Sandy, replacing the blanket on Wyatt's face, examined his guns and started climbing up to the big boulder. He could not see the rocks displaced by Brandon's men from below, but he picked up the bloody imprint of Grit's pad, with other smears of blood less distinctly marked. Soon he discovered the narrow opening and proceeded cautiously. The moon was quite bright now and the daylight almost vanished. Only the afterglow still flamed in the eastern sky back of the violet cliffs. The touch of night chill was already threatening, great stars were assembling court about the moon.
To Sandy's right was perpendicular rock, to his left the curve of the blocking boulder with the skeleton tree topping it, withered in the cleft that had first nourished, then denied it nourishment. It gleamed silver gray, attracting his attention. As he gazed his sharp ears caught the tiny crack of a brittle branch. Instantly he dropped to all fours as a spurt of flame showed from the tree and a bullet whined over him, to smack against the rock and fall flattened.
Sandy did not move. He knew that, to the man firing, his fall might have seemed a hit, that he hadbeaten the missile by the space of a wink. He heard more broken boughs, as if his assailant were clumsily, assuredly, clambering out of ambush, and he shifted silently into position, rifle set down, both guns ready. There came a strange thrashing sound, a groan of mortal anguish, silence. If this was a trick it was a crude one. Sandy waited. That groan, half sigh, half rattle, could not be mistaken. He half circled the boulder, gliding up a flattened traverse, and saw, lying outspread over a low bough of the withered tree, face to the moon, gun away from the curling hand, Butch Parsons.
With ready gun Sandy reached him, bent, turned him on his side. A bullet had ranged through both hips, shattering them. The spine must have been injured. There were puddles of blood that told the injury was some hours old. Butch had lain there paralyzed, passed by Brandon's men as dead, lingering like the traditional snake until sunset to see and recognize Sandy coming through the gap, to use his last remnant of life to pull trigger and so to die, the injured vertebrae giving away to the effort, the spark of life pinched out.
Sandy left him and returned to the gap. He could still read sign, plain as it was on every side. He found the side-gulch, saw the cabin, saw Hahn's saddled horse grazing free, Blaze in the corral, the cabin door open with the moon streaming in. He had pieced out the puzzle to his own satisfaction. Brandon and his men had arrived and, in Hereford, they had runacross Wyatt, procuring horses there and saving themselves the trip to the Three Star. Butch's body was evidence that they had not been unsuccessful, Wyatt's that the fight had not been all one-sided, the surprise not perfect. And, if Plimsoll had been warned, what had become of Molly?
He got an answer that made his heart stand still, then pound in a rush of action. On the floor, in the beam of the moon, lay the luck-piece, a few links of gold chain attached to the coin. Stooping for it, he brushed a strand of brown hair. Then he saw Grit's body beneath the table. Fury boiled in him, chilled to icy wrath and determination. He put away the coin and hauled out the dog's body into the moonlight. It was limber and still warm. Sandy rose from his squat and swiftly examined the cabin. He discovered a lantern with oil in it, which he lit. The condition of the fire, corroborating other signs, told him that the fighting was long over with, the issue passed on. He had no fear of interruption. Before very long Sam and the Three Star riders would be along. The sight of Blaze suggested that Molly was not far away. If she had gone, by force, or her own free will, the probability was that her own mount and saddle would have been requisitioned.
Sandy's capacity for reading sign was almost without limit. He was better at it than an Indian because he had equally good observation and better judgment. But, to find Molly, with the ground about the cabin cut by arriving and departing feet and hooves, withBlaze in the corral, was a miracle that called for more than eyesight and deduction. If he could revive Grit...?
He found water warm in a kettle; he had the first-aid kit with its bandages, iodine, lint. And, above all, he had Keith's silver flask, half full. He did not fail to note the empty bottles on the table, the blood marks where Plimsoll's veins had sprinkled and Grit had stained the floor. He found, too, a button of horn with a fragment of black and white check, torn from Molly's riding coat in the struggle. Sandy's anger crystallized into one ambition beyond the finding of Molly, and that was to kill Plimsoll, if possible with his hands. He pictured the struggle between the gambler and the girl, desperate on one side, brutal on the other and, whether the stake had been won or lost, he resolved that Plimsoll should die for that attack.
