sudden, her face very red, Florence was likewise 
 upon her feet. In the irony of circumstances, Sidwell 
 could not have had a more powerful ally. Her decision 
 was instantly formed. 
 
 "I quite agree with you about the incident of last 
 evening," she flamed. "As to who shall be my associates, 
 and where I shall go, however, I am of age "and she 
 started to leave the room. 
 
 But preventing, Scotty was between her and the door. 
 " Florence," his face was very white and his voice trem 
 bled, " we may as well have an understanding now as 
 to defer it. Maybe, as you say, I have no authority over 
 
 [ 310] 
 
Of What Avail? 
 
 you longer ; but at least I can make a request. You know 
 that I love you, that I would not ask anything which 
 was not for your good. Knowing this, won t you at my 
 request cease going with this man ? Won t you refuse 
 his invitation for to-night?" 
 
 Nearer than ever before in his life was the Englishman 
 at that moment to grasping the secret of control of this 
 child of many moods. Had he but learned it a few years, 
 even a few months, sooner But again was the satire 
 of fate manifest, the same irony which, jealously with 
 holding the rewards of labor, keeps the student at his 
 desk, the laborer at his bench, until the worse than use 
 less prizes flutter about like Autumn leaves. 
 
 For a moment following Scotty s request there was 
 absolute silence and inaction ; then, with a little appeal 
 ing movement, the girl came close to him. 
 
 "Oh, daddy!" she cried. "Dear old daddy! You 
 make it so hard for me ! I know you love me, and I do 
 want to do as you wish ; I want to be good ; but 
 but" the brown head was upon Scotty s shoulder, and 
 two soft arms gripped him tight, " but," the voice was 
 all but choking, "I can t let him go now. It s too 
 late!" 
 
 The driving of his own conveyance was to Sid well a 
 source of pride. It was therefore no surprise to Florence 
 that at dusk he and his pair of thoroughbreds should 
 appear alone. The girl, very grave, very quiet, had been 
 waiting for him, and was ready almost before he stopped. 
 With a smile of parental pride upon her face, Mollie was 
 
 [311] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 on the porch to say good-bye. At the last moment she 
 approached and kissed her daughter on the cheek. Not 
 in months before had the mother done such a thing as 
 that ; and despite herself, as she walked toward the wait 
 ing carriage, there came to the girl the thought of another 
 historic kiss, and of a Judas, the betrayer. Once within 
 the narrow single-seated buggy she looked back, hoping 
 against hope ; but her father was nowhere in sight. 
 
 After the first greeting, neither she nor Sidwell spoke 
 for some minutes. For a time Florence did not even look 
 at her companion. She had a suspicion that he already 
 knew most if not all that had taken place in the Baker 
 home the last day ; and the thought tinged her face 
 scarlet. At last she gave a furtive glance at him. He 
 was not looking, and her eyes lingered on his face. It 
 was paler than she had ever seen it before; there were 
 deep circles under the eyes, and he looked nervous and 
 tired ; but over it all there was an expression of exalta 
 tion that could have but one meaning to her. 
 
 " You must let me read it when you get it in shape," 
 she began suddenly. 
 
 Sidwell turned blankly. " Read what, please ? " he asked. 
 
 The girl smiled triumphantly. "The story you have 
 just written. I know by your face it must be good." 
 
 The flame of exaltation vanished. The man understood 
 now. 
 
 " What if I should refute your theory ? " he asked. 
 
 " I hardly believe that is possible. I know of nothing 
 else which could make you look like that." 
 
 Sidwell hesitated. " There are but few things," he ad- 
 [ 312] 
 
Of What Avail? 
 
 mitted, " but nevertheless I spoke the truth. It was one 
 of them this time." 
 
 Florence smiled interestedly. " I am very curious," she 
 suggested. 
 
 The brown eyes and the black met steadily. " Very 
 well, then," said the man, " I 11 tell you. The reason 
 was, because I have with me the handsomest girl in the 
 whole city." 
 
 Instantly the brown eyes dropped ; the face reddened, 
 but not with the flush of pleasure. Florence was not yet 
 sufficiently artificial for such empty compliment. 
 
