The result of the girl's cogitations left her exactly where she started. She was no nearer the solution of her problem of the hills. And her lurking doubt of Bethune still remained despite the excuses she invented to account for his unpopularity, nor had her opinion of Vil Holland been altered in the least.
Upon arriving at her cabin she was not at all surprised to find that it had been thoroughly searched, albeit with less care than the searcher had been in the habit of bestowing upon the readjustment of the various objects of the room exactly as she had left them. Canned goods and dishes were disarranged upon their shelves, and the loose section of floor board beneath her bunk that had evidently served as the secretcacheof the sheep herder, had been fitted clumsily into its place. The evident boldness, or carelessness of this latest outrage angered her as no previous search had done. Heretofore each object had been returned to its place with painstaking accuracy so that it had been only through the use of fine-spun cobwebs and carefully arranged bits of dust that she had been ableto verify her suspicion that the room had really been searched—and there had been times when even the dust and the cobwebs had been replaced. Whoever had been searching the cabin had proven himself a master of detail, and had at least, paid her the compliment of possessing imagination, and a shrewdness equaling his own. Was it possible that the searcher, emboldened by her repeated failure to spy upon him at his work, had ceased to care whether or not she knew of his visits? The girl recalled the three weary days she had spent watching from the hillside. And how she had decided to buy a lock for her door, until the futility of it had been brought home to her by the discovery that her trunks were being searched along with her other belongings, and their locks left in perfect condition. So far, he might well scorn her puny attempts at discovery. Or, had a new factor entered the game? Had someone of cruder mold undertaken to discover her secret? The thought gave her a decided uneasiness. Tired out by her trip, she did not light the fire, and after disposing of the cold lunch Mrs. Thompson had put up for her, affixed the bar, and went to bed, with her six-gun within reach of her hand.
For a long time she lay in the darkness, thinking. "The way it was before, I haven't been in any physical danger. Mr. Vil Holland knows that if what he is searching for is not here I must carry it on my person. The obvious way to get it would be to take it away from me. Of course the only way he could do that without my seeing him would be to kill me. He hesitates at murder. Either there are depths of moral turpitude into which he will not descend—or, he fears the consequences. He has imagination. He assumes that sometime I'll leave that packet at home—either through carelessness, or because I have learned its contents by heart and don't need it. In the meantime, in addition to his patient searching of the cabin, he is taking no chances, and while he waits for the inevitable to happen he is following me so if I do succeed in locating the claim, he can beat me to the register. It's a pretty game—no violence—only patience and brains. But this other," she shuddered, "there is something positively brutal in the crude awkwardness of his work. If he thinks I carry what he wants with me, would he hesitate at murder? I guess I'll have to carry that gun again—and I better practice with it, too. If I can only get rid of this last one, I believe I'vegot a scheme for catching the other!" She sat bolt upright in bed. "Oh, if I only could! If I could only beat him at his own game—and I believe I can!" For several minutes she sat thinking rapidly, and as she lay back upon her pillow, she smiled.
Patty awoke at dawn and dressed hurriedly. Shivering in the chill air, she lighted a match and pushed back a lid of the little cast iron cook stove. Instead of the "cold fire" of neatly arranged wood and kindlings that she had built before leaving for town a pile of gray ashes and blackened ends of charcoal greeted her.
"Whoever it was knew he had plenty of time at his disposal so he helped himself to a meal," she muttered angrily. "He might, at least, have cut me some kindlings. I'm surprised that he had the good grace to wash up his dirty dishes." A few moments later, as the fire crackled merrily in the stove, she picked up the water pail and stepping through the door, threw back her head and breathed deeply of the crisp mountain air. "Oh, it's wonderful just to be alive!" she whispered. "Even if everybody is against you. It'sjust like a great big game and, oh, I want to win! I've got to win!" she added, grimly, as her thoughts flew to her depleted bank account.
At the spring she paused in the act of filling her pail and stared at a mark in the mud at the edge of the tiny rill formed by the overflow from the catch basin. She leaned over and examined the mark more closely. It was the track of a bare foot. Then, for the first time in many days, the girl threw back her head and laughed. "Microby Dandeline!" she cried. "And I was picturing some skulking murderer lying in wait to pounce on me at the first opportunity. And here it was only poor little Microby who happened along, and with her natural curiosity pawed over everything in the cabin, and then decided it would be a grand stunt to cook herself a meal and eat it at my table—and I haven't the least doubt that she arrayed herself in one of my dresses when she did it." Patty hummed a light tune as, water pail in hand, she made her way up the path to the cabin. "Whee! but it's a relief to feel that I won't have to ride these hills peering behind every tree and rock for a lurking assassin. And I won't have to carry that horrid heavy old gun, either."
After breakfast she saddled her horse and headedup the ravine that she had followed upon the morning of her first ride. At the top of the divide she pulled up her horse and gazed downward at the little cabin. As before she was impressed by the startling distinctness with which each object was visible. "Anyway, I'm glad my window is not on this side," she muttered, as her eyes strayed to the ground at her horse's feet. For yards around, the buffalo grass had been trampled and pawed until scarcely a spear remained. "Here's where he watches me start out each morning, then he follows me until he's sure I'm well away from the valley, then he slips back and searches the cabin, and then takes up my trail again. The miserable sneak!" she cried, angrily. "If Mr. Thompson, and Watts, and that cowboy preacher knew what I knew about him, they wouldn't seem so impressed with him. Anyway," she added, defiantly, "Mr. Bethune and Lord Clendenning know him for what he is-and so do I."