Now his hope hung on Grit. He squatted on the floor by the lantern, a gun handy in case of need. He took the collie's head on his lap and examined the blow made by the butt of Plimsoll's gun. It had laid bare the bone but he did not think it either splintered or fractured. Grit's tongue lolled out from between his teeth and his muzzle was dry, yet Sandy fancied breath still passed the nostrils and that there was a faint beat of heart beneath the heavy draggled coat, matted with the blood that had drained life from him. Sandy knew that dog or wolf or coyote will lie in a torpor after being badly wounded and often recover slowly, waking from the recuperating sleep revitalized. But, if hecould bring Grit back, he must make fresh demands on him.
He washed the wound on the head and poured iodine into it. He did the same with the hole in the leg, cleansing it from the dried blood and hair. It had stopped bleeding. He disinfected it, stitched it, closed it, bound it with adhesive tape and strengthened it with a bandage adjusted as expertly as any surgeon could have done. He pried open the jaws with but little resistance and let the tongue slip back before he poured in a measure of Scotch and water between the canine and incisor teeth. He tilted Grit's limp head, shut off his muzzle, stroked his throat and let the restorative trickle into the gullet. For a moment there was no response, then Grit coughed, choked, swallowed. Sandy repeated the dose with less water. It went down naturally. Almost immediately he felt the heart stroke strengthen. Grit sneezed, opened his eyes and feebly thumped his tail as he licked Sandy's hand.
"Grit, ol' pardner," said Sandy seriously, the dog's head between his hands, "yo're sure mussed up a heap an' I hate to do it, but I got to call on you, son. Mebbe it won't be such a long trick, but I can't git by without yore nose, Grit. It's worth more'n all I've got. An' I know yo're game. I'm goin' to give you some mo' of Keith's special Scotch, which I sure had a hunch w'ud come in handy, an' then we'll try it."
Grit wagged his tail more vigorously and tried toget on his feet, but Sandy prevented him until the third dose was administered. Then he carried the dog outside to save him every foot of unnecessary progress, and set him down. The collie stood up, wabbly on one foot but able to stand, looking eagerly at Sandy, commencing to snuff the air. Sandy let him smell the coin, the strand of hair, the piece of cloth and, with his keenest sense stimulated with the perfume that stood to Grit for love, the dog wrinkled his nose and cast around. But he led direct to Blaze and stood by the horse uncertain while Blaze nosed down at him.
"Carried out of the cabin, son," said Sandy. "We'll guess at Plimsoll. He's got clear of the locality. Blaze knows but he can't tell. We've got to cast about." He picked up the dog again, puzzled, and looked about him in the gulch, suffused with moonlight. "There sh'ud be soft dirt under those asps, let's give a look-see there."
They had not gone five feet into the trees before man and dog made a simultaneous discovery. For Sandy it was a heel-mark left by Plimsoll, treading heavily under his burden, a slight depression enough, but plain to Sandy. Grit began to struggle in his arms. Molly's hair or body must have brushed against lower boughs at the same height that Sandy carried the wounded Grit and the scent still clung.
"They c'udn't go fur in this direction by the looks of the place, Grit," said Sandy. "See what you can make of it." He put him down by the heel-print. Grit uttered a low growl deep back in his throat, hisruff lifted. Hatred replaced love, but the two odors and emotions were inextricably linked for Grit that day. He started off, hobbling along, leading truly over rock or sand, into the cove where the split rock lay, its crevice black, the vine curving down into it like a serpent. Where Plimsoll had laid her down Grit halted and raised his head, his tongue playing in and out of his jaws in his triumphant excitement, his eyes luminous, his tail waving like the plume of a knight. Sandy gently patted him, pressed him down to a crouch.
"Down charge, Grit," he whispered in his ear. "You've got it. You stay here." Sandy had left his rifle at the cabin when he carried Grit out, now he spun the two cylinders of his Colts, lowered himself into the split, holding on to the vine, looking straight into Grit's lambent eyes.
"Stay here, son," he said softly, and Grit licked the face now on a level with his own. "I'll be back."
Sandy doubted whether he would find Plimsoll in this rock hollow, or any one but Molly. There had been the one horse saddled and grazing free, but that might have belonged to the dead man by the withered tree. It made little difference. There was, to him, the certainty that Molly was there and there was no other way of finding out or getting to her. He had adventured more dangerous chances than this.
He felt his legs dangle into space and his hands found a curving loop in the vine trunk that sagged slightly under his weight. Extended at full length, histoes touched bottom. Letting go, he dropped lightly and stood in blackness, the crevice above him showing a strip of azure light. Sandy listened, wishing for Grit. He might be able to get him down, now that he knew the depth of the descent.
There was only the sound of dripping water. He had a vague sense of empty spaces all about him. He ventured a match, holding it at arm's length in his left hand, flicking friction with his nail, an old trick. The match caught and began to blaze instantly in the still air. Low down, and to the right, there showed a stab of flame, the roar of an exploding cartridge, the reek of high-powered gas seemed to fill the cavern. The bullet passed through Sandy's coat sleeve. If he had held the match in front of him he would have been shot through heart or lungs. His right-hand gun barked from his hip, straight for where the flame had showed, then to right of it, to left, above, his left-hand gun joining in the merciless probe. No second shot came in answer.
Sandy lit another match. Its flare showed him a sandy floor, slightly sloping, moist in one place, a charred stick almost at his feet. It was a pine knot, half burned, and he lighted it easily, advancing toward the spot where he had flung the shots he knew had silenced whoever had fired at the first match. He found Hahn, crumpled up, shot through the right arm and a thigh, besides the other wound in his shoulder. There was not much life in him, he had suffered a hemorrhage twice before Sandy came; the shock of the two bullets had brought on another.
Sandy turned him over, brought Keith's flask into play. Hahn looked up at him and essayed a grin.
"Yo're game all right, Hahn," said Sandy. "You ain't the man I was lookin' fo', but you fired first. I see I wasn't the first to plug you. Mebbe I can fix you up a bit?"
Hahn shook his head.
"'Twouldn't be a mite of use," he said huskily. "I'm empty of blood as a prohibition flask. I reckon it will be prohibition for me from now on. They say it's sure dry where I'm going. No grudge against you, Sandy. I thought you one of Brandon's gang. They got Butch and me an' they're chasin' Jim Plimsoll to hell and gone—over Nipple Peaks—if he beats 'em to Spur Rock he'll fool 'em on the black—I couldn't ride—he left me here—with the girl—but the case is empty and the bank's bu'sted—cashing—in—time and no chips."
He was wandering in his mind, speaking without control, but Sandy's mouth tightened at the mention of Nipple Peaks, relaxed again on the word "girl." He gave Hahn the last few drops of whisky.
"Where in hell'd you get that?" asked the dealer weakly, coughed violently, collapsed, shuddered, writhed a little and was still before he could answer Sandy's eager question about Molly.
He found her without much searching, rolled down a little slope beyond the crevice. Under the light of the torch her eyes looked up at him. Her hair was in disorder, her raiment torn, her slender body woundabout by the lariat rope, her mouth and chin hidden by the tightly drawn bandanna, but her gaze, reflecting the flare of the pine knot, held so much of welcome, of faith, of pride and courage, all sourced in something deeper, far more wonderful, moving beneath the surface like a well spring, that Sandy's heart swelled with glad emotion, knowing she was unharmed, knowing that his coming was no surprise, however welcome.
He found himself trembling as he untied her bonds and took away the gag from the mouth that lifted to his. She snuggled into his arms and, as the torch sputtered out, leaving them in the darkness, save for the luminous beams that stole down from where Grit whimpered in joyous impatience, her hair showered down over both of them.
"Sandy. I knew you'd come in time!" she whispered.
He held her close and hard for a tense moment that gave all his world to his embrace.
"Molly—girl," he said brokenly, his voice broken with passion.
Her hand crept up and a soft palm cupped about his chin. He kissed the edge of it. He rose easily, still holding her and lifted her high to where she could reach the vine, swinging up after her, Grit dancing a three-legged reel of joy as they came up into the free air and the moonlight.
Blaze greeted them in the corral. Molly mounted, and Sandy set Grit on the saddle in front of her.
"Where's Pronto?" she asked.
He told her.
"I figger Sam an' the boys'll be erlong soon," he said. "They may meet up with Pronto. Anyway, they'll likely bring Goldie fo' me. She's up. An' Pronto'll be too tired fo' what I want him to do ter-night."
She sensed the change in his voice, intuitively guessed but, womanlike, asked:
"What do you mean, Sandy? Aren't you coming home with me to Three Star. If it wasn't so far I'd love to go back just like this, without meeting anybody." She had taken off Sandy's Stetson and she ran fingers through his hair, thrilling him to the intimacy of the caress. But, if there was any plan in her actions, it did not deter him from his.
"Plimsoll's makin' fo' Nipple Peaks an' he's likely to git clear. Me, I aim to head him off an' settle the account."
"Sandy." There was a plea in her voice that plucked at his heart strings. "Don't spoil to-night. Please!"
"That ain't Molly Casey talkin'," said Sandy. "That's somethin' you must have picked up back to Keith's."
"He didn't harm me, Sandy."
"He tried to."
Her hand slipped to his shoulder, touched his cheek. She reined in Blaze. Sandy stood beside her, straight and stern, his eyes implacable.
"He ain't fit to live," he went on. "I w'udn't be fit to go back to Three Star where yore daddy lies an' know he was there in his grave while I let that coyote go loose. I found the luck-piece on the floor of the cabin, Molly, with a lock of yore hair he must have tore out, a button an' a bit of yore dress he nigh tore off you. I was in hell when I thought of you fightin' him off an' if I have to wade through it knee-deep in flamin' sulphur I'm goin' to find that snake an' make sure he quits trailin'. Why, it's my job, Molly. What w'ud you think of me if I let him slide?"
"I know," she answered.
A horse whinnied from down the ravine. Blaze answered.
"That'll be Sam an' the boys, Molly." He cupped hands and sounded a "Yahoo!"
The answer came back clear through the evening, multiplied by the rocks about them.
"I'm afraid," she said.
"Afraid?"
"I know. I never was before. But...." She broke off, leaned swiftly down from the saddle and kissed him.
"Come back to me soon, Sandy," she said.
Pronto had chosen his own trail and gait back to the Three Star. It was Goldie that Sandy rode under the stars toward Nipple Peaks. He was alone, refusing any company of Sam or the riders. Molly's last kiss had been the key that turned in the lock of his heart and opened up to reality the garden of his dreams where the two of them would walk together, work together all their days. It could have meant nothing else. And she had been afraid—for him. Plimsoll living was a blot upon the fair page of happiness. Though Molly, thank God, had come through unharmed, to Sandy the touch of Plimsoll was a defilement that could only be wiped out by his death.
Nipple Peaks he knew by sight, two high mounds of bare granite above the timber-line, barring the way to a jumbled country of peaks and ravines and cross cañons among which lay Plimsoll's Hideout. Spur Rock he knew only by rumor. That there was a pass between the peaks he did not doubt. And he rode to meet Plimsoll coming down out of it. To have returned to the Hideout and attempted to follow a rock trail by moonlight, despite its brilliance, would havebeen sheer folly. Plimsoll had from three to four hours' start, he figured. And he calculated that, with luck, with common luck and justice, he would pick him up before he reached the base of the mountain, before he got into the timber. If not, sooner or later he would cut Plimsoll's sign and follow it to the end.
As he rode over the finny ridge of Elk Mountain and saw the Nipple Peaks gleaming above the black pines across the valley, with Elk River gleaming in the middle, he realized that he had said nothing to Molly of Keith, of the shutting down of the mine and his own action in her name. While she had asked nothing of young Donald. For the time it had been as if the rest of the world had been fenced off from them and their own intimate affairs.
He compressed his knees and the mare answered in a lope that stretched into a gallop, fast and faster as she reached the levels and sped toward Elk River. Sandy was not going to waste time looking for a ford. The mare could swim. The moon, sloping down toward the west, still above the range, helped by the big white stars, made the valley bright almost as day. He scanned the mountain toward the peaks, passed over the dark impenetrable pines, surveyed the stretch of gently rising ground between the Elk and the trees and shifted his guns in their scabbards. His rifle he had left with Sam. Either Plimsoll had not passed the peaks, was in the woods, or he had come and gone. Something told Sandy this last had not occurred. Travel beyond the peaks must have been hard and slowand roundabout for Plimsoll while he had tangented fast for the cut-off.
The mare took the cold river water about her fetlocks with a little shiver, wading in to the girths, sliding to a deep pool where she had to swim a few strokes before she found gravel under her hoofs and scrambled out. Suddenly, while Sandy hesitated how best to arrange his patrol, a horse came floundering out of the pines less than a quarter of a mile away, a black horse, shining with sweat, tired to its limit, staggering in its stride, the rider hunched in the saddle more like a sack of meal than a man.
Before Sandy could turn the mare toward them three riders burst from the trees like bolts from a crossbow, spurring their mounts, the two in the lead swinging lariats. They divided, one to either side of the foundering black stallion, one at the rear, gaining, angling in. The ropes slithered out, the loops seemed to hang like suspended rings of wire for a second before they settled down, fair and true, about the neck and shoulders of the black's rider. They tightened, the lariats snubbed to the saddle horns, the horses sliding with flattened pasterns. The black lunging on, pitched forward as it was relieved of a sudden weight and its rider jerked hideously from the saddle, hands clawing at the ropes that choked his gullet, wrenching, sinking deep, shutting off air and light with a horrid taste of blood and the noise of thundering waters.
The ropers wheeled their mounts and galloped back toward the woods, the limp body of their victimdragging, bouncing over the ground. The third rode to meet Sandy. It was Brandon. He hailed Sandy with surprise.
"How'd you happen here this time of night, Bourke? Not looking for me?"
"No. I was looking for the man you've just caught. I was about a minute too late."
Brandon glanced curiously at Sandy, caught by the grim note in his voice. But he made no comment.
"Sorry if I spoiled your private vendetta, Bourke. You can have him, what's left of him, if you want. We were going to swing him from a tree with a card on his chest presenting him to Hereford County, with our compliments. As it is, Bourke, I'd be relieved if you'd keep out of this entirely. Even forgetting you'd met us. We're within our rights, but we've done some cleaning up to-night that we might have to explain if we stayed too long in the state. We got the goods on Plimsoll; one of his men whose girl Plimsoll had stolen helped us to pin them on him. We met him at Hereford. I'm going to send the facts and proofs to your authorities. They may not approve of lynch law these days, but they wouldn't act—and we did. I don't fancy they'll bother us any. He wasn't worth the ropes he spoiled. Just as well you kept out of the mix-up."
Sandy said nothing. There was no need to mention Molly's adventure.
"Want to be sure it's him?" asked Brandon. "Let's look at the black first. He gave us a hard chase, but we were too many for him and rounded him up."
They found the black stallion stretched out on the turf with its neck curiously twisted. Tired out, it had fallen clumsily and broken the vertebrae. It was quite dead. Both men looked at it silently, with a mental tribute to a good horse.
The body of Plimsoll lay at the foot of a big pine. The loops were still tight about his neck. One of the ropes had been tossed over a bough. The two men had dismounted. They nodded to Sandy as he came up with Brandon. He had seen them before on their first unsuccessful trip to the Waterline. They were horse-owners, responsible men, who considered they had administered justice, who felt no more qualms concerning the dead man than if his body had been the carcass of a slaughtered steer.
"Waiting for the rest of the boys to come up," said Brandon. "We'll hit the trail home to-night. Bourke wants to identify the body, boys."
Sandy looked down at the contorted, blackened face, and his disappointment at having been forestalled, sedimented down. The gambler's features had not been made placid by death; they still held much of the horror of the last moments of that relentless chase, his horse failing under him, foreknowledge of sudden death and then the whistling ropes, the jerk into eternity...! It was a thing to be forgotten, a nightmare that had nothing to do with the new day ahead.
"It's Plimsoll," said Sandy shortly. "I'm ridin' back to Three Star. I found him hangin' to a tree. Good night, hombres." He left them standing abouttheir quarry and turned the willing mare toward home. Peace settled down on him under the stars that were fading, the moon below the hills when he rode into the home corral.
A figure was perched upon the fence, waiting. It was Molly, and she leaped down almost into his arms as he sprang from the mare. In the gray dawn her face seemed drawn and weary. There were the blue shadows under the eyes that he remembered seeing there the time they had ridden over the Pass of the Goats. She came close to him, her hands up against his chest.
"You're safe, Sandy. Safe!"
"I was too late," he said. "Brandon's men had been ahead of me."
"I'm so glad, Sandy. Your hands are clean of his blood. They are my hands, now, Sandy."
He swept her up to him, kissing her mouth and eyes, the eager pressure of her lips returning all with full measure. A streak of rose glowed in the east behind the amethyst peaks. Her face reflected it like a mirror. The tired lines were gone as he set her down.
"How long have you been waiting, Molly?"
"Ever since I got back. I slipped out of the house when the rest had gone to bed. If you hadn't come back, Sandy, I should have died."
"I don't have to go back east," she said presently. They had left the corral and were under the big cottonwoods by Patrick Casey's grave. "Do I?"
"I don't reckon you can, even if you wanted to,"answered Sandy. "I forgot to tell you, Molly, that you're bu'sted, so far's the mine is concerned. Listen."
She laughed when he finished speaking.
"Is that all?" She patted the turf on the green mound. "I'm sorry, Daddy, for you, it didn't pan out bigger. But I guess what you wanted most was my happiness—and I've got that." She turned to Sandy. The big bell of the ranch boomed brassily. Molly put her hand in Sandy's. "It may be most unromantic, Sandy dear," she said, "but I'm hungry. Let's go in to breakfast."
There was a council held later that day, that was almost a council of war. Sandy was in the chair, Mormon and Sam present, Molly the indignant speaker-in-chief.
"I'm very much ashamed of all of you," she said. "An agreement is an agreement, and we were to share as we arranged. We shook hands upon it. I've had three times as much as any one of you, as it is. I haven't spent all of it, Sandy tells me.
"I've got to accept Sandy's share of it, I suppose, because it goes with Sandy. As for you, Sam Manning, you'll need your third when you marry Kate Nicholson."
Soda-Water Sam gasped.
"Marry Miss Nicholson?"
"Certainly. She expects you to."
"She—Molly, it ain't no jokin' matter with me. She wouldn't look at a rough-hided cuss like me."
"You ask her, Sammy. Mormon, I suppose you'll have to hang fire until you find out about that third wife. I hope the fourth time will be the charm. It will if you marry Miranda Bailey."
"You're sure talkin' like a matrimonial boorow, Molly," said Mormon. "I sure think a sight of Mirandy. She's different from my first three. They all married me, fo' me to look out fo' them. If Mirandy can be persuaded to take me it's becos she is willin' to look after me. She 'lows I need it," he added sheepishly. Then he chuckled.
"I've knowed the whereabouts of my third fo' some time back," he said. "She got a divorce six years ago. I've kept the matter secret as a so't of insurance policy. I've allus been sort of unbalanced in my leanin's to'ards the sex, you see. An' it sure acted as a prop an' a defense so fur."
"Then the meeting is closed," said Molly. "I accept your apologies and you keep your money."
Mormon and Sam rose. With a glance at each other that ended in a wink, they left the room. Molly turned to Sandy.
"You didn't give me back my luck-piece, Sandy."
"What does a mascot want with a luck-piece?"
"She would like it made into an engagement ring, Sandy."
"Why not a weddin' ring, Molly, Molly mine?"
THE END
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Hall.Awakening of Helena Richie.By Margaret Deland.Bab: a Sub-Deb.By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Bambi.By Marjorie Benton Cooke.Barbarians.By Robert W. Chambers.Bar 20.By Clarence E. Mulford.Bar 20 Days.By Clarence E. Mulford.Barrier, The.By Rex Beach.Bars of Iron, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Beasts of Tarzan, The.By Edgar Rice Burroughs.Beckoning Roads.By Jeanne Judson.Belonging.By Olive Wadsley.Beloved Traitor, The.By Frank L. Packard.Beloved Vagabond, The.By Wm. J. Locke.Beltane the Smith.By Jeffery Farnol.Betrayal, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Beulah.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Beyond the Frontier.By Randall Parrish.Big Timber.By Bertrand W. Sinclair.Black Bartlemy's Treasure.By Jeffery Farnol.Black Is White.By George Barr McCutcheon.Blacksheep! Blacksheep!By Meredith Nicholson.Blind Man's Eyes, The.By Wm. Mac Harg and Edwin Balmer.Boardwalk, The.By Margaret Widdemer.Bob Hampton of Placer.By Randall Parrish.Bob, Son of Battle.By Alfred Olivant.Box With Broken Seals, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Boy With Wings, The.By Berta Ruck.Brandon of the Engineers.By Harold Bindloss.Bridge of Kisses, The.By Berta Ruck.Broad Highway, The.By Jeffery Farnol.Broadway Bab.By Johnston McCulley.Brown Study, The.By Grace S. Richmond.Bruce of the Circle A.By Harold Titus.Buccaneer Farmer, The.By Harold Bindloss.Buck Peters, Ranchman.By Clarence E. Mulford.Builders, The.By Ellen Glasgow.Business of Life, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Cab of the Sleeping Horse, The.By John Reed Scott.Cabbage and Kings.By O. Henry.Cabin Fever.By B. M. Bower.Calling of Dan Matthews, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Cape Cod Stories.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap'n Abe, Storekeeper.By James A. Cooper.Cap'n Dan's Daughter.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap'n Erl.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap'n Jonah's Fortune.By James A. Cooper.Cap'n Warren's Wards.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Chinese Label, The.By J. Frank Davis.Christine of the Young Heart.By Louise Breintenbach Clancy.Cinderella Jane.By Marjorie B. Cooke.Cinema Murder, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.City of Masks, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.Cleek of Scotland Yard.By T. W. Hanshew.Cleek, The Man of Forty Faces.By Thomas W. Hanshew.Cleek's Government Cases.By Thomas W. Hanshew.Clipped Wings.By Rupert Hughes.Clutch of Circumstance, The.By Marjorie Benton Cooke.Coast of Adventure, The.By Harold Bindloss.Come-Back, The.By Carolyn Wells.Coming of Cassidy, The.By Clarence E. Mulford.Coming of the Law, The.By Charles A. Seltzer.Comrades of Peril.By Randall Parrish.Conquest of Canaan, The.By Booth Tarkington.Conspirators, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Contraband.By Randall Parrish.Cottage of Delight, The.By Will N. Harben.Court of Inquiry, A.By Grace S. Richmond.Cricket, The.By Marjorie Benton Cooke.Crimson Gardenia, The, and Other Tales of Adventure.By Rex Beach.Crimson Tide, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Cross Currents.By Author of "Pollyanna."Cross Pull, The.By Hal. G. Evarts.Cry in the Wilderness, A.By Mary E. Waller.Cry of Youth, A.By Cynthia Lombardi.Cup of Fury, The.By Rupert Hughes.Curious Quest, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Danger and Other Stories.By A. Conan Doyle.Dark Hollow, The.By Anna Katharine Green.Dark Star, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Daughter Pays, The.By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.Day of Days, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Depot Master, The.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Destroying Angel, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Devil's Own, The.By Randall Parrish.Devil's Paw, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Disturbing Charm, The.By Berta Ruck.Door of Dread, The.By Arthur Stringer.Dope.By Sax Rohmer.Double Traitor, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Duds.By Henry C. Rowland.Empty Pockets.By Rupert Hughes.Erskine Dale Pioneer.By John Fox, Jr.Everyman's Land.By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Extricating Obadiah.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Eyes of the Blind, The.By Arthur Somers Roche.Eyes of the World, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Fairfax and His Pride.By Marie Van Vorst.Felix O'Day.By F. Hopkinson Smith.54-40 or Fight.By Emerson Hough.Fighting Chance, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Fighting Fool, The.By Dane Coolidge.Fighting Shepherdess, The.By Caroline Lockhart.Financier, The.By Theodore Dreiser.Find the Woman.By Arthur Somers Roche.First Sir Percy, The.By The Baroness Orczy.Flame, The.By Olive Wadsley.For Better, for Worse.By W. B. Maxwell.Forbidden Trail, The.By Honorè Willsie.Forfeit, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Fortieth Door, The.By Mary Hastings Bradley.Four Million, The.By O. Henry.From Now On.By Frank L. Packard.Fur Bringers, The.By Hulbert Footner.Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale.By Frank L. Packard.Get Your Man.By Ethel and James Dorrance.Girl in the Mirror, The.By Elizabeth Jordan.Girl of O. K. Valley, The.By Robert Watson.Girl of the Blue Ridge, A.By Payne Erskine.Girl from Keller's, The.By Harold Bindloss.Girl Philippa, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Girls at His Billet, The.By Berta Ruck.Glory Rides the Range.By Ethel and James Dorrance.Gloved Hand, The.By Burton E. Stevenson.God's Country and the Woman.By James Oliver Curwood.God's Good Man.By Marie Corelli.Going Some.By Rex Beach.Gold Girl, The.By James B. Hendryx.Golden Scorpion, The.By Sax Rohmer.Golden Slipper, The.By Anna Katharine Green.Golden Woman, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Good References.By E. J. Rath.Gorgeous Girl, The.By Nalbro Bartley.Gray Angels, The.By Nalbro Bartley.Great Impersonation, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Greater Love Hath No Man.By Frank L. Packard.Green Eyes of Bast, The.By Sax Rohmer.Greyfriars Bobby.By Eleanor Atkinson.Gun Brand, The.By James B. Hendryx.Hand of Fu-Manchu, The.By Sax Rohmer.Happy House.By Baroness Von Hutten.Harbor Road, The.By Sara Ware Bassett.Havoc.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Heart of the Desert, The.By Honorè Willsie.Heart of the Hills, The.By John Fox, Jr.Heart of the Sunset.By Rex Beach.Heart of Thunder Mountain, The.By Edfrid A. Bingham.Heart of Unaga, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Hidden Children, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Hidden Trails.By William Patterson White.Highflyers, The.By Clarence B. Kelland.Hillman, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Hills of Refuge, The.By Will N. Harben.His Last Bow.By A. Conan Doyle.His Official Fiancee.By Berta Ruck.Honor of the Big Snows.By James Oliver Curwood.Hopalong Cassidy.By Clarence E. Mulford.Hound from the North, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.House of the Whispering Pines, The.By Anna Katharine Green.Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker.By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.Humoresque.By Fannie Hurst.I Conquered.By Harold Titus.Illustrious Prince, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.In Another Girl's Shoes.By Berta Ruck.Indifference of Juliet, The.By Grace S. Richmond.Inez.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Infelice.By Augusta Evans Wilson.Initials Only.By Anna Katharine Green.Inner Law, The.By Will N. Harben.Innocent.By Marie Corelli.In Red and Gold.By Samuel Merwin.Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The.By Sax Rohmer.In the Brooding Wild.By Ridgwell Cullum.Intriguers, The.By William Le Queux.Iron Furrow, The.By George C. Shedd.Iron Trail, The.By Rex Beach.Iron Woman, The.By Margaret Deland.Ishmael.(Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.Island of Surprise.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.I Spy.By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.It Pays to Smile.By Nina Wilcox Putnam.I've Married Marjorie.By Margaret Widdemer.Jean of the Lazy A.By B. M. Bower.Jeanne of the Marshes.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Jennie Gerhardt.By Theodore Dreiser.Johnny Nelson.By Clarence E. Mulford.Judgment House, The.By Gilbert Parker.Keeper of the Door, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Keith of the Border.By Randall Parrish.Kent Knowles: Quahaug.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Kingdom of the Blind, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.King Spruce.By Holman Day.Knave of Diamonds, The.By Ethel M. Dell.La Chance Mine Mystery, The.By S. Carleton.Lady Doc, The.By Caroline Lockhart.Land-Girl's Love Story, A.By Berta Ruck.Land of Strong Men, The.By A. M. Chisholm.Last Straw, The.By Harold Titus.Last Trail, The.By Zane Grey.Laughing Bill Hyde.By Rex Beach.Laughing Girl, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Law Breakers, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Law of the Gun, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.By Baroness Orczy.Lifted Veil, The.By Basil King.Lighted Way, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lin McLean.By Owen Wister.Little Moment of Happiness, The.By Clarence Budington Kelland.Lion's Mouse, The.By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Lonesome Land.By B. M. Bower.Lone Wolf, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Lonely Stronghold, The.By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.Long Live the King.By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Lost Ambassador.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lost Prince, The.By Frances Hodgson Burnett.Lydia of the Pines.By Honorè Willsie.Lynch Lawyers.By William Patterson White.Macaria.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Maid of the Forest, The.By Randall Parrish.Maid of Mirabelle, The.By Eliot H. Robinson.Maid of the Whispering Hills, The.By Vingie E. Roe.Major, The.By Ralph Connor.Maker of History, A.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Malefactor, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Man from Bar 20, The.By Clarence E. Mulford.Man from Bitter Roots, The.By Caroline Lockhart.Man from Tall Timber, The.By Thomas K. Holmes.Man in the Jury Box, The.By Robert Orr Chipperfield.Man-Killers, The.By Dane Coolidge.Man Proposes.By Eliot H. Robinson, author of "Smiles."Man Trail, The.By Henry Oyen.Man Who Couldn't Sleep, The.By Arthur Stringer.Marqueray's Duel.By Anthony Pryde.Mary 'Gusta.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mary Wollaston.By Henry Kitchell Webster.Mason of Bar X Ranch.By E. Bennett.Master Christian, The.By Marie Corelli.Master Mummer, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.By A. Conan Doyle.Men Who Wrought, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Midnight of the Ranges.By George Gilbert.Mischief Maker, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Missioner, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Miss Million's Maid.By Berta Ruck.Money Master, The.By Gilbert Parker.Money Moon, The.By Jeffery Farnol.Moonlit Way, The.By Robert W. Chambers.More Tish.By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Mountain Girl, The.By Payne Erskine.Mr. Bingle.By George Barr McCutcheon.Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Mr. Pratt.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mr. Pratt's Patients.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mr. Wu.By Louise Jordan Miln.Mrs. Balfame.By Gertrude Atherton.Mrs. Red Pepper.By Grace S. Richmond.My Lady of the North.By Randall Parrish.My Lady of the South.By Randall Parrish.Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The.By Anna K. Green.Mystery of the Silver Dagger, The.By Randall Parrish.Mystery of the 13th Floor, The.By Lee Thayer.Nameless Man, The.By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.Ne'er-Do-Well, The.By Rex Beach.Net, The.By Rex Beach.New Clarion.By Will N. Harben.Night Horseman, The.By Max Brand.Night Operator, The.By Frank L. Packard.Night Riders, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.North of the Law.By Samuel Alexander White.One Way Trail, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Outlaw, The.By Jackson Gregory.Owner of the Lazy D.By William Patterson White.Painted Meadows.By Sophie Kerr.Palmetto.By Stella G. S. Perry.Paradise Bend.By William Patterson White.Pardners.By Rex Beach.Parrot & Co.By Harold MacGrath.Partners of the Night.By Leroy Scott