 " I d rather you would n t say such things," she said 
 simply. "They hurt me." 
 
 " But not when they Ye true," he persisted. 
 
 There was no answer, and they drove on again in silence ; 
 the tap of the thoroughbreds feet on the asphalt sounding 
 regular as the rattle of a snare-drum, the rows of houses at 
 either side running past like the shifting scenes of a pano 
 rama. They passed numbers of other carriages, and to the 
 occupants of several Sidwell lifted his hat. Each as he did 
 so glanced at his companion curiously. The man was far 
 too well known to have his actions pass without gossip. 
 At last they reached a semblance of the open country, 
 and a few minutes later Sidwell pointed out the row of 
 lights on the broad veranda of the big one-story club 
 house. The affair had begun in the afternoon with a golf 
 tournament, and when the two drove up and Sidwell 
 turned over his trotters to a man in waiting, the enter 
 tainment was in full blast, although the hour was still 
 early. 
 
 [313] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The building itself, ordinarily ample for the organiza 
 tion s rather exclusive membership, was fairly crowded on 
 this occasion. The club-house had been given up to the 
 orchestra and dancers, and refreshments were being served 
 on the lawn and under the adjoining trees. Even the 
 veranda had been cleared of chairs. 
 
 As Sidwell and his companion approached the place, 
 he said in an undertone, " Let s not get in the crush yet ; 
 if we do, we won t escape all the evening." His dark eyes 
 looked into his companion s face meaningly. "I have 
 something I wish especially to say to you." 
 
 Florence did not meet his eyes, but she well knew the 
 message therein. She nodded assent to the request. 
 
 Making a detour, they emerged into the park, and 
 strolled back to a place where, seeing, they themselves 
 could not be seen. Sidwell found a bench, and they sat 
 down side by side. The girl offered no suggestion, no 
 protest. Since that row of lights had appeared in the 
 distance she had become passive. She knew beforehand 
 all that was to take place ; something that she had decided 
 to accede to, the details of which were unimportant. An 
 apathy which she did not attempt to explain held her. 
 The music heard so near, the glimpses of shifting, fault 
 lessly dressed figures, the loveliness of a perfect night 
 things that ordinarily would have been intensely exhilara 
 ting now passed by her unnoticed. Her senses were 
 temporarily in lethargy. If she had a conscious wish, it 
 was that the inevitable would come, and be over with. 
 
 From without this land of unreality she was suddenly 
 conscious of a voice speaking to her. "Florence," it 
 
 [314] 
 
Of What Avail? 
 
 said, " Florence Baker, you know before I say a word the 
 thing I wish to tell you, the question I wish to ask. You 
 know, because more than once I Ve tried to speak, and at 
 the last moment you have prevented. But you can t stop 
 me to-night. We have run on understanding each other 
 long enough ; too long. I have never lied to you yet, 
 Florence, and I am not going to begin now. I will not 
 even analyze the feeling I have for you, or call it by name. 
 I know this is an unheard-of-way to talk to a girl, es 
 pecially one so impressionable as you ; but I cannot help 
 it. There is something about you, Florence, that keeps 
 me from untruth, when probably under the same circum 
 stances I would lie to any other woman in the world. I 
 simply know that you impersonate a desire of my nature 
 ungratified ; that without you I have no wish to live." 
 
 Strange and cold-blooded as this proposal would have 
 seemed to a listener, Florence heard it without a sign. 
 It did not even affect her with the shock of the unexpec 
 ted. It was merely a part of that inevitable something 
 she had anticipated, and had for months watched slowly 
 taking form. 
 
