CHAPTER XXIXWORLD’S END
Barbara Morgan had fought Deveny until she became exhausted. Thereafter she lay quiet, breathing fast, yielding to the nameless terror that held her in its icy clutch.
The appearance of Deveny so soon after the end of the heartbreaking ride down the trail had brought into her heart a sense of the futility of resistance—and yet she had resisted, involuntarily, instinctively. Yet resistance had merely served to increase the exhaustion that had come upon her.
She had not known—until she lay passive in Deveny’s arms—how taut her nerves had been, nor how the physical ordeal had drained her strength.
She felt the strain, now, but consideration for her body was overwhelmed by what she saw in Deveny’s eyes as she lay watching him.
There were a dozen men with Deveny—she had seen them, counted them when they had been racing down the shelving trail on the other side of the valley. And she knew they were following Deveny, for she could hear the thudding of hoofs behind.
Deveny’s big arms were around her; she could feel the rippling of his muscles as he swayed from side to side, balancing himself in the saddle. He was not using the reins; he was giving his attention to her, letting the horse follow his own inclinations.
Yet she noted that the animal held to the trail, that he traveled steadily, requiring no word from his rider.
Once, after they had ridden some distance up the valley, Barbara heard a man behind them call Deveny’s attention to some horsemen who were riding the shelving trail that Deveny and his men had taken on their way to the level; and she heard Deveny laugh.
“Some of the Star gang, I reckon. Mebbe Haydon, goin’ to the Rancho Seco, to see his girl.” He grinned down into Barbara’s face, his own alight with a triumph that made a shiver run over her.
Later—only a few minutes, it seemed—she heard a man call to Deveny again, telling him that a lone rider was “fannin’ it” up the valley.
“Looks like that guy, Linton,” said the man.
“Two of you drop back and lay for him!” ordered Deveny. “Make it sure!” he added, after a short pause.
Barbara yielded to a quick horror. She fought with Deveny, trying in vain to free her arms—which he held tightly to her sides with his own. She gave it up at last, and lay, looking up into his face, her eyes blazing with impotent rage and repugnance.
“You mean to kill him?” she charged.
“Sure,” he laughed; “there’s no one interfering with what’s going on now.”
Overcome with nausea over the conviction that Deveny’s order meant death to Red Linton, Barbara lay slack in Deveny’s arms for a long time. A premonitory silence had settled over the valley; she heardthe dull thud of hoofs behind her, regular and swift, the creaking of the saddle leather as the animal under her loped forward.
There was no other sound. For the men behind her were strangely silent, and even Deveny seemed to be listening.
After what seemed to be a long interval, she heard a shot, and then almost instantly, another. She shuddered, closing her eyes, for she knew they had killed Linton. And she had blamed Linton for guarding her from—from the very thing that had happened to her. And Linton had given his life for her!
How long she had her eyes closed she did not know. The time could not have been more than a few minutes though, for she heard a voice behind her saying to Deveny:
“They got him.”
Then she looked up, to see Deveny grinning at her.
“I reckon that’s all,” he said. “We’re headin’ for the Cache—my hang-out. If you’d have been good over in Lamo, the day that damned Harlan came, this wouldn’t have happened. I’d sent for a parson, an’ I intended to give you a square deal. But now it’s different. Then I was scared of running foul of Haydon—I didn’t want to make trouble. But I’m running my own game now—Haydon and me have agreed to call it quits. Me not liking the idea of Haydon adopting Harlan.”
She stared up at him, her eyes widening.
“You and Haydon were—what do you mean?” she asked, her heart seeming to be a dead weight inher breast, heavy with suspicion over the dread significance in his voice and words. She watched him, breathlessly.
“I’m meaning that Haydon and me were running things in the valley—that we were partners, splitting equal. But I’m playing a lone hand now.”
He seemed to enjoy her astonishment—the light in her eyes which showed that comprehension, freighted with hopelessness, was stealing over her.
He grinned hugely as he watched her face.
“Haydon is the guy we called ‘Chief,’” he said, enjoying her further amazement and noting the sudden paleness that swept over her face. “He’s the guy who killed your father at Sentinel Rock. He was after you, meaning to make a fool of you. Hurts—does it?” he jeered, when he saw her eyes glow with a rage that he could understand. “I’ve heard of that chain deal—Haydon was telling me. When he shot your father he lost a bit of chain. Harlan found it and gave it back to him, with you looking on. I reckon that’s why him and Harlan hit it off together so well—Harlan knowing he killed your father and not telling you about it.”