It was in a very wrathful mood that she turned her horse's head and struck into the timber, being careful to avoid Vil Holland's camp by a wide margin. Crossing the timbered plateau, she topped a low divide and found herself at the headof a deep, rocky valley, whose course she could trace for miles as it wound in and out among the far hills. Giving her horse his head, she began the descent of the valley, scanning its sides carefully as the animal picked his way slowly among the rock fragments and patches of scrub timber that littered its floor. She had proceeded for perhaps an hour when, in passing the mouth of a ravine that slanted sharply into the hills, she was startled by a rattling of loose stones, and a horse and rider emerged almost directly into her path. The next moment Vil Holland raised the Stetson from his head and addressed her gravely: "Good mornin' Miss Sinclair, I sure didn't mean to come out on you sudden, that way, but Buck slipped on the rocks an' we come mighty near pilin' up."
"It is about the first slip you've made, isn't it?" Patty answered, acidly. "Possibly if you'd left your jug at home you wouldn't have made that."
"Oh no. We've slipped before. Fact is, we've been into about every kind of a jack-pot the hills can deal. We rolled half way down a mountain once, an' barrin' a little skinnin' up, we come out of it all to the good. But it ain't the jug. Buck don't drink. It's surprisin' what a good habitedhorse he is. He's a heap better'n most folks." The man spoke gravely, with no hint of sarcasm in his tone, and Patty sniffed. He appeared not to notice. "How you comin' on with the prospectin'? Found yer dad's claim yet?"
"You ought to know whether I have or not," she retorted, hotly.
"That's so. If you had, you wouldn't still be huntin' it, would you?"
"No. And if I had, I'd have had a nice little race on my hands to file it, wouldn't I?"
"Well, I expect maybe you would. But that horse of yours is pretty handy on his feet. Used to belong to Bob Smith—that's his brand—that KN on the left shoulder."
"Yes," answered the girl, meaningly. "I understand there is only one horse in the hills that could outrun him."
"Buck can. I won ten dollars off Bob one time. We run a mile, an' Buck won, easy. But the best thing about Buck, he's a distance horse. He's got the wind—an' he don't know what it means to quit. He could run all day if he had to, couldn't you, Buck?" The man stroked the buckskin's neck affectionately as he talked.
Patty's eyes glinted angrily: "The stakeswould have to be pretty high for you to run him, say, fifty miles, wouldn't they?"
"Yes. Pretty high," he repeated, and changed the subject abruptly. "Must find it kind of lonesome out here in the hills, after livin' in the East where there's lots of folks around all the time."
"Oh, not at all," answered the girl, quickly. "Some of my neighbors are good enough to call on me once in a while—when I am at home. And there is at leastonethat calls very regularly when I am not at home. He is a genius for detail—that one. Sharp eyes, and a light touch. He's something of an expert in the matter of duplicate keys, too. In any large city he should make a grand success—as a burglar. It is really too bad that he's wasting his talents, here in the hills."
"Maybe he figures that the stakes are higher, and the risk less—here in the hills."
"Of course," sneered Patty. "And I must say his reasoning does him credit. If he should succeed in burglarizing even the biggest bank in the richest city, he could not expect to carry off a gold mine. And, here in the hills, instead of burglar-proof devices and armed policemen, he has only an unlocked cabin, and a woman to contendwith. Yes, the risk is far less here in the hills. His location speaks well for his reasoning—if not for his courage."
"I suppose he figures that plenty of brutes have got courage, but only humans can reason," answered the man, blandly. "But, ridin' out in the hills this way—that must be a lonesome job."
"Not at all," she answered, in a voice that masked the anger against the man who sat calmly baiting her. "In fact, I never ride alone. I have an unseen escort, who accompanies me wherever I go. 'My guardian devil of the hills' I call him, and even when I'm at home I know that he is watching from his notch in the rim of the hills."
"Guardian devil," the man repeated. "That's pretty good." He did not smile, in fact, Patty recalled, as she sat looking squarely into his eyes, that she had never seen him smile—had never seen him express any emotion. Without a trace of anger in tone or expression he had ordered the grasping hotel-keeper about—and had been obeyed to the letter. And without the slightest evidence of annoyance or displeasure he had listened, upon several occasions to her own sarcastic outbursts against him. Here was a man as devoid of emotion as a fish, or one whose complete self-mastery wasastounding. "Pretty good," he repeated. "And does he know that you call him your 'guardian devil?'"
"Yes, I think he does—now," she answered, dryly. "By the way, Mr. Holland, you do a good deal of riding about the hills, yourself."
"Yeh, prospectors are apt to. Then, there's other little matters of interest here, too."
"Such as horse-thieving?" suggested the girl. "I heard you were paid to run down a gang of horse-thieves. I was wondering when you found time to earn your money."
"Yeh, there's some hair artists loose in the hills, an' some of the outfits kind of wanted me to keep an eye out for 'em."
An old saw flashed into the girl's mind, and the comers of her mouth drew into a sarcastic smile.
"'Settin' a thief to catch a thief,' is what you're thinkin'. We ain't so well acquainted yet as what we will be—when you get your eye teeth cut."
"I suppose our real acquaintance will begin when the game we are playing comes to a show-down?" she sneered. "But let me tell you this, if I win, our acquaintance will end, right where you think it will begin!"
The cowboy nodded: "That's fair an' square. An' if I win—you'll have to be satisfied with what you get. Good-day, I've fooled away time enough already." And, with a word to his horse, Vil Holland disappeared up the valley in the direction from which the girl had come.
When her anger had cooled sufficiently, Patty smiled, a rather grim, tight-lipped little smile. "If he wins I'll have to be satisfied with what I get," she muttered. "At least, he's candid about it. I think, now, Mr. Vil Holland and I understand each other perfectly."
Late in the afternoon she emerged from the mouth of her valley and, crossing a familiar tongue of bench, found herself upon the trail near the point of its intersection with Monte's Creek. Turning up the creek, she stopped for a few minutes' chat with Ma Watts.
"Law sakes! Climb right down an' set a while. I wus sayin' to Watts las' night how we-all hain't see nawthin' of yo' fer hit's goin' on a couple of weeks 'cept yo' hirein' the team, an' not stoppin' in to speak of, comin' er goin'. How be yo'? An' I 'spect yo' hain't found yer pa's claim yet. I saved yo' up a dozen of aigs. Hed to mighty near fight off that there Lord Clendennin' he wanted'em so bad. But I done tol' him yo' wus promised 'em, an' yo'd git 'em not nary nother. So there they be, honey, all packed in a pail with hay so's they won't break. No sir, I tol' him how he couldn't hev' 'em if he wus two lords. An' all the time we wus a-augerin', Mr. Bethune an' Microby Dandeline sot out yonder a-talkin' an' laughin', friendly as yo' please." Ma Watts paused for breath and her eye fell upon her spouse, who stood meekly beside the kitchen door. "Watts, where's yer manners? Cain't yo' say 'howdy' to Mr. Sinclair's darter—an' her a-payin' yo' good money fer rent an' fer team hire. Yo' ort to be 'shamed, standin' gawpin' like a mud turkle. Folks 'ud think yo' hain't got good sense."
"I aimed to say 'howdy' first chanct I got." He shoved a chair toward the girl. "Set down an' take hit easy a spell."
"Where is Microby?" she asked, refusing the proffered seat with a smile, and leaning lightly against her saddle.
"Land sakes, I don't know! She's gittin' that no 'count, she goes pokin' off somewhere's in the hills on Gee Dot. Says she's a-prospectin'—like they all says when they're too lazy to do reg'lar work."
"My father was a prospector," answered the girl, quickly, "and there wasn't a lazy bone in his body. And I'm a prospector, and I'm sure I'm not lazy."
"Law, there I went an' done hit!" exclaimed Ma Watts, contritely. "I didn't mean no real honest-to-Gawd, reg'lar prospectors like yo' pa wus, an' yo', an' Mr. Bethune. But there's that Vil Holland, he's a cowpuncher, when he works, and a prospector when he don't. An' there's Lord Clendennin', he's a prospector all the time, 'cause he don't never work—an' that's the way hit goes. An' Microby Dandeline's a-gittin' as triflin' as the rest. Mr. Bethune, he tellin' her how she'd git rich ef she could find a gol' mind, an' how she could buy her some fine clos' like yourn, an' go to the city to live like the folks in the pitchers. Mr. Bethune, he's done found minds. He's rich. An' he's got manners, too. Watts, he's allus makin' light of manners—says they don't 'mount to nawthin'. But thet's 'cause he hain't quality. Quality's got 'em, an' they're nice to hev."
"Gre't sight o' quality—him," growled Watts. "He's part Injun."
"Hit don't make no diff'ence what he's part!" defended the woman. "He's rich, an' he's purtylookin', an' he's got manners like I done tol' yo'. Ef I wus you I'd marry up with him, an——"
"Why, Mrs. Watts! What do you mean?" exclaimed the girl flushing with annoyance.
"Jest what I be'n aimin' to tell yo' fer hit's goin' on quite a spell. Yo'n him 'ud step hit off right pert. Yo' pretty, an' yo' rich, er yo' will be when yo' find yo' pa's mind, an' yo' manners is most as good as his'n."
The humor of the mountain woman's serious effort at match-making struck Patty, and she interrupted with a laugh: "There are several objections to that arrangement," she hastened to say. "In the first place Mr. Bethune has never asked me to marry him. He may have serious objections, and as for me, I'm not ready to even think of marrying."
"Don't take long to git ready, onct yo' git in the notion. An' I bet Mr. Bethune hain't abuzzin' 'round up an' down this yere crick fer nawthin'. Law sakes, child, when I tuk a notion to take Watts, come a supper time I wusn't no more a mind to git married than yo' be, an', by cracky! come moonrise me an' Watts had forked one o' pa's mewels with nothin' on but a rope halter, an' wus headin' down the branch with paan' my brother Lafe a-cuttin' through the lau'ls with their rifle-guns fer to head us off."
"Yo' didn't take me fer looks ner manners, neither," reminded Watts.
"Law, I'd a be'n single yet, ef I hed. No sir, I tuk yo' to save a sight o' killin' that's what I done. Yo' see, Miss, my pa wus sot on me not marryin' no Watts—not that I aimed to, 'til he says I dasn't. But Watts hed be'n a pesterin' 'round right smart, nights, an' pa lowed he'd shore kill him daid ef he didn't mind his own business—so'd my brothers, they wus five of 'em, an' nary one that wusn't mighty handy with his rifle-gun.
"So Watts, he quit a-comin' to the cabin, but me an' him made hit up thet he'd hide out on t'other side o' the branch an' holler like a owl, an' then I'd slip out the back do'—an' that's the way we done our co'tin'. My folks didn't hev no truck with the Wattses thet lived on t'other side the mountain, 'count of them killin' two Strunkses a way back, the Strunkses bein' my pa's ma's folks, over a hawg. Even then I didn't hev no notion o' marryin' Watts, jest done hit to be a-doin' like, ontil pa an' the boys ketched on to whut we wus up to. After thet, hit got so'tevery time they heerd a squinch owl holler, they'd begin a-shootin' into the bresh with their rifle guns. Watts lowed they was comin' doggone clust to him a time er two, an' how he aimed to bring along his own gun some night, an' start a shootin' back.
"Law knows wher it would ended, whut one with another, the Biggses an' the Strunkses, an' the Rawlins, an' the Craborchards would hev be'n drug into hit, along of the Wattses an' the Scrogginses. So I tuk Watts, an' we went to live with his folks, an' we sent back the mewel with Job Swenky, who they wouldn't nobody kill 'cause he wus a daftie. An' pa brung back the mewel hisself, come alone, an' 'thouten his rifle-gun. He says seem' how Watts hed got me fair an' squr, an' we wus reg'lar married, he reckoned the ol' grudge wus dead, the Strunkses wasn't no count much, nohow, an' we wus welcome to keep the mewel to start on. So Watts's pa killed a shoat, an' brung out a big jug o' corn whisky, an' we-all et an' drunk all we could hold, an' from then on 'til whut time we come away from ther, they wusn't a man, outside a couple o' revenoos, killed on B'ar Track.
"So yo' see," the woman continued, with asmile. "Hit don't take no time to git ready, onct yo' git in the notion."
"I'm afraid I haven't the same provocation," Patty laughed, as she picked up her pail of eggs and swung into the saddle. "Good-by, and be sure and tell Microby Dandeline to come up and see me. Maybe she'd like to come up on Sunday. I never ride on Sunday."
"She'll come fast enough," promised Ma Watts, and watched the retreating girl until a bend of the creek carried her out of sight.
The long shadows of the mountains were slowly climbing the opposite wall of the valley, as the girl rode leisurely up Monte's Creek. And as she rode, she smiled: "Why is it that every married woman—and especially the older ones, thinks it is her bounden duty to pounce upon and marry off every single one? It is not one bit different out here in the heart of the hills, than it is in Middleton, or New York. And, it isn't because they're all so happy in their own marriages, either. Look at old Mrs. Stratford, who was bound and determined that I must marry that Archie Smith-Jones; she's been married four times, and divorced three. And Archie never will amount to a row of pins. He looks like a tailor's model, and acts likea Rolls-Royce. And, I don't see any supreme bliss about Mrs. Watts's married existence, although she's perfectly satisfied, I guess, poor thing. I love the subtle finesse with which she tried to arrange a match between me and Mr. Bethune. ''Ef I wus yo' I'd marry up with him'—just like that! Shades of Mrs. Stratford who spent two whole months trying to get Archie and me into the same canoe! And when she did, the blamed thing tipped over and ruined the only decent summer things I had, all because that fool Archie thought he had to stand up to fend the canoe off the pier.... At least, Mr. Bethune has got some sense, and he is good looking, and he seems to have money, and there is a certain dash and verve about him that one would hardly expect to find here in the hills—and yet—there's something—it isn't his Indian blood, I don't care a cent about that—but sometimes, there's something about him that makes me wonder if he's genuine."
She passed through the cottonwood grove and emerged into the open only a few hundred yards below the sheep camp. A moment later she halted abruptly and stared toward the cabin. Two saddled horses stood before the door, reins hanging loosely, and upon the edge of a low cut-bank, just below the shallow waters of the ford, two men were struggling, locked in each other's embrace. Hastily the girl drew back into the cover of the grove and watched with intense interest the two forms that weaved precariously above the deep pool formed by a sudden bend in the creek. The horses she recognized as Vil Holland's buckskin, and the big, blaze-faced bay ridden by Lord Clendenning. In the gathering dusk she could not make out the faces of the two men, but by their heaving, circling, swaying figures she knew that mighty muscles were being strained to their utmost, and that soon one or the other must give in. A dozen questions flashed through the girl's brain. What were they doing there? Why were they fighting at the very door of her cabin? And, above all, what would be the outcome? Would one of them kill the other? Would one of them be left maimed and bleeding for her to bind up and coax back to life?
The men were on the very verge of the cut-bank, now, and it seemed inevitable that both must go crashing into the creek. "Serve 'em right if they would," muttered Patty, "I'd like to give 'em a push." With the words on her lips, she saw a blur of motion, one of the forms leapedlightly back, and the other poised for a second, arms waving wildly in a vain effort to regain his balance, then fell suddenly backward and toppled headlong into the creek. Patty could distinctly hear the mighty splash with which he struck the water, as the other advanced to the edge and peered downward. She knew that this other was Vil Holland, and a moment later he turned away and catching up the reins of the buckskin, swung into the saddle, splashed through the ford, and disappeared into the scrub timber of the opposite side of the valley.
Patty urged her horse forward, at the imminent risk of injury to her pail of eggs. When she had almost reached the cabin, a grotesque, dripping form crawled heavily from the creek bed, gave one hurried glance in her direction, mounted his horse, and disappeared in a thunder of galloping hoofs.
For several days following the incident of the two struggling horsemen, Patty rode, extending her quest farther and farther into the hills, and thus widening the circle of her exploration. She had overhauled her father's photographic outfit and found it contained complete supplies for the development and printing of his own pictures, and having brought several rolls of films from town, she proceeded to amuse herself by photographing the more striking bits of scenery she encountered upon her daily rides.
It was mid-summer, now, the sun shone hot and brassy from a cloudless sky, and the buffalo grass was beginning to exchange its fresh greenness for a shade of dirty tan. Only the delicious coolness of the short nights made bearable the long, hot, monotonous days during which the girl stuck doggedly to her purpose. Upon these rides shemet no one. It was as if human beings had entirely forsaken the world and left it to the prairie dogs, the coyotes, and the lazily coiled rattle-snakes that lay basking upon the rocks in the hot glare of the sun. Even the occasional bunches of range cattle did not eye her with their accustomed interest, but lay in straggling groups close beside the cold waters of tiny streams.
And it was upon one of these hot days, long past the noon hour, that Patty dismounted in a narrow valley near the head of a cold mountain stream and, affixing the hobbles to her horse's legs, threw off the saddle and bridle, and spread the sweat-dampened blanket to dry in the sun. Freed of his accouterments, the horse shook himself, shuffled to the stream, and burying his muzzle to the eyes, sucked up great gulps of the cold water, and playfully thrashing his head, sent volleys of silver drops flying from side to side, as he churned the tiny pool into a veritable mud wallow. Tiring of that, he rolled luxuriously, the crisping buffalo grass scratching the irking saddle-feel from his back and sides: and as the girl spread her luncheon upon a clean white napkin in the shade of a stunted cottonwood, fell to grazing contentedly.
As Patty chipped at the shell of a hard-boiledegg she glanced toward the horse, which had stopped grazing and stood facing down stream with ears nervously alert. A few moments later the soft rattle of bit-chains and the low shuffling of hoofs told her that a rider was approaching at a walk. "Probably my guardian devil, ostensibly paying strict attention to his own business of prospecting, or trying to strike the trail of the horse-thieves, but in reality hot on the trail of little me. I just wish I could find the mine. He'll have to stop and drive his stakes and fix his notice, and if his old buckskin is as good as he thinks he is, he'll just about overtake me at Thompson's. And then on a fresh horse—I just want one good look into his face when I pass him, that's all!"
The horseman came suddenly into view a few yards distant, and the girl looked up into the black eyes of Monk Bethune.
"Well, well, my dear Miss Sinclair!" The quarter-breed's tone was one of glad surprise, as he dismounted and advanced, hat in hand. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. La, la, la, the luck of it! Shall we say, the romance? Hot and saddle-weary from a long ride, to come suddenly upon the fairest of ladies, at luncheon alone in the most charming of little valleys. It is a situationto be dreamed of. And, am I not to be asked to share your repast?"
Patty laughed. The light whimsicality of the man's mood amused her: "Yes, you may consider yourself invited."
"And be assured that I accept, that is, upon condition that I be allowed to contribute my just share toward the feast." As he talked, Bethune fumbled at his pack-strings, and brought forth a small canvas bag, from which he drew sandwiches of fried trout and bacon thrust between two slabs of doubtful looking baking-powder bread. "No dainty lunch prepared by woman's hand," he apologized, "but we of the hills, no matter how exotic or æsthetic our tastes may be, must of stern necessity descend to the common level of cowboys and offscourings in the matter of our eating. See, beside your own palatable food, this rough fare of mine presents an appearance unappetizing almost to repugnance."
"At least, it looks eminently satisfying," said Patty, eyeing the thick sandwiches.
"Satisfying, I grant you. Satisfying to the beast that is in man, in that it stays the pangs of hunger. So is the blood-dripping carcass of the fresh-killed calf satisfying to the wolf, and carrionsatisfying to the buzzard. But, not at all satisfying to the unbestial ego—to the thing that makes man, man."
"You should have been a poet," smiled the girl. "But come, even poets must eat."
"God help the man who has no poetry in his soul—no imagination!" exclaimed Bethune, a trifle sententiously, thought the girl, as she resumed the chipping of her egg. "Imagination," the word hovered elusively in her brain—she had applied that word only recently to someone—oh, yes, the man whose habit it was to search her cabin. She smiled ever so slightly as she glanced sidewise at Bethune who was nibbling at one of his own sandwiches.
"Please try one of mine," she urged, "and there are some pickles, and an olive or two. I have loads of them at home, and really I believe I should like that other sandwich of yours. I haven't tasted fish for ages."
"Take it and welcome," smiled the man. "But do not deny yourself the pleasure of eating all the fish you want. Why, with a bent pin, a bit of thread, and housefly, you can catch yourself a mess of trout any morning without venturing a hundred yards from your own door. Monte'sCreek is alive with them, and taken fresh from the water and fried to a crisp in butter, they make a breakfast fit for a king, or in the present instance, I should have said, a queen."
"Tell me," asked Patty, abruptly. "Has Vil Holland imagination?"
"Imagination! My dear lady, Vil Holland is the veriest clod! Too lazy to do the honest work for which he is fitted, he roams the hills under pretense of prospecting."
"But, how does he make a living?"
Bethune shrugged. "Who can tell? I know for a certainty that he has never made a cent out of his alleged prospecting. It is true he rides the round-up for a couple of months in the spring and fall, but four months' work at forty dollars a month will hardly suffice for a man's yearly needs." He unconsciously lowered his voice, and continued: "Several ranchers have complained of losing horses and only a few days ago, up near the line, my good friend Corporal Downey, of the Mounted, told me that a number of American horses, with brands skillfully doctored, had been regularly making their appearance in Canada. It is an ugly suspicion, and I am making no open accusation, but—one may wonder."
The man finished his sandwich, dipped his fingers into the creek, wiped them upon his handkerchief, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. "Speaking of Vil Holland, why did you ask whether he had—imagination?"
"Oh, I don't know," replied the girl, lightly. "I just wondered."
Bethune regarded her steadily. "Has he been,—er, interfering in any way with your attempt to locate your father's strike?"
"Hardly interfering, I should say."
"You believe he still follows you?"
"Yes."
"You do not fear him?"
"No."
"That is because you do not know him! I tell you he is a dangerous man!" Bethune puffed shortly at his cigarette, hurled it from him, and faced the girl with glowing eyes: "Ah, Miss Sinclair, why don't you end this uncertainty? Why do you continue every day to jeopardize your interests—yes, your very life——?"
"Do you mean," interrupted the girl, "why don't I form a partnership with you?"
"A partnership! Ah, no, not a—and, yet—yes, a partnership. A partnership of life, and love, andhappiness!" The man moved close, and the black eyes seemed, in the intensity of their gaze to devour her very soul. "There I have said it—the thing I have been wanting to say, yet have feared to say." Patty's lips moved, as if to speak, but the man forestalled the words with a gesture. "Before you answer, let me tell you how, since you first came into the hills, I have lived in the shadow of a mighty fear—I, who have lived my life among men, and have never known the meaning of fear, have been harassed by a multitude of fears. From the moment of our first meeting I have loved you. And, by all the saints, I swear you are the only woman I have ever loved! And, yet, I feared to tell you of that love. Twice the words have trembled on my tongue, and remained unspoken, because I feared that you might spurn me. Then in my heart rose another fear, and I cursed myself for a craven. I feared that chance might favor you in locating your father's strike, and then people would say, 'he loves her for her wealth.' I even thought that you, yourself, might doubt—might ask yourself why he waited until I became rich before he told me of his love? But, believe me, my dear lady, for your wealth, I care not the snap of my fingers—so!" He snapped his fingers loudlyand continued: "But say the word, and we will go far from the hill country, and leave your father's secret to the guardianship of his beloved mountains. For I am rich. I own mines, mines, mines! What is one mine more or less to me?"
Patty Sinclair felt herself drifting under the spell of his compelling ardor. "Why not?" she asked herself. "Why not marry this man and give up the hopeless struggle?" She thought of her depleted bank account. At best, she could not hope to hold out much longer. Bethune had taken her hand as he talked, and she had not withdrawn it from his palm. Swiftly he bent his head and pressed the brown hand passionately to his lips. She felt his grip tighten as the burning kisses covered her hand—her wrist. She drew the hand away.
"But, I do not want to leave the hill country," she said, quite calmly. "I shall never leave it until I have vindicated my father's course in the eyes of the people back home—the men who scoffed at him, and called him a ne'er-do-well, and a dreamer—who refused to back his judgment with their miserable dollars—who killed him with their cruelty, and their doubt!"
"I hoped you would say that!" exclaimed Bethune,his eyes alight with approval. "I knew you would say it! The daughter of your father could not do otherwise. I knew him well, and loved him as a son should love. And I, too, would see his judgment vindicated in the eyes of all the world. Listen, together we will remain, and together we will locate the lost strike, if it takes every cent I own." The man's voice gripped in its intensity, and Patty's eyes returned from the distance where the summer haze bathed far mountain tops in soft purple, and looked into the eyes of velvet black.
"But, why should you want to marry me?" she inquired, a puzzled little frown wrinkling her forehead. "You hardly know me. You have not always lived in the hills. You have met many women."
"A man meets many women. He marries but one. You ask me why I want to marry you. I cannot tell you why. Many times since we first met I have asked myself why. I, who have openly scoffed at the yoke, and boasted proudly of my freedom. I do not know why, unless it is that to me you are the embodiment of all womanhood—of all that is desirable and worth while, or maybe the reason is in the fact that while I am with you I am supremely happy, and while I am absentfrom you I am restless and unhappy—a prey to my fears. I suppose it all sums up in the reason—world-old, but ever new—because I love you." The man was upon his feet, now, bending toward her with arms outstretched. For just an instant Patty hesitated, then shook her head.
"No!" she cried and struggling to her feet, faced him across the remains of the luncheon. "No, it would not be playing the game. I have my work to do, and I'll do it alone. It would be like quitting—like calling for help before I am beaten. This is my work—not yours, this vindication of my father!"
"But think," interrupted Bethune, "you will not let such Quixotic ideals stand between us and happiness! You have your right to happiness, and so have I, and in the end 'twill be the same, your father's name will be cleared of any suspicion of unworthiness."
"It is my work," Patty repeated, stubbornly, "and besides, I do not think I love you. I do not know——"
"Ah, but you will love me!" cried Bethune. "Such love as mine will not be denied!" The black eyes glowed, and he took a step toward her, but the girl drew away.
"Not now—not yet! Stop!" At the command Bethune recoiled slightly, and the arms that had been about to encircle the girl, fell slowly to his sides. Patty had suddenly drawn herself erect and looked him eye for eye: and as she looked, from behind the soft glow of the velvet eyes, leaped a wolfish gleam—a glint of baffled rage, a flash of hate. In a moment it was gone and the man's lips smiled.
"Pardon," he said, "for the moment I forgot I have not the right." The voice had lost its intense timbre, and sounded dull, as if held under control only by a mighty effort of will. And in that moment a strange fear of him took possession of the girl, so that her own voice surprised her with its calm.
"I must be going, now."
Bethune bowed. "I will saddle your horse, while you clear up the table." He nodded toward the napkin spread upon the grass with the remains of the luncheon upon it. "My way takes me within a short distance of your cabin; may I ride with you?" he asked a few moments later, as he led her horse, bridled and saddled, to his own.
"Why certainly. I should be glad to have you. And we can talk."
"Of love?"
The girl laughed: "No, not of love. Surely there are other things——"
"Yes, for instance, I may again warn you that you are in danger."
"Danger?" she glanced up quickly.
"From Vil Holland." They had mounted, and turned their horses toward a long divide.
"Oh, yes, from Vil Holland," she repeated slowly, as she drew in beside him. "I had almost forgotten Vil Holland."
"I wish to God I could forget him," retorted the man, viciously. "But, as long as you remain unprotected in these hills I shall never for one moment forget him. Your secret is not safe. Your person is not safe. He dogs your footsteps. He visits your cabin during your absence. He is bad—bad!And here I must tell you of an incident—or rather explain an incident, the unfortunate conclusion of which you saw with your own eyes. Poor Clen! He is beside himself with mortification at the sorry spectacle he presented when you rode up and saw him crawl dripping from the creek.
"I was away to the northward, on important business, and knowing that it had become my customto ride over occasionally to see how you fared, he decided to do the same during my absence. Arriving at the cabin, he was surprised to see Vil Holland's horse before the door. He rode boldly up, dismounted, and caught the scoundrel in the act of searching among your effects. The sight, together with the memory of the cut pack sack, enraged him to such an extent that, despite the fact that the other was armed, he attacked him with his fists. In the fighting that ensued, Holland, being much the younger and more agile, succeeded in pitching Clen over the edge of the bank into the creek. Whereupon, he leaped into the saddle and vanished.
"When Clen finally succeeded in reaching the bank and drawing himself over the top, he was horrified to see you approaching. Above all things Clen is a gentleman, and rather than appear before you in his bedraggled condition, he fled. Upon my return he insisted that I see you and explain the awkward situation to you in person. I beg of you never to refer to the incident in Clen's presence, especially not in levity, for he has, more strongly than anyone I ever knew, the Englishman's horror of appearing ridiculous."
Patty smiled: "It was too funny for words.The way he gave one horrified glance in my direction and then scrambled into his saddle and dashed away, with the water flowing from him in rivulets. But of course, I shall never mention it to Lord Clendenning, and I wish you would thank him for his valiant championship of my cause."
Bethune shot her a swift sidewise glance. Was there just a trace of mockery in the tone? If so, her expression masked it perfectly.
They rode in silence for a time, following down the course of a broad valley, and presently came out onto the trail. A rider approached them at a walk, the low-hung white dust cloud in his wake marking the course of the long, hot trail. Bethune scrutinized the man intently. "Jack Pierce," he announced. "He runs a little yak outfit, a few head of horses, and some cattle over on Big Porcupine." A moment later Bethune drew up and greeted the rider with a great show of cordiality. "Hello, Pierce, old hand! How's everything over on Porcupine?"
The rancher returned the greeting with a curt nod, and a level stare: "Things on Porky's all right, I guess—so far."
"I hear old man Samuelson's sick?"
"Yes."
"How's he getting on?"
"Ain't heard. So long." He touched his horse with a quirt and the animal continued down the trail at a brisk trot.
"Surly devil," growled Bethune, as he gazed for a moment at the retreating horseman, and this time Patty was sure she detected the snake-like gleam in the black eyes. He dug his horse viciously with his spurs and jerked him in, dancing and fighting the bit. He laughed, shortly. "These little ranchers—bah!"
"Mr. Christie rode over to see Mr. Samuelson the other day. I met him at Thompson's."
"Oh, so you know the soul-puncher, do you? Makes a big play with his yellow chaps and six-gun. Suppose he had to be there to see that old Samuelson gets a ring-side seat if he happens to cash in."
"He said he was going over to see if there was anything he could do," answered the girl, ignoring the venom of the man's words.
"Pretty slick graft—preaching. Educated for it myself. Old Samuelson's rich. Christie goes over and pulls a long face, and sends up a hatful of prayers, and if he gets well Samuelson will hand him a nice fat check for the church. If he don't, the old woman kicks in. And you know, and Iknow how much of it the church ever sees. Did the soul-puncher have anything to say about me?"
"About you?" asked the girl in apparent surprise. "Why should he say anything about you?"
"Because they all take a crack at me!" said Bethune in an injured tone. "You just saw how Pierce answered a civil question. They all hate me because I have made money. They never made any, and they never will, and they're jealous of my success. They never lose a chance to malign and injure me in every way possible—but I'll show them! Damn them! I'll show them all!" They rode for a short distance in silence, then Bethune laughed. It was the ringing boyish laugh that held no hint of bitterness or sneer. "I hope you will pardon my outburst. I have my moments of irascibility, for which I am heartily ashamed. But—poof! Like a summer cloud, they are gone as quickly as they come. Why should I care what they say of me. They betray their own meanness of soul in their envy of my success. We part here for the time. I must ride over onto the east slope—a little matter of some horses." Again he laughed: "In a few days I shall return—I give you fair warning—return to win your love. And I will win—I am Monk Bethune—I always win!"Without waiting for a reply, the man drove his spurs into his horse's sides and, swerving abruptly from the trail, disappeared down a narrow rock chasm that led directly into the heart of the hills.
That evening after supper, Patty sat upon her doorstep and watched the slowly fading opalescent glow in which the daylight surrendered to encroaching darkness. "How wonderful it all is, and how beautiful!" she breathed. "The indomitable ruggedness of the hills—rough and forbidding, but never ugly. Always beckoning, always challenging, yet always repulsing. Guarding their secrets well. Their rock walls and mighty precipices frowning displeasure at the presumptuous meddling of the intruder, and their valleys gaping in sardonic grins at the puny attempts to wrest their secret from them. Always, the mountains mock, even as they stimulate to greater effort with their wonderful air, and soothe bitter disappointment with the soft caress of twilight's after-glow. I love it—and yet, how I hate it all! I can't hold out much longer. I'm like a general who has to withdrawhis forces, not because he is beaten, but because he has run short of ammunition. It is August, and by the end of September I'll be done." She clenched her fists until the nails dug into her palms. "But I'll come back," she cried, defiantly. "I'll work—I'll find some way to earn some money, and I'll come back year after year, if I have to, until I have explored every single one of these mountains from the littlest foothill to the top of the highest peak. And someday, I'll win!"
"Mr. Bethune is rich." She started. The thought flashed upon her brain, vivid as whispered words. Involuntarily, she shuddered at the memory of his burning eyes, the hot touch of his lips upon her hand—her arm. She remembered the short, curt answers of the hard-eyed Pierce. And the thinly veiled distrust of Bethune, voiced by Vil Holland, Thompson, and the preacher whom he had affectionately referred to as "The Bishop of All Outdoors." Could it be possible—was it reasonable, that these were all so mean and contemptible of soul that their words were actuated by jealousy of Bethune's success? Patty thought not. Somehow, the characters did not fit the rôle. "If he'd have explained their dislike upon the grounds of his Indian blood, it might have carried the ring oftruth—at least, it would have been reasonable. But, jealousy—as Mr. Vil Holland would say, 'I don't grab it.'"
She recalled the wolfish gleam that flashed into Bethune's eyes, and the malicious hatred expressed in his insinuations and accusations against these men. Could it be possible that her distrust of Vil Holland was unfounded? But no, there was the repeated searching of her cabin—and had not Lord Clendenning caught him in the act? There was the trampled grass of the notch in the hills from which he was accustomed to spy upon her. And the cut pack sack—somehow, she was not so sure about that cut pack sack. But, anyway—there is the jug! "I don't trust him!" she exclaimed, "and I don't trust Monk Bethune, now. I'm glad I found him out before it was—too late. He's bad—I could see the evil glitter in his eyes. And, how do I know that he told the truth about Lord Clendenning and Vil Holland?" Darkness settled upon the valley and Patty sought her bunk where, for a restless hour, she tossed about thinking.
The following morning the girl paused, coffee pot in hand, in the act of preparing breakfast, and listened. Distinct and clear above the sound of sizzling bacon, floated the words of an old ballad: