To Mary Aikens they seemed to stand thus for hours, neither yielding an inch. It was endurance as well as strength now, and surely there the hardened rancher would win. But almost imperceptibly over Cockney's back the arms began to move. Cockney stiffened his body against it, and with failure his back bent. With the fury of insanity he writhed, but the hold on him now was more relentless than ever.
With a groan that was as much shriek he sank suddenly to his knees, blank incredulity distorting his crimson face.
Instantly the Professor's hands fell from him. Perspiration dripped from both swollen faces. Cockney leaped back, dropped his head, and charged with a bellow. Foam was dripping from his mouth.
The Professor met the lowered head with his knee, stooped over Cockney's back and encircled his waist, and tossed him in a somersault over his head. The high riding heels crashed into the ceiling as they went over, bringing down a shower of plaster and dust, but the falling man landed on his feet against the stove. It fell with a clatter, and the pipes went with it.
The Professor's teeth were still bared. He saw nothing now but the enemy before him, the death that waited for either one of them. With a heave he sent the table slithering into the wall. Crouching, circling, glaring, he moved on Cockney. It was to the death now.
Mary Aikens could stand it no longer.
"Don't, don't!" she cried. "Oh, Professor! Don't kill him, for my sake!"
Professor Bulkeley shivered, stopped where he crouched, and with a long, quivering breath straightened and moved backward.
On Cockney the effect was different. A moment ago his resources seemed to be exhausted—baffled by this man he had ridiculed. But the appeal of his wife—to the Professor—for him—drove the blood to his eyes.
"I'll kill you!" he frothed. "I'll kill you!"
He mouthed it like a madman, his great head rolling loosely, his fingers closing and opening.
"And you, too, you Jezebel!"
Through panting lips the Professor spoke:
"It wouldn't be the first time you'd done a deed like that to a woman, would it—Jim Cathers?"
Cockney staggered back, his hand fumbling at his lips.
"Jim—Cathers!" he faltered. "You know—that!"
Mary Aikens' eyes dilated. She came swiftly to the Professor.
"Jim Cathers? What do you mean?"
The Professor shifted his eyes to hers—and Cockney sprang forward. The Professor threw up his arms but missed, and Cockney's right hand wound round his neck and hooked beneath his shoulder. The shock and strain almost dislocated the Professor's neck, and his eyes closed, his legs shook. He braced against the wave of dizziness, but he was powerless against such a hold of such a powerful maniac. There was nothing now but submission or a broken neck. Either meant death. Burning waves of agony and dull insensibility chased each other through his head.
Cockney shouted derisively.
"Now—now!"
The Professor's arms fell limply away, his knees bent. A burst of agony parted his swollen lips.
Mary Aikens saw only certain death to one of them—and the other a murderer—if she did not act quickly. She seized a Chinese vase from the piano beside her and, closing her eyes, brought it down with all her might on her husband's head. Dimly she heard staggering feet, the thud of a body, and then she fell unconscious.
Her first impression was of a warm, tender hand holding a cold cloth to her temples. She reached up and seized it; but it was jerked from her grasp. She opened her eyes and looked into Professor Bulkeley's face bending over her. Instantly he rose to his feet.
"You'll be all right now," he said coldly, and left her.
It was so cruel. She wanted to cry out against him. But across the room she could see him and the cook bending over the prostrate form of her husband. A vague sense of the emotions that must be controlling the Professor closed her lips. The cook retreated to the kitchen, and they heard him close the back door and pass rapidly away toward the ranch buildings.
The Professor lifted Cockney against the wall. He was partly conscious now, a large bandage covering the upper part of his head. He looked over at his wife, puzzled. Memory returned to him in a wave, and he struggled to stand up. But the Professor's strong hand pressed him back.
"Wait, Jim Cathers! There are things you should know."
He drew from an inside pocket a newspaper clipping carefully folded in a piece of stiff paper, and held it out to Cockney.
"You'll know by that that I'm not the man to insult any man's wife. Perhaps you'll realise how I've held myself these many weeks."
He thrust the clipping into Cockney's nerveless hand.
"I believe I can trust it to you now—as well as the next move. You're a free man. It's an open race between us now.... But you've the inside track—and I'll leave you there till the decision's made. I think I know Cockney Aikens, if I didn't Jim Cathers."
Without looking at Mary he went out, though she hungered for his eyes. Cockney staggered to his feet and sank into a chair, staring at the clipping. Once or twice as he read, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead, and at the end he closed his eyes. Mary Aikens stood leaning on the piano, scarcely breathing.
Presently he looked at her.
"Sit down, Mary." His voice was like the old courting days. "I have a—a story to tell you."
She sank to the piano seat, her arms outstretched over the keyboard.
"It's a story that suffers from being withheld from you so long. You should have known it—Mary Merrill—before you—you consented to come here—no, you should never have heard it, for it should never have been necessary to tell you.... I thought the only one who knew it was myself—it was my story—the story of a broken, degraded life. It is better—and worse than I thought....
"You are not my wife."
She was conscious of a numbing chaos or emotions that clouded her brain—but there was joy there with the bewilderment; joy—and shame.
He drew a broken breath.
"You are not my wife—unless—unless ... I was born in England—in Surrey—you need know nothing more definite than that. My name is Jim Cathers—you heard it. My people had money—too much of it for my good. There are many in England like that.... I was spoilt—spoilt as a baby, as a boy, as a youth.... It was in my youth it began to twist my life. My money—everyone knew of it. That was part of my parents' creed. The girls about knew that Jim Cathers was the catch of the country-side—they thought of nothing but my money.... Money—and position—count so much more in love over there—because all men are not equal. Love is more impersonal, I suppose....
"There was one—Dorothy Swaine. She was a—a publican's daughter. I have only this excuse—a miserable one—that the publican over there is rated differently from where you were raised. I met her on one of my orgies. She was pretty; I was a fool. She wanted my money and name. I—I wanted ... Mary Merrill. I loved her as much as my shallow nature in those days knew how.... I married her."
He swallowed hard, and crushed the bit of paper in his nervous hand, but smoothed it out again carefully on his knees.
"We scarcely lived together. Father and mother were disgusted—insulted—disgraced. In our family had been an actress or two of no great reputation, it is true, morally or artistically, and one of my uncles had married a maid. But always something was done to gloss it over—money and position are called on so often to do that—and the upper lips of the Cathers remained stiff....
"Father brought me back from France—where we had gone on our brief honeymoon—when the money was spent.... Dorothy ... she was handed a sum of money.... She took it hanging round my neck with the wails of a broken heart. I didn't suspect—about the money, and I swore I'd return when I could keep her.... You see, I had been trained to no profession. I'd been to a Public School, an expensive and exclusive one ... and they—that kind—do nothing to correct a foolish lad's sense of proportion. I was one of a vast body over there whose only profession is to uphold the family traditions and to spend. That meant the Army—or the Church....
"The longer I was kept from her, the more madly I thought I loved her.... Yes—the more Ilovedher. I want to be square: I did love her. One night I could stand it no longer. I stole away from the house.... I remember how I thrilled at the sight of the lights of her father's inn. I pictured her joy at sight of me. I swore to myself never to leave her again. There would be some way of making a home for the rest of our lives. You see, I didn't know then she had taken the money. I crept up to the inn through the darkness, partly to surprise her, partly that inquisitive eyes might not carry back the story to my father. Nine out of ten of the neighbourhood would have leaped at the opportunity of winning father's favour...
"I found her almost as I had pictured her—leaning on the gate ... almost ... almost ... She was not alone...."
Mary Aikens was listening with drumming ears. "You are not my wife—you are not my wife!" It kept ringing down everything else, so that she heard him only as against a strong wind that steals words and phrases.
"There was a man with her.... I heard what they were saying.... I followed them...."
His voice trailed off to a whisper; his unseeing eyes stared far through the paper spread on his knee.
"When he was gone I—I took her by the throat—I was a big, strong fellow even then—and I squeezed—squeezed—squeezed. I could feel her breath bubbling through my fingers ... and then it ceased.... I flung her on the ground and ran. I told father. He crammed all the money he had in my pocket and started me off for Liverpool.... I turned up here in Canada as Jim Aikens....
"There isn't much more. Father kept me supplied with money through a firm of Winnipeg lawyers. There has been no stinting—the name of Cathers must never be sullied again—so long as I stayed away.
"For years I thought I had killed her—my wife. Not a word in all that time have I heard directly from home. I dared not write for fear my letters would be traced, and neither father nor mother have written me—ever told me Dorothy did not die. Until a year after I married you I thought I was free to marry."
Her hands fell from her face, a gasp of relief broke from her. He understood.
"Oh, Mary! I never was brute enough to marry you, knowing—my wife to be alive. You are innocent—as I am—of that.... More than a year ago I saw her picture in a New York paper. She was on the stage—she'd come to America—perhaps to look for me.... For some reason she had clung to her own name—perhaps she expected me to recognise her, for she was well known then. I knew her cruel smile, her smirking innocence, her shameless invitation. And I—I was a bigamist.... You were not my wife.... After that I went to the dogs. It was bad enough to have murdered her, even for the cause I had; it was worse to realise what I had done to you.... I married you too hastily, Mary. I wanted to stifle that gurgling breath that was always ringing in my ears, to feel that I was bound at last—everlastingly—to a woman I could safely cherish.... I didn't love you for yourself in those days, Mary, as I have learned to since. And by the time I knew you were not my wife I loved you too much to let you love me until—until somehow I was purged, I didn't figure how. If separation must come to us, I didn't want you to suffer as I would.I wouldn't let you love me."
He bowed his head in his hands, and his great shoulders shook.
"That is why I've—I've played the brute, Mary. God knows it hurt me more than it did you. But—but it was coming easier lately. A man can't lower himself to that, even for virtue's sake, without sinking a step. Of late I've sunk several. One was jealousy. You weren't mine, but I wouldn't let anyone else have you. I hated that man—and now I know why. I've hated everyone, even the men who look at you in town. I think I've been going mad for love of you, Mary.... And now—now——"
He was reading the clipping again.
"What have you there?" she asked, and her voice was dead, hopeless.
"Dorothy Swaine is dead. And I am free—free!"
He rose to his feet. A radiant light was in his eyes, and his arms stretched out to her.
"Mary, do you understand? I am free. We can look the world in the face——"
But in Mary Merrill's face was no answering light.
"Jim! Jim!" she wailed. "Why—oh, why didn't you trust me? Why didn't you tell me a year ago?"
He pulled up, swaying, and his hands fell slowly to his side.
"Why—Mary!"
It was the moan of despair, of freshly-lit fires for ever extinguished.
Mary Merrill rose from the piano seat, her hands tight against her cheeks, and tottered to her room. For a full minute he stared unbelievingly at the locked door, then he lifted his Stetson slowly from the floor and stumbled out.
The heart-stricken man staggered down the gravel path before the house and struck blindly across the prairie toward the river. Pink Eye, standing with drooping rein, tilted his ears and neighed to him, but he was deaf and blind to everything save his bleeding heart. Something in the rugged lines of the river cliffs drew him on.Therewas clamour to match the chaos in his mind,therewas solitude and loneliness where to fight out the problem that stretched out and on through the rest of his days. Pink Eye neighed again, and tried to follow sideways, but a foot caught a dragging rein and pulled him up.
Cockney plunged through the long grass to the height west of the ranch valley and dropped limply into the first ragged peaks, where he lay on his back, staring with unseeing eyes into the cloudless sky. His head was paining him, and the bandage had slipped, but he thought it all a part of his mental suffering. Dimly his mind went back to the beginning—to his fight with Professor Bulkeley. But defeat did not trouble him now; the struggle was nothing more to him than a series of pictures of Mary's emotions. A groan—a gasp—a cry—the swinging of that small arm that settled the issue. That was what blinded his eyes with tears and shook his body with sobs. There lay the verdict he had sought so rashly to alter with his story. Love—he knew it now—was not a thing of many lives. One could not kill it and hope ever again to breathe life into its nostrils. Love—real love—came but once. It lived but once. Like a leaf that withers before an icy wind, love died for ever at the hand of cruelty.
For the past year—ever since he knew he had no right to marry Mary—he had suffered trebly, the ignominy of a bigamist, the horror of the injury he had done her, and the tearing agony of his grim fight to destroy her love before it learned the truth. And he only knew how well he had succeeded in that when he would have given his life to change it. Ever since he had laid foul hands on a woman's throat he had been an insult to her sex.
Big Cockney Aikens covered his face and shuddered. If a lifetime of repentance—— But there was to be no chance for repentance—there could be none without Mary. He must go on and on, living his life alone—no Mary, no pardon of God or himself without Mary to keep him straight. The years ahead were a long road of blank despair leading—where? Without Mary, without friends, without hope, without ambition or plans or pride—the end could only be that to which he had been tending this past year of reckless memory.
He rolled over on his face in his anguish. Below him the cliff dropped away for more than a hundred feet to a jumble of rock. A few yards of eroded eminences, and then the rushing torrent of the river. There lay peace—forgetfulness—an end of the struggle. He lay peering down into it with misty eyes—wondering.
But Cockney Aikens' self-condemnation was too deep for that. His sin was too great for such a simple ending. His destiny—his punishment—was to live until God cried quits and gave him happy release. Only addled cowards thought thus to escape the penalty of their misdeeds.
He clambered hastily to his feet and moved to where a wide ledge lay beneath him, cutting him off from the sheer drop to the river bottom. He was too weak just then to fight temptation, and he fled from it.
Then he saw Isabel Bulkeley. She was seated on the ledge, screened, except from above, by the fallen rubble. Hammer and chisel and whisk lay at her feet. Her hand supported her chin, and her eyes were fixed on the river below. She, too, was sad. Cockney, sensitive to the suffering of mankind, felt it in every line of her figure.
Presently he saw her start and raise her head as if listening. The next instant she had seized her chisel and was hammering at the rock at her feet.
Around the face of the cliff only a few yards away came Dakota Fraley, Winchester strapped over his shoulder.
* * * * *
Stamford wound his way slowly from before the hidden valley, along the rocky lip of the Red Deer canyon. His arms and legs ached, and his mind was wearier still, but he crept carefully along like a conspirator. He knew that somewhere farther down the river he would find the Bulkeleys; he was thankful that that day they had chosen the south side for their explorations.
With the thought came another: his days with Isabel Bulkeley were over—he might never see her again. Slow as was his progress in the roughness of the way and the care of his advance, he was in no hurry. So long as he was away by nightfall he would be satisfied—the longer it was delayed, the better. He settled himself in the comfortable hollow of a rock.
A man burst from the prairies above, far ahead of him, leaped to the cover of the upper rocks, and in one swift glance swept the cliff below. With scarcely an instant's pause he dropped into a crevice, and Stamford could see him working a perilous but rapid descent with back and hands and knees. Reaching a ledge, he began to leap downward from rock to rock like a goat, swinging himself by his arms, unhesitating, sure-footed.
Stamford blinked as the huge figure of Professor Bulkeley threw itself down the last height and landed on the water's edge.
There he paused only long enough to cast one quick glance upward at the height behind him, another on either side into the torrent, then he leaped far out into the water. Stamford gasped. It was nothing short of suicide. Human flesh or human muscle could not master the rush of that foaming current.
There the sullen eddies told of a fierce pull beneath—and out beyond was the bubbling foam of rocks crowding the surface.
The Professor disappeared. But the big head came up farther down, shook itself like a spaniel, and started for the other shore. Stamford swept the lashing water with his glasses, but there was nothing now to be seen save the roaring torrent.
He climbed warily upward. Something out there on the prairie—something of dire peril—had driven the Professor to such a risk.
Peering over the edge, he saw a circle of mounted cowboys closing in on the place where the Professor had disappeared. They were in no hurry. Dakota and his companions knew that cliff—they knew the hopelessness of escape from their pursuing vengeance. Dakota laughed wildly and waved his rifle; Alkali drew his hand expressively across his mouth, and General took a last look at his rifle. Fifty yards from the cliff edge they dismounted and came on, crouching, creeping in on their prey. When no shot greeted them, they moved faster, tightening the arch of the circle.
"It's a shame to take the money, boys," jeered Dakota. "The old fossil thought he could make it here. He don't know these rocks. Anyway there won't be no funeral service; the grave's just yawning for him down there."
He was on the edge now, looking down to the river. They spread out in sudden surprise and alarm, searching among the upper rocks with drawn revolvers; several of them carried their rifles as well. The foreman started down, leaving his rifle at the top. Right and left was unscalable wall; below, it seemed almost as impassable. They were puzzled—furious.
A mocking laugh drifted to them above the rattle of the waters. Across the river, three hundred yards below them, the Professor was standing, waving his hand. Bean Slade threw forward his rifle and fired, and a chip of rock broke into the air several yards above the mocking foe. The Professor waved again and disappeared.
Dakota, his face livid, climbed up to the prairie.
"Get back to the ranch. Take my horse with you. I'll attend to this little affair myself. One of us isn't going to sleep in no bed this night.... Besides, I got a little personal matter to settle, and this seems a mighty good chance. You fellers wouldn't be interested."
He jerked his Winchester back over his shoulder and started down-stream.
The others rode away, laughing significantly. Stamford slunk from his hiding-place on Dakota's trail. He had no idea what was in Dakota's mind, but in that mood he was dangerous, and it was someone's business to keep an eye on him.
Presently, far down the river on the other shore, something moved among the rocks. Dakota was invisible in a bend in the cliff, and Stamford fixed his glasses on the spot and watched. The Professor was there, straining at something, jerking forward as if for a fresh hold, and pulling back slowly again. To Stamford's amazement the raft came foot by foot into view from this side of the river and moved out toward the straining figure. And on it was Gee-Gee. The jerking of the craft made the horse rear once or twice, and his legs were braced in terror. Stamford noticed then that the raft was turned for the opposite passage, the higher end toward the shore it was leaving.
Against the pressure of that current, with Gee-Gee aboard, Professor Bulkeley was pulling the raft by sheer force of muscle and the weight of his body.
By the time Dakota came into view again Gee-Gee and the Professor had passed into the rocks on the other side. In time the cowboy arrived at the mooring platform. He saw the raft across the river and sat down under cover to think. In a minute he lifted a huge stone and approached the end of the cable. A few heavy blows severed it, and the wire, with a spitting of fume, sank into the stream. The raft, freed, floated down the current, bumped against hidden rocks, splintered, split apart, one section swinging to destruction lower down.
Dakota lifted his head and laughed into the opposite cliffs.
Stamford came to the raft-landing on the river's edge, tired and perturbed, and seated himself to rest. He was very weary and hungry. Dakota had gone on faster and faster. Suddenly Stamford remembered that somewhere ahead, down that cliff, Isabel Bulkeley would be waiting for her brother. He picked himself up in a fever of anxiety and plunged recklessly on.
He was still far away when he saw them—Isabel and Dakota. The cowboy was sitting boldly on a rock close to her, one foot swinging. His Stetson was pushed to the back of his head, and now and then he threw back his head to laugh. Isabel did not laugh. Stamford saw her withdraw suddenly and turn, and Dakota reached swiftly for her, seizing her arm. She struggled but did not scream. Dakota laughed and drew her to him.
At that moment Cockney Aikens hurled himself from above and landed on all-fours close to Dakota. The cowboy recoiled, leaped farther back, and his hand went to his belt. Cockney raised himself, lunged, and Dakota flashed his gun and fired. Cockney halted for but the fraction of a second, then his great fist landed on Dakota's face, and the cowboy tumbled back among the rocks.
Cockney seemed to go limp then; he sank to his side. But he turned to Isabel and pointed, and she dropped behind a rock. The wounded man rolled himself slowly to cover. Dakota was nowhere to be seen. Cockney threw his left arm over the rock to ease his position, and a spot of smoke broke from the place where Dakota was hiding, and the arm slid off and Cockney fell back in a contorted position. Another burst of smoke, and Isabel ducked. Dakota was keeping them both to cover.
Stamford dashed upward to the prairie to make better speed. He could see Cockney better now. His left arm lay limp. One side of shirt and trousers was soaked with blood. His one sound hand reached up and pushed a bandage from his eyes. On the exposed rock, ten yards away, lay his revolver. In his leap from the rocks it had fallen from his belt. He was unarmed, of which Dakota was evidently ignorant. Cockney's hand was fumbling at his belt. Isabel, too, had her eyes on the revolver.
Stamford dropped to cover in the upper rocks behind Isabel to consider the situation. Then he advanced stealthily to the edge of the open, drew a long breath, and dashed out on the ledge where the revolver lay. He scooped it up and tossed it to Cockney. As he turned Dakota fired. A hot needle pierced his left shoulder. A second bullet missed him altogether, though it fanned his hair.
"Gosh!" he exclaimed, as he sank beside Isabel. "Gosh!"
It was so boyishly inadequate that Isabel smiled through the fear that had come into her eyes.
"Bah!" he jeered. "I thought those cowpunchers were dead shots."
He kept his left shoulder away from her and settled down with his back to the rock. He did not ask for an explanation. It only mattered that Dakota was on one side and the other three of them on the other. Cockney, by the sound of things, was making it hot for Dakota, now that he had his gun. A curse from the cowboy registered a nip. Stamford grinned foolishly.
"I bet on Cockney," he said.
"But he's wounded, terribly wounded."
He raised himself to look over. Cockney was lying on his stomach far out from cover. His left arm was horribly unnatural, but his right held the gun pointed at the rock behind which Dakota lay.
A flash of movement brought an immediate report from Cockney's revolver, and Dakota's gun rattled out on the open ledge. A second shot sent it far out of reach.
Cockney's plan was evident: Dakota was not to be allowed to take aim. The cowboy was a two-gun man, Cockney knew. A Stetson showed above the rock, but Cockney ignored it; bits of rock jerked up in the air but failed to draw fire. Suddenly Dakota exposed his second gun and fired, Cockney returning it instantly. Both seemed to have missed. The chance shot was repeated from the other side of the rock, and Cockney failed to reply.
For a minute or two the battle waned. Dakota tried a third shot. Both guns spoke together. Stamford, his eyes held by the recklessness of the wounded rancher lying there in the open, saw one of his feet jerk. At the same moment Dakota's second gun jangled among the rocks, though it did not come into view. They waited for its reappearance, but evidently the shot had damaged it.
"He has a rifle, Cockney," Stamford shouted.
Cockney nodded without turning his head.
After a long time the rifle snapped, but it did not show. Twice it was repeated. Dakota was summoning his friends.
An answering volley burst out down the river, followed by the shouts of the cowboys. Dakota jeered.
"And now, Cockney Aikens, comes the end o' the chapter. I knew you been tracking us all summer. You've drawn your little share of the rustling manys a year without knowing it—but there'll not be a damn cent for you of the big bunch we're taking out to-night. Then we'll scoop all that's left—including dear little Mary and the girl there."
Stamford took a chance. He looked out to the east. The cowboys were coming on the run, darting from cover to cover. At the end of the ledge they separated, some slinking over the edge to work up behind.
"I knew you killed Kid Loveridge at Dunmore Junction that day," Dakota went on, "just 'cause he shot a slinking Policeman who'd 'a' got us shore if he hadn't. I've always held one bullet for you ever since. If you'd told the Police you'd 'a' got it sooner. You didn't know I fired the other bullet that got the Corporal. I only wish I'd been nearer to help the Kid. You was too quick on the draw for him."
Cockney was stiffly trying to drag himself to cover, his eyes darting about for a place to make a last stand.
"Stamford," he called, "can you get her to one of those fissures—the one my right foot's pointing at? I can protect you from here, I think."
Stamford examined the crevice.
"It's too far," he said. "We're not badly off here."
Cockney's revolver spat, and Muck Norsley flopped from the edge of the cliff and lay half in the open. Two others bolted across and sank out of sight. Cockney fired again but missed. Two of their enemies were now at their backs.
Stamford moved round Isabel and watched behind. A rifle barrel came slowly into sight and dropped until it almost covered them—then the peak of a Stetson. He raised himself to protect the girl at his side.
"Isabel," he whispered, "it looks as if it's about time to say something—to tell you that—I love you. If you can say anything that'll make me go with a smile—quick!"
His eye was on the rifle. He hated the thought of being shot in the back. But the rifle lifted unexpectedly to the sky, and Bean Slade reared his bony shoulders into view.
"It's only a woman, boys!" he shouted, with a scornful laugh. "A woman!"
"Bean," growled Stamford, "it may seem ungrateful, but why didn't you wait a second?"
"Shoot, you blasted idiot!" shrieked Dakota. "They're all in it. Get the boss and that editor-fellow anyway."
Stamford grinned sheepishly at Bean's lanky figure leaning over the rock, and turned to Isabel.
"I guess it's up to me to postpone the tale. I'm a bit too thin-skinned for this kind of a game."
"You don'tneedto postpone it—Morton," Isabel whispered.
"Yes, shoot, and do it quick!" muttered Stamford. "Before I waken. Do you know," he said, with a whimsical smile, "I've a feeling we're going to pull through."
Ten yards from Bean Slade rose the ruddy countenance of General Jones. Deliberately he raised his rifle.
Like a flash Bean fired, and with the report General crumpled out of sight.
"That's for Billy Windover," cried Bean, expectorating.
With the shot Cockney turned his head weakly. Dakota heard General's single cry and stood out in the open to fire. Without a groan Bean slid from the rock.
"And that's for General," hissed Dakota, dropping to cover.
Bean lifted his head and looked into Stamford's eyes. A slow smile passed across his lean features.
"Ta-ta!" he murmured, and dropped back lifeless.
Stamford's eyes were blinded with tears. For the first time an overpowering fury rose within him. He reached to his pocket and drew a small automatic.
"Damn!" he exploded. "I forgot all about it." He fumbled the little weapon in unaccustomed hand. "But what does the beastly thing do? I never fired one in my life."
She grabbed it from him and fired, and a figure that had been trying to creep across behind them darted back. Cockney turned his head and smiled wanly at them. His gun was lying beside him now; he seemed too weak to help.
"I'll just toddle over and get Bean's rifle," Stamford announced. "I seem to be useful only as an ammunition wagon in this fracas. Never fired a gun in my life, but I'll close my eyes and—darn the consequences! It may scare them almost as much as me. If I could only hit that rock in front of Dakota——"
He had risen to his feet, but she seized his arm.
"I'm going with you," she said.
He blinked into her eyes.
"That means?"
"It's dangerous; you're not going without me."
A shot broke from behind them and struck the rock above their heads.
"I think," smiled Stamford, "the second instalment of that serial is about due. I love you, Isabel."
For answer she reached up and pulled his lips to hers. At the kiss he paled.
"Life without this," he sighed, "could never equal death with it."
"But why not lifewithit?" she smiled.
"That," he said, "is worth any risk."
He looked at her, but she was watching the rocks behind with raised revolver.
Alkali Sam shouted:
"D'ye want the gal, Dakota?"
"You're shore right I do, old hoss!"
"Cudn't yo hang the li'l editor-chap t' yer watch chain? He don't seem wuth powder."
Stamford glared.
"Keep one bullet," he ordered Isabel. Then he smiled. "They don't seem to like me."
Alkali was shouting a ribald song as he climbed upward for a better shot.
"I think," said Stamford, "things are going to happen."
What happened was a new sound from across the river—the pound of a running herd. Silence fell suddenly over the tragedy on the ledge; every eye was turned to the opposite cliffs.
Swiftly along the edge of the cliff galloped a bunch of steers, their tails held high. And driving them on was Professor Bulkeley, mounted on Gee-Gee, two huge dogs bounding before him.
Stamford peered over the rock at Cockney—he could not help it. But Cockney was almost past surprise. Dakota and his comrades were shouting to each other excitedly. Isabel was laughing at Stamford from the corner of her eye. She nodded to his unspoken query.
But between them and the help in sight an impassable canyon ran.
The Professor, with the roar of the cattle and the river in his ears, had heard nothing. He would pass them by without a suspicion that within rifle range his sister and friends were in direst peril. Stamford and Isabel shouted, but no noise they could make would carry against the clamour closing the Professor in. Isabel fired into the air until the automatic was empty. It was useless.
Stamford darted to Bean's lifeless body. Leaning the rifle on the rock he took as careful aim as he knew how at the running cattle, but missed. He repeated the failure. Then, reckless of exposure, he carried the rifle to Cockney. Lifting the heavy man to his side, he thrust the rifle before him and held it against the rock. Cockney's face twisted in pain, but he placed his eye to the stock, held his breath, and pulled the trigger.
A steer leaped, stumbled, and those behind trod over it. A second time a steer fell. Cockney sank back. He could stand it no longer.
As the first steer went down, the Professor pulled up sharply. He had not heard the shot, but he recognised the results. The next shot he heard. And then a third snapped from the rock where Dakota lay, and Gee-Gee sank to his side.
Dakota sent a piercing whistle over the river, and the two great dogs came slinking to the edge of the cliff and lay looking over.
Dakota jeered aloud.
"Them was two fine pups the Inspector got for us, Alkali. I'll borrow dogs like them any time they come to the West. I need 'em in my biz."
"Hurrah for Dakota Fraley an' his glad eye!" shouted Alkali. "Dakota, boy, you're a devil with dogs an' skirts."
A rifle-shot broke from across the river. Dakota Fraley raised himself with a spasmodic jerk, a look of shocked incredulity on his swarthy face, and fell full length out on the ledge. His limbs scarcely twitched as he lay. Cockney smiled weakly.
Alkali and Dude could be heard seeking cover from the newer peril. Again and again the rifle-shots came from the unseen marksman. Bits of rock flew about the two cowboys. Stamford rose in his excitement and waved his hat. He could see bullet after bullet flash a white sideways mark on the face of the cliff, and the chips rise lower down where the bullet had bent its course. At the fifth shot Alkali cried out. Richochet shooting was an art even he, notorious gunman as he was, had never learned.
The firing ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The Dude remained. Suddenly above them a stern command rasped down. Two Mounted Policemen leaned over the edge of the cliff, their rifles covering Dude.
The cowboy stepped out, his arms up. The battle on the ledge above the Red Deer was ended.
Stamford and Isabel ran to Cockney. He was lying at full length, his left arm crumpled under him. The bandage on his head had slipped. He looked up in Stamford's face and smiled.
"My guest—to the last—anyway, Stamford. I'm going to—beat you—away—from the H-Lazy Z."
Isabel whispered to one of the Mounted Police, who dashed up to his horse and rode away.
"No—don't touch me. Let me lie—awhile. Where's the Professor?"
An exclamation from Sergeant Prior drew their eyes to the opposite shore. The Professor had jumped into the river—he could not wait to go round by the ford. They watched, Stamford satisfied that what the powerful fellow had done once he could repeat, Isabel alarmed, Sergeant Prior frankly sceptical.
They did their best for Cockney where he lay, but there was so little to be done. When they attempted to lift him, he swooned, and they left him at last and waited—waited.
The dripping Professor bounded up the rocks, scrambling from foothold to foothold.
"You're safe, dear?" he panted, when Isabel ran to him.
For one terrible moment Stamford stared at them. She read his fear and touched his arm.
"Morton, Morton! He is only a brother. I've been helping him in this case—I do sometimes."
"Heavens, Prior!" cried the Professor. "I feared you'd be too late. I stampeded the cattle. I had to. They were taking them away to-night." Then he saw Cockney. "My God, Aikens! What have they done to you?" He sank beside the wounded man.
"This is—my bad day," murmured Cockney, with a twisted smile. "First you thrashed me—now I'm—on the way, Professor."
"Not Professor, Cockney—Amos Barnes, of the Mounted Police."
Cockney smiled. "I suspected.... I helped you—what I could. But I hated—the Police so.YourEnglish saddle.... Pink Eye yours now without—breaking into the corral—at nights."
Mary Aikens ran along the ledge and sank by his side. She was out on Matana when the Policeman found her.
"Jim! Jim!"
He pressed her feebly back with his right hand.
"No sentiment—Mary.... I—haven't time. You're—in good hands. This is the best way—out." His breath was coming in gasps. "Now—now, Mary Merrill—just one kiss—to help me on my way ... in memory of ... what might have been. If—Amos—doesn't mind."
She touched his lips tenderly with her own, and the tears rained on his face. He opened his eyes, and the sweet smile of big, kindly, light-hearted Cockney Aikens relieved the end.
Amos Barnes gently raised the weeping woman to her feet.
"He died as you would have him die, Mary," he whispered. "In his death you loved him as never in his life. And that's how Jim would have it. You're going home now—to your mother. We'll look after the ranch. I'll come to you when you send for me.... Poor Jim! The whole country loved him—-but he'll rest best out here on the cliffs of the H-Lazy Z, where he found himself."
THE END