The long shudder that shook the girl betrayed something of the terrible emotion under which she was laboring; and when she finally opened her eyes to gaze again into Deveny’s, they were filled with a haunting hopelessness—a complete surrender to the sinister circumstances which seemed to have surrounded her from the beginning.
“Harlan,” she said weakly, as though upon himshe had pinned her last hope; “Harlan has joined you after all—he is against me—too?”
“Him and Haydon are after the Rancho Seco. Harlan’s been playing with Haydon right along.”
Barbara said nothing more. She was incapable of coherent thought or of definite action—or even of knowledge of her surroundings.
For it seemed to her that Deveny had spoken truthfully. She had seen the incident of the broken chain; she had seen Harlan’s hypocritical grin upon that occasion—how he had seemed to be eager to ingratiate himself with Haydon.
All were against her—everybody. Everybody, it seemed, but Red Linton. And they had killed Linton.
She seemed to be drifting off into a place which was peopled with demons that schemed and planned for her honor and her life; and not one of them who planned and schemed against her gave the slightest indication of mercy or manliness. The world became chaotic with swirling objects—then a blank, aching void into which she drifted, feeling nothing, seeing nothing.
CHAPTER XXXTHE ULTIMATE TREACHERY
When Barbara regained consciousness she was lying in some long, dusty grass beside the trail where she seemed to have been thrown, or where she had fallen. For she was lying on her right side, her right arm doubled under her, and she felt a pain in her shoulder which must have been where she had struck when she had fallen.
She twisted around and sat up, bewildered, almost succumbing to the hideous terror which instantly gripped her when she remembered what had happened.
Deveny’s horse stood near her, nipping the tips of the grass that grew at her feet. Beyond the animal—a little to her right, and perhaps fifty feet from her—were other horses, with riders.
As she staggered to her feet she recognized the men who had been with Deveny. They were on their horses—all facing away from her. Facing Deveny’s men were all the T Down boys—she recognized them instantly. Pistols glittered in their hands; they seemed to be in the grip of some strong passion, which wreathed their faces into grim, bitter lines.
Near the T Down men—flanking them—were other men. Among them she saw faces she knew—Colver, Strom Rogers, and others.
There must have been twenty-five or thirty men, altogether, and they were all on a little level besidethe trail. It seemed to Barbara that they all appeared to have forgotten her; seemed not to know that she was in the vicinity.
She saw Deveny standing on the little level. His profile was toward her; there was a wild, savage glare in his eyes.
Not more than a dozen feet from him was Harlan.
She saw Harlan’s face from the side also. There was a grin on his lips—bitter, mirthless, terrible.
She stood for what seemed to her a long time, watching all of them; her heart throbbing with a dread heaviness that threatened to choke her; her body in a state of icy paralysis.
She thought she knew what had happened, for it seemed to her that everything in the world—all the passions and the desires of men—centered upon her. She felt that there were two factions—one headed by Deveny, and the other by Harlan, representing Haydon—and that they were about to fight for her. The T Down men seemed to be standing with Harlan—as, of course, they would, since he had sent for them to come to the Rancho Seco.
Oddly, though, they apparently seemed to pay no attention to her; not one of them looked at her.
If they were to fight it made no difference to her which faction won, for her fate would be the same, if she stayed.
She did not know what put the thought into her mind, but as she stood there watching the men she repeated mentally over and over the words: “If I stay.”
Why should she stay? She answered the question by stealing toward Deveny’s horse. When she reached the animal she paused, glancing apprehensively at the men, her breathing suspended—hoping, dreading, her nerves and muscles taut. It seemed they must see her.
Not a man moved as she climbed upon the back of the horse; it seemed to her as she urged the animal gently and slowly away from the men that they heard nothing and saw nothing but Harlan and Deveny, and that Harlan and Deveny saw nothing but each other.
She sent the horse away, walking him for a dozen yards or more, until he crossed the little level and sank into a shallow depression in the trail. Still looking back, she saw that none of the men had changed position—that they seemed to be more intent upon Harlan and Deveny. And she could hear Harlan’s voice, now, low, husky.
She urged the horse into a lope; and when she had ridden perhaps a hundred yards, the conviction that she would escape grew strong in her. Once out of the valley she would ride straight to Lamo, to ask Sheriff Gage to protect her.
She rode faster as she widened the distance that separated her from the men; and soon the horse was covering the trail rapidly; and she leaned forward in the saddle, praying that the men might not see her.
She had gone several miles when she noticed a dark object beside the trail ahead of her. She drew the horse down and approached the spot cautiously. And when she saw that the object was a man, her thoughtsflew to the shot she had heard, and to Deveny’s words:
“Make sure of it.”
ItwasLinton, she saw, as she halted the horse near the object she had seen. He was lying on his right side, resting his weight on an elbow, as though trying to rise.
In an instant she was out of the saddle and at his side, raising his head.
He looked at her, smiled, and said weakly:
“You got away, eh? I reckon they met Harlan. I was hopin’ they would. Did they?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. She had seen that Linton was badly wounded, and she knew that she must give up hope of getting to Lamo in order to give him the care he needed.
So without speaking further, though with an effort that required the last ounce of her strength, she lifted Linton, he helping a little, and led him toward her horse. Somehow, with Linton doing all he could, she got him into the saddle, climbed up behind him, and sent the horse toward the Rancho Seco.
Back at the little level where the men were grouped there was a tension that seemed to charge the atmosphere with tragedy. Deveny’s men sat silent in their saddles, watching their leader and Harlan with sullen, savage eyes. The T Down men, facing them, were equally sullen. Guns in hand, they alertly watched the men who were with Deveny, plainly determined that there should be no interference from them in the tragedy that seemed imminent.
Rogers and his men, and the riders who had come with Colver, were also watching the Deveny group. All of these held weapons, too; and Rogers, who had dismounted, was standing beside his horse, a rifle resting on the saddle seat, his cheek snuggling the stock, the muzzle trained on Deveny.
Harlan, Rogers, and the others, racing down the valley, had met Deveny and his men coming up. And when Deveny had recognized Harlan and the others he had quickly dismounted, bearing his unconscious burden. Because he felt that trouble would result from the meeting, Deveny had thrown Barbara from him.
He had instantly forgotten the girl. For when Harlan came up Deveny saw a gleam in his eyes that sent his brain to throbbing with those unmistakable impulses of fear which had seized him the day, in Lamo, when Harlan had faced him.
There had been a moment of silence when the two groups met; a stiffening of muscles and the heavy, strained breathing that, in men, tells of mental preparation for violence, swift and deadly.
It had been Harlan who had prevented concerted action—action that would have brought about a battle in which all would have figured. His guns came out before the thought of trouble could definitely form in the brains of the Deveny men; and he had held them—the men in the saddles, Deveny standing—until the T Down men, whom he had seen from a distance, coming toward him, could arrive.
Then, still menacing the Deveny men with weapons,he had dismounted to face Deveny—where he had been when Barbara Morgan had recovered consciousness.
And while the girl had been stealing away he had been talking to Deveny, though loud enough for all of them to hear.
There was about Harlan as this moment a threat that brought awe into the hearts of Deveny’s men—a cold, savage alertness that told them, unmistakably, that the man’s rage was at a pitch where the slightest movement by any of them would precipitate that action for which, plainly, Harlan longed.
“So you got Barbara Morgan?” he said as he stood close to Deveny. There was a taunt in his voice, and an irony that made Deveny squirm with fury.
And yet Deveny fought hard for composure. He could see in Harlan’s manner something akin to what he had seen that day, in Lamo, when Harlan had baited him. His manner was the same, yet somehow it was not the same. There was this difference:
In Lamo, Harlan had betrayed the threat of violence that Deveny had felt. But he had seemed to be composed, saturnine—willing to wait. It had seemed, then, that he wanted trouble, but he would not force it.
Now, he plainly intended to bring a clash quickly. The determination was in his eyes, in the set of his head, and in his straight, stiff lips.
He seemed to have forgotten the other men; his gaze was on Deveny with a boring intensity that sent a chill of stealthy dread over the outlaw.
Deveny had faced many men in whose hearts lurked the lust to kill; he had shot down men who had faced him with that lust in their eyes—and he knew the passion when he saw it.
He saw it now, in Harlan’s eyes—they were wanton—in them was concentrated all the hate and contempt that Harlan felt for him. But back of it all was that iron self-control that Deveny had seen in the man when he had faced him in Lamo.
Deveny had avoided Harlan since that day. He had known why—and he knew at this minute. It was because he was afraid of Harlan—he feared him as a coward fears the death that confronts him. The sensation was premonitory. Nor was it that. Ithadbeen premonitory—it was now a conviction. In the time, in Lamo, when he had faced Harlan some prescience had warned him that before him was the man whom the fates had selected to bring death to him.
He had felt it during all the days of Harlan’s presence in the section; he had felt it, and he had avoided the man. He felt it now, and his breathing grew fast and difficult—his chest laboring as he shrilled breath into his lungs.
He knew what was coming; he knew that presently Harlan’s passion would reach the point where action would be imperative; that presently would come that slow, halting movement of Harlan’s hands toward his gun—which gun? He would witness, with himself as one of the chief actors, the hesitating movement which had brought fame of a dread kind to the man who stood before him.
Could he beat Harlan to the “draw?” Could he? That question was dinned into his ears and into his consciousness by his brain and his heart. He heard nothing of what was going on around him; he did not hear Harlan’s voice, though he saw the man’s lips moving. He did not see any of the men who stood near, nor did he see his men, sitting in their saddles, watching him.
He saw nothing but Harlan; felt nothing except the blood that throbbed in his temples; was conscious of nothing but the question that filled his heart, his brain, and his soul—could he beat Harlan to the “draw?”
Presently, when he saw, with astonishment, that Harlan was slowly backing away from him, crouching a little, he divined vaguely that the moment had come. And now, curiously, he heard Harlan’s voice—low, distinct, even. What an iceberg the man was!
“Haydon’s dead,” he heard Harlan saying—and he stared at Harlan, finding it difficult to comprehend. “Lafe Woodward killed him,” Harlan went on “killed him at the Cache. Now get this straight—all of you.” It seemed strange to Deveny that Harlan seemed to be speaking to the men, while watching him, only.
“Woodward was killed, too. His real name was Bill Morgan. He was Lane Morgan’s son. Bill Morgan was sent here by the governor, to get evidence against Haydon. He got it. I took it from his pockets when I planted him—an’ it’s goin’ straight to the governor.
“You guys are through here—” again he seemedto speak to all the men. “Morgan told me he had some men with the Cache gang. They’re to ride out an’ join my boys—the T Down outfit.”
Deveny was conscious that several men detached themselves from the group of riders he had brought with him, and rode to where the T Down men were standing. Then Harlan spoke again:
“Now, she shapes up like this. If there’s any of the Star gang wantin’ to go straight, they can throw in with the T Down boys, too. If there’s some that figure on pullin’ their freight out of the valley—an’ stayin’ out—they can hit the breeze right now—drivin’ that Star herd to Willow’s Wells, sellin’ them, an’ dividin’ the money. Whoever is takin’ up that proposition is startin’ right now!”
About half the Star men began to move; heading up the valley. There was a momentary pause, and then those that were left of Deveny’s men moved uneasily.
“Does that go for us guys too?”
“It’s wide open,” announced Harlan, cold humor seeming to creep into his voice. “It’s your chance to get out of this deal without gettin’ what’s comin’ to you.”
There was a rush and clatter as Deveny’s men joined the men of the Star, who were already on the move. And then there followed a long silence, during which Deveny glanced up the valley and saw the men riding away.
He turned again, to face Harlan, with the consciousness that he stood alone. The T Down men, half ofthe Star men, and a large proportion of the Cache men were standing with Harlan. Deveny saw Colver and Rogers among those who had aligned themselves with Harlan.
No invitation to withdraw had been extended to Deveny. The knowledge strengthened his conviction that Harlan intended to kill him. And yet, now, facing Harlan, he knew that he would never take up the slender thread of chance that was offered him—to draw his gun, kill Harlan and resume his authority over the men who were left.
The possibility, dangling at the other end of the slender thread of chance, did not allure him. For he knew he could not draw the pistol at his hip with Harlan’s gaze upon him—that would be suicide.
“Deveny!”
Harlan’s voice, snapping with menace roused him, straightened him, brought an ashen pallor to his face.
“It’s your turn, Deveny. You stay here. Flash your gun!”
Here it was—the dreaded moment. Deveny saw the men around him stiffen rigidly; he heard their slow-drawn breaths. The thought to draw his gun was strong in him, and he fought hard to force his recreant muscles to do the will of his mind. For an instant he stood, his right hand poised above the holster of his pistol, the elbow crooked, ready to straighten.
And then, with the steady, coldly flaming eyes of Harlan upon him, Harlan’s right hand extended slightly, the fingers spread a little as though he wasabout to offer his hand to the other. Deveny became aware that he was doing an astonishing thing. He was raising his right hand!
Already it was at his shoulder. And as he marveled, it went higher, finally coming to a level with his head, where it stopped. He had publicly advertised his refusal to settle his differences with Harlan with the pistol.
“Yellow!”
It was Harlan’s voice. “You won’t fight an’ you won’t run. Well, we’ll keep you, savin’ you for the governor. I reckon he’ll be glad to see you.”
Harlan turned, sheathing his pistol, and began to walk toward his horse, his back toward Deveny.
Then Deveny acted. His eyes flaming hate, he drew his pistol with a flashing movement, his face hideous with malignant passion.
He sent one bullet into Harlan’s back and two more as Harlan tumbled forward, sinking to his knees from the shock. But Deveny’s two last bullets went wild, tearing up the grass of the level as the gun loosened in his hand.
For Rogers’ rifle was spitting fire and smoke with venomous rapidity, and Deveny was sinking, his knees doubling under him, his body shuddering with the impact of each bullet.
CHAPTER XXXIPEACE—AND A SUNSET
Red Linton had recovered—there was no doubt of that. For Linton, though a trifle pale, was vigorous. Vigor was in the look of him as he stood, a slow grin on his face, beside Barbara Morgan at the entrance of thepatioof the Rancho Seco ranchhouse.
Barbara was sitting on a bench that ranged the front wall of the building. She was arrayed in a dress of some soft, fluffy material, in which she made a picture that brought a breathless longing into Linton’s heart—a longing which made him feel strangely tender and sympathetic.
But Barbara was not smiling. There was a wistfulness in her eyes that made Linton gulp with jealous thoughts that came to him.
“He don’t deserve it, the durned scalawag!”
“Deserve what?” questioned Barbara.
“You,” muttered Linton, with an embarrassed grin. “Shucks, I wasn’t thinkin’ I was talkin’ out loud. I’m sure gettin’ locoed.”
“Who doesn’t deserve me?” asked Barbara.
“Harlan!” declared Linton, with a subtle glance at the girl. “He ain’t in no ways fit to be thinkin’ serious thoughts about a girl like you.”
“Has he been thinking serious thoughts?” Hereyes dropped from Linton’s and the latter grinned widely.
“Thinkin’ them! He’s been talkin’ them. Talked them all the time him an’ me was stretched out in the big room, gettin’ over our scratches. That man is plumb locoed. I couldn’t get him to talk nothin’ else. When I told him about the governor sendin’ him congratulations, an’ offerin’ to do somethin’ handsome for him, he says: ‘You say she ain’t worryin’ none about things? Red, do you think she’d hook up with a guy like me—that’s got a bad reputation?’”
Linton shot a side glance at Barbara and saw a flush steal into her cheeks. He concealed a broad grin with the palm of his hand and then said, gruffly:
“I answers him as such a impertinent question ought to be answered. Says I—‘Harlan, you’re a damned fool!’—askin’ your pardon, ma’am. A girl like Barbara Morgan ain’t goin’ to throw herself away on a no-good outlaw. Not none! Why, ma’am, he’s an outlaw at heart as well as by reputation. He’s clean bad—there ain’t a bit of good in him. Didn’t he go to Haydon deliberate? An’ didn’t he keep you in suspense about what was goin’ on—not tellin’ you anything until he had to? Shucks!”
“But there was a method in that, Linton,” said Barbara; “he told me he was afraid I’d unconsciously betray him, and then he could not have done what he did.”
Linton grinned again—again concealing the grin.
“You don’t mean to say that you believe the cuss done the best he could?”
“I think I do, Linton.”
“Shucks. Women is odd that way, ain’t they? You ain’t tellin’ me that you think he’s on the level—that his reputation ain’t as bad as some folks make believe it is, an’ that he’ssquare?”
“I believe he’s square, Linton!” the girl answered, firmly.
Linton was silent for an instant, during which he stood on one foot, looking westward where the sun was swimming low above the big valley.
“Ma’am,” he said lowly, breaking the silence: “I’m damned if I ain’t beginnin’ to believe it, myself. There’s some things that seem to prove it.
“First, there’s him takin’ your part over in Lamo. Then there’s him comin’ here with you, knowin’ you was alone—an’ not botherin’ you. Then he guarded you right steady, not lettin’ Haydon or Deveny run in on you. Then he makes me foreman—which seems to prove that he’s got sense. Then he goes up the valley an’ helps your brother bust up the outlaw gang, riskin’ his life a lot.
“An’ all the time he knows where your dad hid that gold. But he didn’t touch it until he got over that scratch Deveny give him—or until he could take you where it was hid an’ show you he hadn’t touched it. Yes, ma’am,” he added with a hyprocritical grin—which he did not permit the girl to see—“I’m beginnin’ to believe the cuss is on the level.”
“Oh, heis, Linton!” said Barbara, in a low, earnest voice.
Again there was a silence. Then——
“Do you think he’s a pretty good looker, ma’am?”
“I think he is handsome!” Again the girl blushed.
And again Linton grinned. He cleared his throat before he again spoke:
“Well,” he drawled; “mebbe I wouldn’t go that far. Mostly I don’t care for a handsome man, anyway. I wouldn’t say he’s ugly, an’ I won’t say he’s handsome. I’d light on a spot about halfway between them two extremes. I’d say he ain’t a bad looker. That would be about right.”
“Heishandsome, Linton!”
“Well, likely he is—to a woman. I’ve heard that there’sbeenwomen which thought him a heap good lookin’.”
“Where, Linton?” she asked, quickly.
“Why, in Pardo, ma’am. There was a biscuit shooter in a eatin’-house there that was sure wild about Harlan—she followed him around a heap.”
“He didn’t have anything to do with her, Linton?” she questioned, stiffening.
“Shucks! Not him. Women never bothered him none. He always fought shy of them—until now. He’s changed a lot. I don’t understand him no more. Keeps a-moonin’ regular about you. I’m gettin’ a heap sick of hangin’ around him. Ain’t you?”
“No!”
“Well, that’s a heap odd, ma’am. I was thinkin’ you didn’t like him a heap. Accordin’ to that, I reckon you’d be right glad to see him—comin’ home from Pardo—where’s he been to have that gold assayed?”
“He ought to be here before dark, Linton. And I shall be glad to see him.”
“Hopin’ the gold will assay good, I reckon?”
“Hoping he will come back, safe.”
“You don’t care about the gold?”
“No.”
“Only about him?”
“Yes, Linton,” she said, gently.
“Well, that’s odd, ma’am,” drawled Linton.
“What is?”
“That I feel the same way about the cuss.”
She looked keenly at him, saw the dancing, wayward gleam in his eyes, and gave him a reproachful glance.
“You’ve been pumping me, Linton,” she charged.
“Well,” he defended; “he’s my friend, ma’am; an’ I was sure worried, thinkin’ you wouldn’t take him—if he offered himself.”
She smiled, wisely.
“He did that long ago, Linton—right after he—well, the day he got up, after the doctor told him he could.”
“That he could offer himself?”
“That he could get up. Linton,” she said, severely; “you want to know too much.”
Linton did not answer. He took her by an arm, raised her to her feet, and turned her face toward the northeast—where a rider came, not more than two or three miles distant.
Linton left her to stand there, while he made his way into one of the bunkhouses, where, with an appearance of unconcern that he did not feel, he watched thecoming rider. And when he saw the rider head his horse straight for the gate of the patio, Linton grinned widely and sought some of the other men in the cook-house.
The sun was between the two huge mountains at the western end of the big valley when Harlan dismounted at thepatiogate and dropped, tired and dusty, to the bench upon which Barbara sat. Had Linton seen what occurred when Harlan dismounted he would have ceased to speculate over certain phases of the relations between the man and the girl.
Barbara did not seem to mind the dust on Harlan’s sleeve, nor did she feel it on his shoulder where her head was nestling.
For both were looking out into the big valley, where the sun was sinking with a splendor that reminded them of another day.
“The gold isn’t worth mining,” said Harlan, gently. “The assayer used names that didn’t mean anything to me, but he told me enough in plain talk, to prove that your dad wasted his time.”
“I’m satisfied,” said the girl.
“Me too,” smiled Harlan. “There’s somethin’ better than gold.”
“It’s peace—and happiness,” said Barbara, gently.
“An’ a girl,” smiled Harlan.
“And a man,” declared Barbara stoutly.
“Well, then,” he conceded, “we won’t quarrel. We’ll say it’s both.”
And they sat, saying little, watching the colors of the sunset flame over the mighty valley—stealing overthe vast, silent space that spread between the two mountain ranges. And the big valley smiled back at them, softening the sadness that dwelt in the heart of the girl, and holding out to both of them a promise of good to come—telling them of a mystery that had been solved, and of a menace removed.