 "I suppose it seems unaccountable to you," the voice 
 went on, " that I should have been attracted to you in the 
 first place. It has often been so to me, and I Ve tried to 
 explain it. Beautiful, you undeniably are, Florence ; but 
 I do not believe it was that. It was, I think, because, 
 despite your ideals of something which pardon me 
 does n t exist, you were absolutely natural ; and the women 
 I \1 met before were the reverse of that. Like myself, 
 they had tasted of life and found it flat. I danced with 
 
 [ 315 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 them, drank with them, went the round of so-called gayety 
 with them ; but they repelled me. But you, Florence, 
 are very different. You make me think of a prairie 
 anemone with the dew on its petals. I have n t much to 
 offer you save money, which you already have in plenty, 
 and an empty fame ; but 1 11 play the game fair. 1 11 
 take you anywhere in the world, do anything you wish." 
 Out of the shadow an arm crept around the girl s waist, 
 closed there, and she did not stir. " I am writing an Eng 
 lish story now, and the principal character, a soldier, has 
 been ordered to India. To catch the atmosphere, I ve got 
 to be on the spot. The boat I wish to take will leave in 
 ten days. Will you go with me as my wife ? " 
 
 The voice paused, and the face so near her own re 
 mained motionless, waiting. Into the pause crept the 
 music of the orchestra beat, beat, beat, like the throb 
 bing of a mighty heart. Above it, distinct for an instant, 
 sounded the tinkle of a woman s laugh ; then again silence. 
 It was now the giiTs turn to speak, to answer ; but not a 
 sound left her lips. She had an odd feeling that she was 
 playing a game of checkers, and that it was her turn to 
 play. " Move ! " said an inward monitor. "Move ! move !" 
 But she knew not where or how. 
 
 The man s arm tightened around her ; his lips touched 
 hers again and again ; and although she was conscious 
 of the fact, it carried no particular significance. It all 
 seemed a part of the scene that was going on in which 
 she was a silent actor of the game in which she was 
 a player. 
 
 " Florence,"" said an insistent voice, " Florence, Florence 
 [316] 
 
Of What Avail? 
 
 Baker! Don t sit like that! For God s sake, speak to 
 me, answer me ! " 
 
 This time the figure stirred, the head drooped in 
 assent. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 Again the circling arm tightened, and the man s lips 
 touched her own, again and again. The very repetition 
 aroused her. 
 
 " And you will sail with me in ten days ? " 
 
 Fully awake was Florence Baker now, fully conscious of 
 all that had happened and was happening. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " The sooner the better. I want to 
 have it over with." A moment longer she sat still as 
 death ; then suddenly the mood of apathy departed, and 
 in infinite weakness, infinite pathos, the dark head buried 
 itself on the man s shoulder. " Promise me," she pleaded 
 brokenly, "that you will be kind to me! Promise me 
 that you always will be kind ! " 
 
 I 317 ] 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 LOVE S SURRENDER 
 
 SCOTTY BAKER was not an adept at concealing 
 his emotions, and he stared in unqualified surprise 
 at the long figure in brown which of a sudden 
 intruded into his range of vision. The morning paper 
 upon his knees fluttered unnoticed to the floor of the 
 porch. 
 
 " Ben Blair, by all that s good and proper ! " he ex 
 claimed to the man who, without a look to either side, 
 turned up the short walk. " Where in heaven s name did 
 you come from ? I supposed you d gone home a week 
 ago." 
 
 Blair stopped at the steps, and deliberately wiped the 
 perspiration from his face. 
 
 " You were misinformed about my going," he explained. 
 " I changed hotels, that was all." 
 
 Scotty stared harder than before. 
 
 " But why ? " he groped. " I inquired of the clerk, and 
 he said you had gone by an afternoon train. I don t 
 see " 
 
 Ben mounted the steps and took a chair opposite the 
 Englishman. 
 
 " If you will excuse me," he said, " I would rather not 
 go into details. The fact s enough I am still here. 
 
 [318] 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 Besides pardon me I did not call to be questioned, 
 but to question. You remember the last time I saw 
 you ? " 
 
 Scotty nodded an affirmative. He had a premonition 
 that the unexpected was about to happen. 
 
 tt Yes," he said. 
 
 Ben lit a cigar. " You remember, then, that you made 
 me a certain promise ? " 
 
 Scotty threw one leg over the other restlessly. " Yes, 
 I remember," he repeated. 
 
 The visitor eyed him keenly. " I would like to know if 
 you kept it," he said. 
 
 Scotty felt the seat of his chair growing even more un 
 comfortable than before, and he cast about for an avenue 
 of escape. One presented itself. 
 
 " Is that what you stayed to find out ? " he questioned in 
 his turn. 
 
 Ben blew out a cloud of smoke, and then another. 
 
 " No, not the main reason. But that has nothing to do 
 with the subject. I have a right to ask the question. Did 
 you or did you not keep your promise ? " 
 
 The Englishman s first impulse was to refuse point-blank 
 to answer ; then, on second thought, he decided that such 
 a course would be unwise. The other really did have a 
 right to ask. 
 
 I _ he hesitated, decided " 
 
 But interrupting, Ben raised his hand, palm outward. 
 
 " Don t dodge the question. Yes or no ? " 
 
 Scotty hesitated again, and his face grew red. 
 
 No," he said. 
 
 L319] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 The visitor s hand, fingers outspread, returned to his 
 knee. 
 
 " Thank you. I have one more question to ask. Do 
 you intend, without trying to prevent it, to let your 
 daughter throw away her every chance of future happi 
 ness ? Are you, Florence s father, going to let her marry 
 Sid well?" 
 
 With one motion Scotty was on his feet. The eyes 
 behind the thick lenses fairly flashed. 
 
 " You are insulting, sir, " he blazed. " I can stand 
 much from you, Ben Blair, but this interference in my 
 family affairs I cannot overlook. I request you to leave 
 my premises ! " 
 
 Blair did not stir. His face remained as impassive as 
 before. 
 
 "Your pardon again," he said steadily, "but I re 
 fuse. I did not come to quarrel with you, and I won t ; 
 but we will have an understanding now. Sit down, 
 please." 
 
 The Englishman stared, almost with open mouth. Had 
 any one told him he would be coerced in this way within 
 his own home he would have called that person mad ; nev 
 ertheless, the first flash of anger over, he said no more. 
 
 " Sit down, please," repeated Ben ; and this time, with 
 out a word or a protest, he was obeyed. 
 
 Ben straightened in his seat, then leaned forward. " Mr. 
 Baker," he said, " you do not doubt that I love Florence 
 that I wish nothing but her good ? " 
 
 Scotty nodded a reluctant assent. 
 
 " No ; I don t doubt you, Ben," he said. 
 [ 320 ] 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 The thin face of the younger man leaned forward and 
 grew more intense. 
 
 " You know what Sidwell is what the result will be 
 if Florence marries him ? " 
 
 Scotty s head dropped into his hands. He knew what 
 was coming. 
 
 " Yes, I know," he admitted. 
 
 Ben paused, and had the other been looking he would 
 have seen that his ordinarily passive face was working in a 
 way which no one would have thought possible. 
 
 " In heaven s name, then, 11 he said, slowly, " why do you 
 allow it ? Have you forgotten that it is only three days 
 until the date set ? God ! man, you must be sleeping ! It 
 is ghastly even the thought of it ! " 
 
 Surprised out of himself, Scotty looked up. The intens 
 ity of the appeal was a thing to put life into a figure of 
 clay. For an instant he felt the stimulant, felt his blood 
 quicken at the suggestion of action ; then his impotence 
 returned. 
 
 " I have tried, Ben," he explained weakly, " but I can 
 do nothing. If I attempted to interfere it would only 
 make matters worse. Florence is as completely out of my 
 control as " he paused for a simile " as the sunshine. 
 I missed my opportunity with her when she was young. 
 She has always had her own way, and she will have it 
 now. It is the same as when she decided to come to town. 
 She controls me, not I her."" 
 
 Blair settled back in his chair. The mask of impassiv 
 ity dropped back over his face, not again to lift. He was 
 again in command of himself. 
 21 [ 321 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " You expect to do nothing more, then ? " he asked 
 finally. 
 
 Scotty did not look up. " No," he responded. " I can 
 do nothing more. She will have to find out her mistake 
 for herself. " 
 
 Ben regarded the older man steadily. It would have 
 been difficult to express that look in words. 
 
 " You d be willing to help, would you," he suggested, 
 " if you saw a way ? " 
 
 The Englishman s eyes lifted. Even the incredible took 
 on an air of possibility in the hands of this strong-willed 
 ranchman. 
 
 " Yes,"" he repeated. " I will gladly do anything I 
 can." 
 
 For half a minute Ben Blair did not speak. Not a nerve 
 twitched or a muscle stirred in his long body; then he 
 stood up, the broad sinewy shoulders squared, the master 
 ful chin lifted. 
 
 " Very well," he said. " Call a carriage, and be ready to 
 leave town in half an hour." 
 
 Scotty blinked helplessly. The necessity of sudden 
 action always threw him into confusion. His mind need 
 ed not minutes but days to adjust itself to the unpremedi 
 tated. 
 
 " Why ? " he queried. " What do you intend doing ? " 
 
 Bat Ben did not stop to explain. Already he was at 
 the door of the vestibule. " Don t ask me now. Do as I 
 say, and you 11 see ! " And he stepped inside. 
 
 Within the entrance, he paused for a moment. He had 
 never been in any room of the house except the library 
 
 [ 322 ] 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 adjoining ; and after a few seconds, walking over, he tapped 
 twice on the door. 
 
 There was no answer, and he stepped inside. The place 
 was empty, but, listening from the dining-room on the 
 left he heard the low intermittent murmur of voices in 
 conversation and the occasional click of china. Sliding 
 doors connected the rooms, and again for an instant he 
 hesitated. Then, pulling them apart, he stood fairly in 
 the aperture. 
 
 As he had expected, Florence and her mother were at 
 breakfast. The doors had slid noiselessly, and for an in 
 stant neither observed him. Florence was nearest, half- 
 facing him, and she was the first to glance up. As she 
 did so, the coffee-cup in her hand shook spasmodically and 
 a great brown blotch spread over the white tablecloth. 
 Simultaneously her eyes widened, her cheeks blanched, and 
 she stared as at a ghost. Her mother, too, turned at the 
 spectacle, and her color shifted to an ashen gray. 
 
 For some seconds not one of the three spoke or stirred. 
 It was Mrs. Baker who first arose and advanced toward 
 the intruder, as threateningly as it was possible for her 
 to do. 
 
 " Who, if I might ask, invited you to come this way ? " 
 she challenged. 
 
 Ben took one step inside the room and folded his arms. 
 
 " I came without being asked," he explained evenly. 
 
 Mollie s weak oval face stiffened. She felt instinctively 
 that her chiefest desires were in supreme menace. But 
 one defense suggested itself to be rid of the intruder at 
 once. 
 
 [323] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 * c I trust, then, you are enough of a gentleman to return 
 the way you came," she said icily. 
 
 Ben did not even glance at her. He was looking at the 
 dainty little figure still motionless at the table. 
 
 " If that is the mark of a gentleman, I am not one," he 
 answered. 
 
 The mother s face flamed. Like Scotty, her brain moved 
 slowly, and on the spur of the moment inadequate insult 
 alone answered her call. 
 
 " I might have expected such a remark from a cowman ! " 
 she burst forth. 
 
 Instantly Florence was upon her feet; but Ben Blair 
 gave no indication that he had heard. His arms still 
 folded, he took two steps nearer the girl, then stopped. 
 
 "Florence," he said steadily, "I have just seen your 
 father. We three he, you, and I are going back 
 home, back to the prairies. Our train leaves at eleven 
 o clock. The carriage will be here in half an hour. You 
 have plenty of time if you hurry." 
 
 Again there was silence. Once more it was the mother 
 who spoke first. 
 
 " You must be mad, both of you ! " she cried. " Flor 
 ence is to be married in three days, and it would take two 
 to go each way. You must be mad ! " 
 
 It was the girl s turn to grow pale. She began to under 
 stand. 
 
 " You say you and papa evolved this programme ? " she 
 said sarcastically. " What part, pray, did he take ? w 
 
 Blair was as impassive as before. 
 
 " I suggested it, and your father acquiesced." 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 " And the third party, myself " The girl s eyes were 
 very bright. 
 
 " I undertook the task of having you ready when the 
 carriage comes." 
 
 One of Florence s brown hands grasped the back of the 
 chair before her. 
 
 " I trust you did not underestimate the difficulty, 1 she 
 commented ironically. "Otherwise you might be disap 
 pointed." 
 
 Ben said nothing. He did not even stir. 
 
 Another group of seconds were gathered into the past. 
 The inactivity tugged at the girl s nerves. 
 
 " By the way," she asked, " where are we going to stay 
 when we arrive, and for how long ? " 
 
 " You are to be my guests," answered Blair. " As to 
 the length of time, nothing has been arranged." 
 
 Florence made one more effort to consider the affair 
 lightly. 
 
 " You speak with a good deal of assurance," she com 
 mented. " Did it never occur to you that at this particu 
 lar time I might decide not to go ? " 
 
 Ben returned her look. 
 
 " No," he said. 
 
 Beneath the trim brown figure one foot was nervously 
 tapping the floor. 
 
 " In other words, you expect to take me against my will, 
 by physical force ? " 
 
 " No." Ben again spoke deliberately. " You will come 
 of your own choice." 
 
 "And leave Mr. Sid well ?" 
 
 [ 325 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Without an explanation ? " 
 
 " None will be necessary, I think. The fact itself will 
 be enough."" 
 
 " And never marry him ? " 
 
 "And never marry him." 
 
 " You think he would not follow ?" 
 
 " I know he would not ! " 
 
 There was a pause in the swift passage of words. The 
 girl s breath was coming with difficulty. The spell of this 
 indomitable rancher was settling upon her. 
 
 "You really imagine I will do such an unheard-of 
 thing?" she asked slowly. 
 
 " I imagine nothing," he answered quickly. " I know." 
 
 It was the crisis, and into it Mollie intruded with clumsy 
 tread. " Florence," she urged, " Florence, don t listen to 
 him any longer. He must be intoxicated. Come with 
 me ! " and she started to drag the girl away. 
 
 Without a word, Ben Blair walked across to the door 
 leading into the room beyond, and stood with his hand on 
 the knob. 
 
 " Mrs. Baker," he said slowly, " I thought I would not 
 speak an unkind word to-day, no matter what was said to 
 me; but you have offended too often." His glance took in 
 the indolently shapeless figure from head to toe, and back 
 again until he met her eye to eye. " You are the per 
 sonification of cowardice, of selfishness and snobbery, that 
 makes one despise his kind. For mere personal vanity 
 you would sacrifice your own daughter your own flesh 
 and blood. Probably we shall never meet again ; but if 
 
 [326] 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 we should, do not dare to speak to me. Do not speak to 
 me now ! " He swung open the door, and indicated the 
 passage with a nod of his head. " Go," he said, " and 
 if you are a Christian, pray for a better heart for 
 forgiveness ! " 
 
 The woman hesitated ; her lips moved, but she was 
 dumb. She wanted to refuse, but the irresistible power in 
 those relentless blue eyes compelled her to obey. Without 
 a word she left the room and closed the door behind her. 
 
 Ben Blair came back. The girl had not moved. 
 
 " Florence," he said, "there are but twenty minutes left. 
 I ask you again to get ready." 
 
 The girl s color rose anew ; her blood flowed tumultu- 
 ously, until she could feel the beating of the pulses at her 
 wrists. 
 
 " Ben Blair," she challenged, "you are trying to pre- 
 vent my marrying another man ! Is it not so ? " 
 
 The rancher folded his arms again. 
 
 " I am preventing it," he said. 
 
 Florence s brown eyes blazed. She clasped her hands 
 together until the fingers were white. 
 
 "You admit it, then ! " she cried, looking at her compan 
 ion steadily, a world of scorn in her face. " I never thought 
 such a thing possible that you would let your jealousy 
 get the better of you like this ! " She paused, and hurled 
 the taunt she knew would hurt him most. " You are the 
 last person on earth I would have selected to become a 
 dog in the manger ! " 
 
 Ben did not stir, although the brown of his sun 
 tanned face went white. 
 
 [ 327 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " I looked for that, 1 he said simply. 
 
 Florence s brown eyes widened in wonder and in 
 something more something she did not understand. 
 Her heart was beating more wildly than before. She 
 felt her self-control slipping from her grasp, like a rope 
 through her hands. 
 
 " There seems nothing more to be said, then," she said, 
 " except that I will not go." 
 
 Even yet Blair did not move. 
 
 "You will go. The carriage comes in ten minutes," 
 he reiterated calmly. 
 
 The small figure stiffened, the dainty chin tilted in the 
 air. 
 
 " I defy you to tell me how you can force me to go ! " 
 
 It was the supreme moment, but Benjamin Blair showed 
 no trace of excitement or of passion. His folded arms 
 remained passive across his chest. 
 
 " Florence Baker, did I ever lie to you ? " 
 
 The girl s lip trembled. She knew now what to expect. 
 
 " No," she said. 
 
 " You are quite sure ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am quite sure." 
 
 "Did I ever say I would do anything that I did 
 not do?" 
 
 The girl had an all but irrepressible desire to cry out, 
 to cover her face like a child. A flash of anger at her 
 inability to maintain her self-control swept over her. 
 
 " No," she admitted. " I never knew you to break your 
 word." 
 
 " Ver} well, then," still no haste, no anger, only the 
 [ 328 ] 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 relentless calm which was infinitely more terrible than 
 either. " I will tell you why of your own choice you will 
 go with me. It is because you value the life of Clarence 
 Sidwell ; because, as surely as I have not lied to you or 
 to any human being in the past, there is no power on 
 earth that can otherwise keep me away from him an hour 
 longer." 
 
 Realization came instantaneously to Florence Baker and 
 blotted out self-consciousness. The nervous tension van 
 ished as fog before the sun. 
 
 " You would not do it, 1 she said, very steadily. " You 
 could not do it ! " 
 
 Ben Blair said not a word. 
 
 " You could not," repeated the girl swiftly ; " could not, 
 because you love me ! " 
 
 One of the man s hands loosened in an unconscious 
 gesture. 
 
 " Don t repeat that, please, or trust in it," he answered. 
 "You misled me once, but you can t mislead me again. 
 It is because I love you that I will do what I said." 
 
 There was but one weapon in the arsenal adequate to 
 meet the emergency. With a sudden motion, the girl 
 came close to him. 
 
 "Ben, Ben Blair," her arms flashed around the man s 
 neck, the brown eyes moist, sparkling were turned to 
 his face, " promise me you will not do it." The dainty 
 throat swelled and receded with her short quick breaths. 
 " Promise me ! Please promise me !" 
 
 For a second the rancher did not stir ; then, very gently, 
 he freed himself and moved a step backward. 
 
 [ 329 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 " Florence," he said slowly, " you do not know me even 
 yet." He drew out his big old-fashioned silver watch, once 
 Rankings. " You still have four minutes to get ready 
 no more, no less." 
 
 Silence like that of a death-chamber fell over the blight 
 little dining-room. From the outside came the sound of 
 Mollie s step as she moved back and forth, back and forth, 
 but dared not enter. A boy was clipping the lawn, and 
 the muffled purr of the mower, accompanied by the bit of 
 popular ragtime he was whistling, stole into the room. 
 
 Suddenly a carriage drove up in front of the house, and 
 leaping from his seat the driver stood waiting. The door 
 of the vestibule opened, and Scotty himself stepped uncer 
 tainly within. At the library entrance he halted, but the 
 odor of the black cigar he was smoking was wafted in. 
 
 Through it all, neither of the two in that room had 
 stirred. It would have been impossible to tell what Ben 
 Blair was thinking. His eyes never left the watch in his 
 hand. During the first minute the girl had not looked at 
 her companion. Unappeasable anger seemed personified 
 in her. For half of the next minute she still stood im 
 passive ; then she glanced up almost surreptitiously. For 
 the long third minute the eyes held where they had lifted, 
 and slowly over the soft brown face, taking the place of 
 the former expression, came a look that was not of anger 
 or of hatred, not even of dislike, but of something the re 
 verse, something all but unbelievable. Her dark eyes 
 softened. A choking lump came into her throat; and 
 still, in seeming paradox, she was of a sudden happier 
 than at any time she could remember. 
 
 [ 330 ] 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 Before the last minute was up, before Ben Blair had 
 replaced the watch, she was in the adjoining room saying 
 good-bye to Mollie hurriedly ; saying something more, 
 a thing that fairly took the mother s breath. 
 
 " Florence Baker ! " she gasped, " you shall not do it ! 
 If you do, I will disown you ! I will never forgive you 
 never ! never ! " 
 
 But, unheeding, the girl was already back, and looking 
 into Ben s face. Her eyes were very bright, and there 
 was about her a suppressed excitement that the other 
 did not clearly understand. 
 
 " I am ready," she said, " on one condition." 
 
 Blair s blue eyes looked a question. In any other 
 mood he would have recognized Florence, but this strange 
 person he hardly seemed to know. 
 
 " I am listening," he said. 
 
 The girl hesitated, the rosy color mounting to her cheeks. 
 Decision of action was far easier than expression. 
 
 " I will go with you," she faltered, " but alone." 
 
 A suggestion of the flame on the other s face sprang to 
 the man s also. 
 
 " I think, under the circumstances," he stammered, " it 
 would be better to have your father go too." 
 
 The dainty brown figure stiffened. 
 
 " Very well, then I will not go ! " 
 
 The man stood for a moment immovable, with unshift- 
 ing eyes, like a figure in clay ; then, turning, without a 
 word, he started to leave the room. He had almost 
 reached the door, when he heard a voice behind him. 
 
 " Ben Blair," it said insistently, " Ben Blair!" 
 [ 831 ] 
 
Ben Blair 
 
 He paused, glanced back, and could scarcely believe his 
 eyes. The girl was coming toward him ; but it was a 
 Florence he had not previously known. Her face was 
 rosier than before, red to her very ears and to the waves 
 of her hair. Her chin was held high, and beneath the 
 thin brown skin of the throat the veins were athrob. 
 
 " Ben Blair," she repeated intensely, " Ben Blair, can^t 
 you understand what I meant ? Must I put it into words ? " 
 The soft brown eyes were looking at him frankly. " Oh, 
 you are blind, blind ! " 
 
 For a second, like the lull before the thunderclap, the 
 man did not move ; then of a sudden he grasped the girl 
 by the shoulders, and held her at arm^s length. 
 
 " Florence," he cried, " are you playing with me ? " 
 
 She spoke no word, but her gaze held his unfalteringly. 
 
 Minutes passed, but still the man could not believe the 
 testimony of his eyes. The confession was too unexpected, 
 too incredible. Unconsciously the grip of his hands 
 tightened. 
 
 " Am I mad ? " he gasped. " You care for me you 
 are willing to go because you love me ? " 
 
 Even yet the girl did not answer ; but no human being 
 could longer question the expression on her face. Ben 
 Blair could not doubt it, and the reflection of love glow 
 ing in the tear-wet eyes flashed into his own. The past, 
 with all that it had held, vanished like the memory of 
 an unpleasant dream. The present, the vital throbbing 
 present, alone remained. Suddenly the tense arms re 
 laxed. Another second, and the brown head was upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 [ 332 ] 
 
Love s Surrender 
 
 "Florence,"" he cried passionately, " Florence, Florence ! * 
 
 He could say no more, only repeat over and over her 
 dear name. 
 
 " Ben, 1 sobbed the girl, " Ben ! Ben ! " An interrupt 
 ing memory drew her to him closer and closer. "I loved 
 you all the time! loved you! and yet I so nearly 
 can you ever forgive me ? " 
 
 Wondering at the prolonged silence, Scotty came hesi 
 tatingly into the library, peered in at the open doorway, 
 and stood transfixed. 
 
 THE END 
 
 [ 898 ] 
 
018907 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY