# People's Favorite Magazine/The Heart of the Kimish

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Extracted from People's Favorite Magazine, 1919 Feb 10, pp. 1–47. Related cover by Modest Stein
A novel of adventure in the he-man section of these United States. A baffling plot; dramatic action; big men and real women.
The Heart of the Kimish
$^{by}$ J. E. Grinstead
Author of “The Spider Man”

### CHAPTER I.
#### A Plunge into the Unknown.

Rufus Haile smoked a very old, exceedingly black, and undoubtedly husky pipe. He sat on the spring seat of a wagon, the lines held loosely in his hand, as the two stanch little ponies that drew the wagon plodded on in a general northeasterly direction over the primitive roads of the Indian country.
Away to the northeast a chain of rugged, pine-clad hills lay blue in the evening sun. Haile was evidently headed for the Kimish, but his purpose lay hidden, along with his thoughts, behind those quiet gray eyes.
The people he met at long intervals, if they hazarded a guess at who or what he was, would have been likely to cover a wide range of conjecture, without any of the guesses coming near enough the mark to make the young man dodge. He might have been almost anything that an active mind could conceive, except what he really was. Most observers would have taken him to be a young farmer who had been prospecting down Texas way, and was now beating back into Kansas, Missouri or Arkansas, all depending on the road he would take after he crossed the Arkansas River.
Humped up on the wagon seat Haile was an ordinary-looking man, but when he got out to camp one realized the mistake. He was no Apollo of the sylvan solitudes, yet he was rather good looking. Where the surprise was, lay in the fact that in spite of the slightly worn and none too clean duck trousers, coarse woolen overshirt, floppy hat and strong, heavy boots, one could sense a hidden power beneath. The man was so perfectly formed that he looked to be slightly above medium height, when in reality he was slightly over six feet. When he rolled up his sleeves to wash in the stream near his camp he disclosed, not the knots of bound muscles that one expected to see, on a swarthy arm, but the long, rolling sinews of an athlete, under a skin like ivory.
When Haile spoke to the people he met, making inquiries about the roads, his voice was pleasant and his language that of a man who lived out of doors, and had forgotten some of the conventions, if he ever knew them. He might have been a Texan whose “folks came from Missouri,” or a Missourian, who had spent some time in Texas. Whoever, or whatever he was, he was apparently headed for the Kimish, which doubtless meant trouble, either for himself or for some one else.
The Kiamitia country, commonly called by the natives “The Kimish,” is an extremely rough, mountainous section of the Indian country, which became noted many years ago. Almost as great a number, and certainly a wider diversity of men as went to the gold fields of California and the Yukon, pilgrimed to the Kirmish. There was never any hidden treasure there in gold or precious stones, guarded by the frowning peaks, or unearthed by the roaring torrents of the mountain streams. Those who went seeking in the Kimish sought one or two things: reasonable safety from the iron hand of the law, or extreme danger to themselves.
This wild spot, apparently created by Nature when she was in one of her tantrums, is not a mythical place. It never was hidden, but stands out boldly to-day, for all the world to see. A railroad runs through it now, and the place where it makes its way down the north side of the mountains is called the winding stair.
This story has nothing to do with the towns that now cling to the mountainsides or nestle in the valleys, the alleged farms, sawmills and tie camps. It is a tale of the time when these were not. A turbulent time, the echoes of which are still heard in the occasional train and bank robberies that are conducted in such a spectacular manner in those mountain passes.
In the late afternoon Rufus Haile stopped his team at the door of a mean little country store that stood by the roadside near the foot of the Kimish.
“Ain't there a right-hand road somewhere here that cuts across over the Kimish and on to Fort Smith?” he asked.
Mr. William Brant, commonly called Bill Brant, stood in the door of his store. He was perhaps five feet seven, round of paunch, had coarse black hair that was inclined to wave, glittering black eyes, long thin mustache and rather thick lips. His teeth were yellow, and the whites of his eyes were also the color of old ivory. His feet were small and neatly shod. The initiated would have said, “Here is a fellow that is mostly white, with a strong dash of Creek nigger.” If Rufus Haile was initiated his eyes didn't show it. Rufe's eyes were not “speaking eyes,” but rather “listening eyes.” Brant walked out to the wagon, put one foot up on the hub and said:
“They aire, podner. She takes right up Hell Roarin' Crick at the next crossin', 'bout a mile from here, and follers the crick clean to the head. Then she goes around the northwest shoulder of Blue Point, strikes the head of Sycamore, and follers that crick right on down to the Arkansaw River.”
“Pretty fair road?” asked Rufe.
“Well, she ain't no boolyvyard, podner. I reck'n you are a stranger in this section, so I'll just tell you somethin'. If y'-all ain't got no business in that Kimish country, you better stay out'n it.”
“Say the road that goes straight ahead after crossin' Hell Roarin' goes right on to Fort Gibson an' Talequah, an' on to Fort Smith, that-a-way?”
“I didn't say so, but she do, podner. It's twenty miles furder, but Fort Smith is a danged sight nearder that-a-way than she are through the Kimish.”
“Thank you,” said Rufus Haile, as he picked up his lines, and drove on. The sun was almost down, and he wanted to camp at the spring on Hell Roarin'.
As the wagon disappeared up the road Brant went out the back door of his store. He entered a cabin and closed the door. A man who lay on a bunk in the corner of the cabin sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Feller just passed here askin' about the road over the Kimish and on to Fo't Smith, Dave. Better get in ahead of him as soon as it gets dark an' see where he is goin'. He looks harmless, but they ain't no harmless people huntin' the Kimish.”
Mr, David Little belied his name in two ways. In the first name, because he relied on no five smooth stones selected from a brook, but carried an ugly-looking and much used six-shooter. In his surname, because he was not little, but of quite formidable proportions. He was not a very bad-looking man, if one just looked at him and went on. He didn't belong in the neighborhood of Brant's store, and he was never seen there in the daytime. On rare occasions he came there at night, and if his business was pressing he spent the following day in the cabin back of the store, and waited for the shades of night to screen his journey home.
Rufe Haile drove on to the first crossing on Hell Roaring Creek, turned up that stream in utter disregard of the friendly advice given him by Bill Brant, and two miles above the crossing made camp for the night.
Haile seemed to have peculiar ideas of personal comfort. The wagon was roomy, and apparently had little in it, yet Rufus took some blankets soon after dark, and made himself a bed on the ground, a considerable distance from the wagon, where he lay down in his clothes, even to his boots, and was soon fast asleep.
The night was uneventful. No one passed the camp, which was at a point where there was a considerable bend in the creek. There was a trail, or bridle path, out across the bend. Late in the night Dave Little rode cautiously along this trail, thus getting above the camp without passing directly by it, and rode on up the stream. Mr. Little certainly had a home of some kind, somewhere. It evidently was not the little cabin back of Brant's store. Perhaps his home was in the Kimish, and he was merely going there, with the best of intentions, but his actions were not above suspicion.
At any rate, Rufus Haile slept soundly, and was innocent of any knowledge of Mr. Little's activities. If that gentleman sought the cheerful gleam of the home light from some rustic lattice in the wild crags, he was at least cautious in his approach to his hidden domicile.
It was quite light before Haile stirred from his bed, and the sun was shining brightly when he finished his breakfast. He seemed to be a leisurely traveler, who figured that the distance between camps was not a matter of serious importance.
All day Haile followed the Hell Roaring Creek, the road crossing and recrossing the stream as it wound its way ever upward into the Kimish. Late in the afternoon he crossed the stream above a roaring fall, that probably lent something to the unusual name of the stream. This was obviously the last crossing, as above the road the cañon was a narrow gorge, with perpendicular bluffs on either side. Here the road climbed away from the creek into the rocks, as if it were bent on scaling the ragged heights of Blue Point out of hand. Just when it seemed that there was nothing ahead but a blank wall of granite, the road turned sharply to the left and climbed out onto the mountainside. Haile found himself in very much the same attitude as a child who has climbed out the “upstairs” window, onto the roof of the L. To his right, and in front of him towered silent, mysterious old Blue Point. To his left, and very near, was a deep gorge, in which roared the waters of the head of Hell Roaring Creek.
The road ran along the very brink of the gorge for more than a mile. It was late October, and the scattering trees and vines, here and there among the dark-green pines, touched by the magic wand of autumn, were transformed into bits of garnet, amethyst and gold, set in a sea of emerald. Haile was a lover of the beautiful in nature, and as he sat in the wagon, looking out across the gorge, he feasted his eyes on loveliness. He was traveling toward the northeast, and the afternoon sun was to his left and slightly behind him.
The road slanted steadily upward until within a quarter of a mile of the crest of the ridge, and then became a steep, winding way, among gigantic bowlders. Before entering this rough defile, Haile stopped to give his ponies a good rest for the last stretch of the long climb. He put on the brake, but the way was so steep that the wagon kept rolling back, and gave the ponies no chance to rest.
Dismounting from his seat, Rufe, who loved his team, blocked the wheels with rocks, so the ponies could get a good rest. Just above where he stood the gorge ended abruptly, as if it had cut so far into the mountain, and then had given the task up as hopeless. The traveler had passed no cabin, had met no one, and had seen no sign that the country was inhabited, for the last five or six miles. There was a great silence over the scene, except for the distant, muffled roar of the waters at the bottom of the gorge, which broke out of some rock-bound cavern and thundered over their bowlder-strewn path.
It was barely thirty feet from the wagon to the edge of the cliff, and while the team rested Haile walked to the brink to peer over into the deep gorge, with its veiled shadows, where the stream ran far blow. As he stood shading his eyes from the evening sun with his hand, and peering into the cañon, a shot broke the silence of the place, and Haile crumpled forward and rolled over the edge of the cliff.
When he had disappeared a man came stealthily from behind a giant bowlder. It was Dave Little. He quickly unharnessed the team, and threw the harness into the wagon. Looking for a rope with which to lead the horses, he found a coiled lariat in the wagon, and threw it over his shoulder, behind him onto the ground, where a scraggy little cedar grew. He went on examining the contents of the wagon for a minute or two, but finding nothing to interest him especially, and being in a hurry, he turned, picked up the rope at his feet, uncoiled it and attached an end of it to each of the horses.
Then this estimable gentleman cut the tongue of the wagon as far toward the gorge as it would go, removed the rocks from the wheels, then suddenly released the brake and jumped back out of the way. The wagon started slowly back, gained speed as it left the road and rolled down the incline toward the gorge. By the time it reached the edge it had gained such momentum that it plunged out into space, like an airship, in the form of a covered wagon.
The wagon passed over the very spot where Haile had stood a few minutes before, and now it went on, to fall with a distant crash on the stones below, where the spirit of its owner might make mystic camps in the gloomy shadows in the nights to come.
Where a few minutes before had been a man, a wagon, and a team, there was now no trace. Nothing made tracks on the shoulders of old Blue Point. Dave Little walked away up the winding trail, leading the two ponies. The sun was just setting behind the pine-clad crests across the gorge. As Little climbed the steep, bowlder-strewn road toward the crest of the ridge, he muttered to himself:
“He won't make no more trouble in the Kimish. If they'd make a record of the number of people as passes into the Kimish, and of the number as passes out on yon side, the trip would quit being so pop'lar.”
This was not the first time that a man had gone over the brink of Hell Roaring, as Mr. Little knew quite well. If the spirits of those who had gone before still loitered in the dark depths of the gorge, Rufus Haile's wraith would have company for the evening. Blue ghost lights would welcome him to the silent bivouac, as night came down, and the roar of the waters changed to a jumble of ghost voices, as the spirits exchanged tales of the adventures that brought them there.

### CHAPTER II.
#### The King of Sycamore Cove.

Whatever Mr. David Little may have seemed to be in the cabin at the back of Brant's store, on the trail up Hell Roaring, or even when he took possession of Rufus Haile's team, he was a different man at home.
At the crest, where the road passed over the shoulder of Blue Point, one who had not been that way before would have been filled with wonder. The mountain peaks formed a kind of crater, or cove, perhaps three miles across. The only outlet, other than rough saddle trails across the mountains, was where Sycamore Creek had cut a gorge through the granite mountain to the northeast. The wagon road followed the shallow stream through this gorge, then crossing and recrossing that stream, wound its way down to the low country.
At the moment when Little came over the crest leading the two ponies, the sun had just set. At first glance one would have thought Sycamore Cove was the lake of purple from which nature painted all the mauve tints in the world. As the eyes became more accustomed to the gathering shadows, it became apparent that it was a large circular valley, its sloping, basinlike sides covered with heavy timber. A dark-green ring of pines and cedars showed around the crest. Farther down the slope grew hardwood, the oak and ash predominant, their leaves already turned to red and gold. In the center of the valley was a considerable farm.
Exactly opposite the head of Hell Roaring, Sycamore Creek broke out of the mountainside, a mammoth spring that poured from beneath a black, shelving rock and formed a deep dark pool, then flowed away toward the northeast. The crest between the heads of the two streams was the divide between the Arkansas and the Red River. There was no gorge at the head of Sycamore. The mountainside was steep, and strewn with huge bowlders. Thick timber grew among the stones and around the spring, and for some distance down the stream, a dense thicket of willows grew.
Snuggling close up against the foot of the mountain, and within a few hundred yards of the headspring of the Sycamore, stood an immense house of pine logs. There were some lots and pens about the place, a stable and other outhouses. Mr. Little was a well-to-do farmer, and a horse trader of known shrewdness. Down toward the Arkansas bottom he attended all the camp meetings in summer, and all the dances in winter. In Fort Smith he was well known as a man who evidently lived well, as he bought liberally and paid promptly for his purchases.
Among these sylvan scenes, as he approached his home Mr. Little raised has voice in song. His rendering of “Amazing Grace,” must have sent a thrill through the souls of the brethren who conducted the camp meetings. He turned the two ponies into a pen and went on to his house, still singing joyfully.
At the door he was met by his wife, a half-breed Creek Indian, whose black eyes glittered in the dusk.
“Where's Leeny?” asked this King of Sycamore Cove.
“She went out ridin' again,” replied the woman.
“She's got no business ridin' around in the night. What did you let her go for?”
“I don't let her do nothin'. She don't ask me. You make her quit.” And there was a twisted grin on the woman's lips, as if there were something amusing about making Lena Little do something that she didn't want to do.
Little stalked into the house, filled his pipe and lighted it at the fireplace, his wife standing silently by, like a slave waiting orders, which in reality she was.
“Which way did Leeny go, an' how long's she been gone?”
“She left about the middle of the afternoon. I didn't notice which way she went.”
“Better get the habit of noticin' things,” snapped Little, as he rose and walked out of the house.
Mrs. Little was much younger than her husband, who appeared to be not more than forty-five. The rounded curves of youth were still present in her form to give the lie to the wise look of age that showed in her face.
As Little approached the yard gate he heard a horse coming along the trail. A young woman rode out of the shadows, and seeing him standing there with upraised hand, she stopped.
“Get down,” he said, tersely.
The girl disengaged her foot from the stirrup and sprang lightly to the ground.
“What is it, father?” she asked, noticing the odd note in the man's voice.
“Where have you been?”
“Out riding.”
“Yes, I understand that. You have been out four or five hours, and a body can't ride that long without goin' somewhere. Where did you go?”
“Why, why, just riding around,” replied Lena.
“Well, now, you listen to me real careful, 'cause I don't like to tell people the same thing twice. When I agreed for you to stay here this winter, instead of going back to the convent, where you been for the last ten year, it was with the understanding that you mind me, and have absolutely no company of any kind. I don't mind you ridin' some in the daytime, but don't never fail again to be in the house when the sun goes down. Keep off the mountain trails and the Hell Roarin' road. When you leave the cove ride down the Sycamore road. If you don't remember this I'll find a way to make you remember it.”
“I didn't know you cared,” said Lena.
“You know it now. Don't forget it. Go in the house. I'll put up your horse.”
Mr. David Little didn't seem to notice that his daughter had not committed herself as to whether she would obey him or not. He was so accustomed to being obeyed that he probably thought nothing of it. His expressed wish was usually taken as a command in Sycamore Cove.
While this conversation was going on, Mrs. Little stood in the door straining her ears, but she was unable to catch a word that passed between Little and the girl.
Lena entered the house, passed into her own room, and striking a match lighted a large lamp that stood on a center table. Any one who had seen the face of Dave Little and the cunning countenance of his half-breed wife, must have been shocked at seeing the girl for the first time.
Lena Little would have been a beauty anywhere, at any time. Just now there was a strange sparkle in her deep-blue eyes. Her slightly parted lips were coral red, and a dash of color showed in her cheeks. She had excellent features, was slightly above medium height, and slender, though not frail. She was crowned with a very halo of deep, golden-yellow hair. After the shock of such wonderful beauty one could but be amazed at the caprice of nature that could give such a daughter to such a man and wife. The room where Lena stood, slowly, pulling off her gauntlet gloves, was as incongruous in this mountain cove, as the girl was among its people. The floor was richly carpeted. A piano, a writing desk, a case of books, paintings and drawings, were among the adornments of this one room in a large, but otherwise commonplace log house.
This all seemed a mystery, but there was at least no mystery about the surface indications. Many a half-breed Indian woman has married a white man, and borne a daughter whose eyes were light blue, and hair almost white. But, such had not been the case in this instance. Dave Little was a white man, of a sort. He had drifted into the Creek country a dozen years prior to the opening of this story. He represented himself to be a widower at that time, and had this one little daughter with him. He had married the half-breed girl for the double purpose of securing a right to hold land in the country, and at the same time a servant to whom his word was law, and who could keep her mouth shut. About a year after his marriage the girl was placed in a convent, and there she had remained.
Little seemed to have known all about Sycamore Cove, even before he married the Indian woman, and he lost no time in settling there. The Indian law allowed him all the land he wanted, and he took the cove and made it a little kingdom. The farm was a mile from his residence, and several mean tenant houses were scattered about it. The tenants were also white men, of a sort. Little was not on intimate terms with his tenants, and they rarely came to his house.
At last, some red blood, that had lain dormant in Lena's veins from her childhood, asserted itself, and she refused to remain in the convent longer. Little, now well to do, fitted up a room in his home for the girl, not thinking what it would lead to. He had some plans of his own in regard to the girl.
One result, and the one that was apt to set things in motion quicker than anything else, was that being released from the restraint of convent life Lena, being a red-blooded young woman, was going to love a man. Yes, already loved one, and his kisses were still wet on her lips when her father was talking to her.
Another result was that the half-breed wife, who could have anything she wanted, and did have, only she didn't know enough to want anything worth while, was jealous of Lena. Not in a sensitive human way, but with the rage of a female tiger. Dave Little made no show of affection toward his daughter, but on the day of her arrival he had put his arm around her and kissed her. It had been a long time since Little had kissed his wife, and when she saw the little demonstration of affection the very fires of hell flamed up in her half-savage heart.
Mr. David Little suffered no serious compunctions at ridding his kingdom in the Kimish of inquisitive and undesirable strangers in the most direct and effective manner possible, but, like many another man he was protecting his house from the outside, and fostering a viper at his hearthstone.
Mrs. Little prepared supper, and the three sat down to table. Culture and refinement showed in Lena's every word and movement, even to the extent of apparently not noticing the uncouth manners of her father, and the hideous coarseness of his Indian wife. The girl did not seem to take the trouble to make comparisons, but Mrs. Little had never failed to do so, at every meal since the girl's coming.
Little seemed to take the situation as a matter of course. The house was his. The woman was his, the same as his horses and hounds. The girl was his daughter. He didn't expect her to do any part of the household labor. But the woman didn't see things the same way. Lena made no offer to help with the housework, possibly because she didn't know how, possibly for other reasons, and the woman hated her.
After supper Lena returned to her room, blew out the light, and stood at the window looking to the eastward, out toward where the peak of Blue Point was carved in relief against the starlit sky.
Dave Little mounted his horse and rode away into the night. This was not unusual. He often did that. There was rarely a week that he didn't ride away two or three nights, and sometimes he would not return for several days. The Indian woman had ceased to think anything of it. She was accustomed to being left by herself. She could stand that, but since Lena had come she was not only deserted by her husband, but left in the house with a favored woman that she hated.
As Lena stood at the window she heard her father ride away. She knew that he often went on these night visits. The thought came to her: Why could she not slip out on those nights without his knowledge? Since part of the restraint of her convent days was removed, she could brook no restraint—and then, she loved a man. She knew by woman's intuition that the Indian woman hated her, and wondered if she would watch her and tell her father. Up to that time she had not taken the trouble to even dislike her stepmother, but with that thought she hated her.
While these thoughts were passing through Lena's mind, a strange proceeding was taking place in the kitchen of Dave Little's home. There was a window in the west side of the room. The Indian woman set a lamp on a table in front of the window, lighted it, blew it out, lighted it again, and blew it out again. Then, throwing a shawl over her head, she slipped noiselessly out the back door and disappeared in the darkness.
A rough, winding trail came across the mountains from the west. It was the only entrance to Sycamore Cove from that direction. There was never a time when this trail was unguarded, and only the initiated could pass over it. There was considerable horseback and foot travel over it, but it was all done at night. This trail led from Sycamore Cove over and through the mountains, down to the settlements on the Arkansas and the Canadians. From time to time the Indians, and other people of that section, secured abundance of ardent and hilarious spirits from some source, but the authorities had been unable to locate any distributing agent in that part of the Kimish. They watched the railroad, and were sure that it was not shipped in by rail. The government men knew where this trail was, and had watched it. One or two of the more adventurous spirits among them had traveled the trail, even, to make explorations. They had not returned.
To-night, when the lamp had flashed its three signals from the kitchen window of Dave Little's house, a man, sitting on his horse out on the trail well toward the top of the mountain, rode forward down the trail. A little farther on he dismounted, left his horse and walked on cautiously, listening as he went. The Indian woman had crossed the head of Sycamore Creek on the stones, and presently she and the man met. There was no surprise. They knew they were going to meet, had probably met before in the same manner.
“Where's Dave to-night?” asked the man.
“He went down Sycamore, I think. If he did there'll be a wagon in to-morrow.”
“Time one was coming,” said the man. “People are rarin' for some goods. What's makin' Dave so cautious here lately? Acts like he might be goin' to join the church.”
“I don't know,” said the woman, with a low laugh, in which there was no mirth.
“Kahlita, you know Dave don't care any more for you than he do for one of his hounds. Why don't you quit him and go with me?” said the man.
The darkness hid the would-be wife stealer. He was an undersized nondescript, who looked burly, and larger than he really was, in the darkness. He was evidently a whisky runner, and quite as evidently in the employ of Little, in some capacity. He was white, or the Indian woman would not have noticed him. His name, in that community at least, was simply Ben Brown. He was part owner of a livery stable in Muskogee, and part owner in a store that stood at the foot of the mountain on the northwest side, where the trail came down. He was as likely to be found at one of these places as at the other, and often was not seen at either of them for weeks at a time.
Brown had told the Indian woman the same thing, and had asked her the same question several times before, and she had always answered steadfastly, no. Sometimes when she had flashed the signal she had met Brown to learn things that she wanted to know. At other times she had met him as a matter of reciprocity, to tell him things that he wanted to know. Whatever Brown's feelings may have been at meeting a woman in this manner, in the night, Mrs. Little had never had any personal feeling for Brown. She had always said “no” and ended the matter, not seeming to think it possible that Brown might have a passion for her, the same as any other animal.
But to-night it was different. She had seen Dave Little put his arm around a beautiful woman, and kiss her. He said the woman was his daughter. Kahlita didn't know. Relationship was a kind of mystery to her. She had never had any children, and, so far as she knew, neither father nor mother. Men were men, and women were women, to her. She knew little about the laws of consanguinity. Any man might love and marry any woman, so far as Kahlita knew.
Seeing Little kiss the beautiful girl had awakened in the heart of the Indian woman a desire to be caressed. She had, since then, tried to win caresses from Little, and had been repulsed. Never before had she permitted Brown to even so much as touch her hand. Indians, as a people, are virtuous and loyal. But to-night she was standing very near him when he asked the old question. She did not answer. Encouraged by her silence, he reached up and laid his hand on her shining black hair. A moment later, with a little smothered cry, she went to his arms. The barrier of her reserve was broken. If she could not have caresses where she was entitled to them, she would take them where they were to be had.
Brown took the woman in his arms, and his caresses and endearments were real enough, at the time. They were the outward demonstration of that passion without which the thing called love would he an evanescent dream. But in the back of Brown's head was another matter. He coveted the cove, and the thriving business that Little conducted, much more than he coveted Little's wife. If he could win the woman's confidence his battle would be almost won. One or the other of them would kill Little, and the cove and the business would belong to Kahlita. He would marry Kahlita, and would then be the king of Sycamore Cove.
Kahlita raised her head from Brown's shoulder, and with a new and strange light in her eyes, said:
“Dave will kill you when he finds out”
“I could tell the marshals what I know and they would take him, or kill him,” said Brown, “but they would take me, too, and besides, the business would be lost.”
“No, no!” said Kahlita, clinging to him, “you must not tell. I could not live now, if they took you. No one else loves me. I will kill him, and the girl too.”
“No,” said Brown, “just let things go on as they are for a while. Some time I will see Dave out on the mountains and he will not come back. Then we can decide about the girl. Is she pretty, Kahlita?”
“No, she is not pretty,” lied Kahlita. “You must not see her. When you have killed Dave, let me know, and then I will kill the girl. I hate her. I must not stay longer now. Watch for the light every night, and when you see it I will come.”
With a last, lingering kiss, the Indian woman tore herself from Brown's arms and disappeared down the trail. Brown returned to his horse. Absence from the woman cooled his passion, there were other women, of a sort, but the demon of greed was awake in his mind. The hope of possessing all of Little's wealth, by the simple expedient of murdering him, and afterward marrying his wife, had its allurements. Why not? Little killed without compunction, and Brown knew it.

### CHAPTER III.
#### Where Was Dave Little?

There was never yet a monarch who ruled his realm by fear and frightfulness, that did not sooner or later come to grief. For more than ten years Little had ruled the kingdom of Sycamore Cove with a strong and ruthless hand. Now, by the weakest, and as he thought, the most thoroughly cowed of his subjects, one who was his abject slave, his throne was being undermined.
At the moment when Kahlita was saying that she would kill Little, he was searching his brains for a safe, sure and plausible means of disposing of his wife. He could not kill her and throw her body into a gorge, as he had done with Rufus Haile. He was not supposed to know where other people were, but even in that wild country a man must know what became of his wife when she disappeared. At least, so Little thought. He thought he knew where his wife was at that moment. He pictured her sitting by the smoldering fire in his house, patiently waiting for his return, as an obedient slave should. His surmise was wide of the mark, but no matter. Just now, his wife was in his mind. He was studying plans that concerned her very much.
Mrs. Little was under the impression that Dave had taken the trail that led into the wild and trackless country to the east of the cove, where he sometimes went, but she was mistaken. That trail was a blind trail, and when Little started out on it, he was using it for a blind. It lost itself in a labyrinth of mountain peaks and cañons. No horseman would undertake to follow it, and only an expert woodsman would undertake to find his way across the mountains to the sawmill that lay ten miles to the eastward, in a little valley. There was one intrepid hunter who knew the way quite well, and he had learned it in the last few days. Dave Little knew nothing of this stalwart young man, but Lena knew him. She had ridden the Blue Point trail that very afternoon, and had met the hunter at a point where she dared go no farther. She had kissed him good-by as he stood beside her pony.
But Dave Little was seeking no wandering hunter. He had no fears from that side of his realm, and thought there was no danger there. The crest of the mountain was the edge of the world in that direction, to him. A little way from home he struck the road that led down Sycamore, and followed it. At the lower end of the gorge through the mountain that Sycamore Creek had cut by ages of patient toil, he came to a deep gorge on his right, and turning into it rode along its bed.
The night was dark, and the gloom in the cañon impenetrable, but Little seemed to find his way without difficulty. True, this was out of his realm, but there were certain duchies and baronies adjoining, upon which he levied tribute. He was approaching one of them.
Far up the cañon the rider dismounted, and, leaving the horse, scaled the rocky side of the gulch. After a short walk he turned abruptly around the shoulder of a crag and came to a rough door. Light was streaming through a chink near the ground. Little gave a peculiar knock, and the door was cautiously opened. Little entered, and it closed again.
The interior was a cavelike place, partly natural and partly excavated. The only occupant was an old man, whose long gray hair and beard showed that they had not known shears for many a day.
“Do you think I have changed much, Dave?”
“Not a particle,” said Little, “you look just like you did twenty years ago.”
This question was invariably asked by the older man as soon as Little entered the place, no matter how often he came, and the reply was always the same. Then the old man would say:
“No change. I had hoped that my hair would turn grayer, and my face get wrinkled so no one would know me. Then I could go back and find out some things that I have always wanted to know. Isn't my hair a little grayer?”
“No more than it was that night when you left the drug store in Poplar Bluff.”
“Don't!” cried the old man, in terror, “You must never mention that place. Some one might be listening.”
“All right, Mr. Sarkey. I want to talk a little business to-night.”
“Don't call me by that name,” pleaded the old man, “call me Prell.”
“Sure, Mr. Prell! Anything to oblige,” said Little, with a demoniacal grin. “Now, Mr. Sar—Prell, I mean, I've been pretty clean with you. I found you this quiet little place, here in the sylvan mountains, away from cares and troubles, where you can prosecute your studies of chemistry without being disturbed. You have been here ten years. The man who was tried and convicted for the crime you committed, died in the penitentiary. True, they never secured sufficient evidence to give him the death sentence, but he died. His drug store closed up. His wife died suddenly, too, I believe. He left a child or two, didn't he, Mr. Prell, or did they get some of the same medicine?”
“My God, David! Don't! Please don't! Tell me what you want done, and I'll do it—if it ain't too bad,” said the cringing Prell.
“Oh! If it ain't too bad,” jeered Little. “Now, about what would you call too bad, my dear Mr. Sar—beg pardon again, I mean my dear Mr. Prell?”
“Don't make me commit murder,” begged the old man.
“Have you made the powders I asked you to make?”
“Yes, yes. If you use the powders as directed you can make forty barrels of whisky from one, and none but an expert chemist can tell the difference. No one will ever suspect the presence of this drug in this out-of-the-way place. I have made it from apparently harmless chemicals, and the result would be a credit to the most expert manufacturing chemist,” said Prell, with pride in his work.
“Good work,” said Little. “You do appreciate my kindness in finding this quiet retreat for you, where you can go ahead with your experiments. You have saved some money, too. Let's see. It is ten years last May since you came up the gulch, and you have never been out. I have brought you all your supplies, and food, and have done you a number of small favors. Now, about this other matter. I don't sleep very well nights. Couldn't you fix me up a powder that just a tiny bit, in my coffee, say, would make me sleep? I would be careful not to take too much, because an overdose would make me die—naturallike. 'Sleep medicine,' they used to call it. A white powder. That was what you fixed up once in Poplar—pardon me, Mr. Prell. I keep forgetting that the name of that place is distasteful to you.”
The old hermit was writhing in agony, but he was in the clutches of this fiend, and knew no way out.
“You can have it ready by to-morrow night,” continued Little, “if you know how to make it. Of course, if you don't know, that will be evidence that you had nothing to do with mixing the medicine that killed those people, and it will be useless for me to keep you hid here any longer.”
Soon after this conversation Little took his package of whisky powders, the base of which was a drug akin to cocaine, and departed down the gulch.
When Little was gone the old hermit sat before his fire in the cavern, trembling with agony and fright. “I will not do it!” he muttered. “I do not believe I murdered those people. I did mix the drug that would make them sleep, but if they were given an overdose it was not my fault. But they are still seeking me. If they find me this fiend will appear against me. He has me bound and gagged. I must do it. Oh, my God!” and the old man rocked himself in an agony of fear.
Little returned home and found his house quiet, though he was sure that he had heard some one close the yard gate as he rode up.
Lena Little had stood at the window looking eastward, a long time after the footfalls of her father's horse had died out in the distance, as he left the house earlier in the evening. She heard no movements about the house, and supposed that the Indian woman had retired for the night. Why had she not thought of this before? If he knew it, her lover could come down the mountain to a point near the house, and she could easily slip out the window and meet him. Why could she not entertain him in her own home as other girls did? When she had first come home from the convent her father had told her that she must have absolutely no company. She had thought nothing of it, then, because she knew of no company that she wanted. The woods and the streams were wonderful to her, and she reveled in the freedom to roam over the cove and on the mountainsides. Now, it was all different. She had been thinking of asking her father to remove the restriction, and telling him openly of the young man. Then when he spoke to her, there was such an odd note in his voice that she said nothing.
While informal, there was nothing irregular or wrong about Lena's meeting with Chester Harrington. He was a young lawyer from Texas, a graduate from the university law department and had made creditable success in the practice of his profession. Notwithstanding he was now twenty-eight years old, and still unmarried, his love for a good gun and a stroll in the wild woods was still as strong as it had been in his boyhood.
It chanced that the owner of the sawmill, ten miles east of Blue Point, had been Harrington's client in a suit with a machinery company in a Texas city. The case had been handled in a very satisfactory manner, and Harrington had been invited to come to the Kimish on a hunt. He had come, and in a short time was familiar with the country for miles around. The Blue Point had a fascination for him.
One evening, as he sat smoking his pipe on a point of the northeast shoulder of the mountain, and resting, preparatory to beginning the ten-mile tramp back to the sawmill, he saw a woman riding about in a labyrinth of deep cañons, across a great draw. Finally, he decided that the woman had lost her way, and was seeking a way out.
Hastily crossing the draw, Harrington rounded a little rocky ledge, and came face to face with Lena Little. She realized that she had lost her way, but did not know that she was trying to go away from home, instead of toward it. She had taken her hat off and hung it on the horn of her saddle. The October sun turned her hair to a heap of ruddy gold. The color was in lip and cheek, and altogether the girl would have been wonderfully beautiful, anywhere. But to come upon such a beautiful woman, suddenly, here in the heart of the Kimish, was almost too much for Harrington. He raised his hat and said:
“Good evening. I have noticed you riding about here in the cañons for some time, and thought perhaps you had lost your way. Can I be of service in any way?”
“Why, thank you,” said Lena, “I have missed the trail in some manner. I live in Sycamore Cove.”
“What direction is that from Blue Point?” asked Harrington.
“Northwest,” replied Lena.
“But, you are trying to go southeast. Let me pilot you back onto the ridge, and perhaps you will be able to get your bearings.”
Harrington walked beside her horse, and each time she spoke he experienced a new thrill. He had not supposed there were any such people as this wonderfully cultured young woman to be found in this wild country, and yet, here she was, and she had said that she lived there. They came out on a broad, plain trail.
“Oh, stop! Now I know the way. I am almost home. You must go back!” cried Lena.
“Why, may I not see you safely home?” asked Harrington, in astonishment.
“Oh, no!” and then Lena bit her lip in chagrin. “I—I can't explain. To-morrow I will tell you,” and without another word she rode away.
Harrington stood looking after her until she disappeared down the mountainside. In his own home town Chester Harrington was looked upon as a good match for any girl in the city, but so far he had never met the girl of his dreams. As he plodded back over the rough, mountain trail toward the sawmill he kept thinking of Lena Little. She had told him her name quite frankly, and he had told her his name. One minute he would be telling himself that he should never see her again, and the next he would be saying: “But, she said she would explain to-morrow.”
The next evening had found Harrington out on the broad trail on the shoulder of old Blue Point. He had not waited long until he heard the footfalls of Lena's pony. When they had exchanged greetings, she said:
“Let's go farther on, over the crest.”
Without a word Harrington walked beside her, until they came to where the trail turned down into the cañon. Here Lena dismounted, and said:
“Now then, tie my pony, and we'll sit right here on this big rock and I'll tell you.”
She did tell him all she knew of her life, and wound up by telling him that her father had forbidden her to entertain company. Then Harrington told her of himself, and his life. What he was doing there in the Kimish, and what his hopes were in regard to becoming better acquainted with her. After that they just talked, there beneath God's blue skies.
Murder and violence might run rampant in the Kimish, but such violence did not frighten Cupid, who always goes armed with his bow and arrows. Before they parted he had fired the first tiny dart into their hearts. They agreed to meet again at the same old rock, and they did meet again. The first meeting had been more than a week before this night when Lena stood looking out the window. Since that time they had spent every afternoon together.
Lena knew it was a clandestine love affair, but she had been forbidden to have company at home. She loved this man, and no one should keep her from him. No one had a right to rob her of her happiness. Thus she had reasoned, and on this last afternoon Harrington had gone beside himself with the lure of her wonderful loveliness, had taken her in his arms, kissed her, and told her over and over that nothing on earth should keep them apart. That he would find a way, must find a way, to satisfy her father. It did not occur to Harrington at the time that this was, perhaps, very much the largest case he had taken since he was admitted to the bar.
Harrington came of a proud family, but like other impetuous young men, he let love get the better of his judgment, and made declarations that might irk him later on. He could not conceive such a thing possible as the father of this wonderful girl being a man of Dave Little's class. How would he feel when he learned the facts, which could not be much longer hidden? For Lena had already decided to tell her father, and Harrington had insisted that that was the proper course to pursue.
Harrington was not dreaming of such possibilities as he swung his athletic body from bowlder to bowlder on the way back to the sawmill that night. Nor had Lena thought of an insurmountable difficulty, until she rode up to the gate with Harrington's kiss still wet on lip and cheek, and was told by her father that she must be in the house by sundown thereafter.
As she stood looking toward their trysting place to-night, she knew Harrington was gone, but so complete had been the surrender of her heart, and so thoroughly had love for Harrington driven every other thought from her mind, that she found happiness even in looking toward where she had seen him last.
Lena was not asleep when Little rode into the lot, and she noted that it was some time afterward that he came into the house.

### CHAPTER IV.
#### The Life Line.

While Mr. Little, the King of Sycamore Cove, his estimable queen consort, Kahlita, Mr. Ben Brown, Mr. Sarkey, or Prell, as he preferred to be called, Miss Lena Little, and Mr. Chester Harrington, were each going their respective ways, and indulging in their respective thoughts and activities, certain events that have a direct bearing on this narrative were taking place in another quarter.
When Dave Little fired his rifle at Rufus Haile he was shooting directly against the sun. Mr. Little was an excellent marksman, and would have almost sworn that his bullet was safely lodged in the base of the young man's brain. But he would have been mistaken. Little had been at his victim's back. Indeed, shooting from the rear, when no one was looking, was Mr. Little's preference. The sun, as stated, was in his face when he fired the shot, and the bullet went a few inches to the left and a trifle low. But, no matter. It was full two hundred feet to the bottom of the gorge, and Haile had fallen to those sharp rocks below. But had he?
As a matter of fact, the wound in the tender muscles at the top of the shoulder was not serious. The bullet struck a sensitive spot which caused Haile to fall and roll over the edge. Fifteen feet below a shelving rock projected out and up. Rufus Haile fell on this rock. His head struck the bluff, and he was knocked senseless. He was in a precarious condition. If he was not actually dead, it would be very dangerous for him to regain consciousness and move, as he would undoubtedly fall to certain death below.
A few minutes after Little's departure from the scene of his crime, and just as the sun was disappearing behind the peaks in the west, a cap and the toe of a moccasined foot peeped from behind a big bowlder a little way up the slope. Presently a lithe, slender form, clad in buckskin, swung down the slope, and approaching the edge of the bluff got down on hands and knees and peered over. Only a glance, and the mountaineer saw the white, upturned face of the man on the rock below. His actions were now very deliberate. He got up and walked to the little cedar bush that stood near where Haile's wagon was when Little examined it. He had noticed from his hiding place that when Little threw what he thought was one rope over his shoulder, there had been two of them. One had gone over behind the cedar, and had been left there.
The mountaineer picked the rope up and uncoiled it. Haile was generous with his horses, and the lariat was full fifty feet long. Near the edge of the bluff grew a little, stunted pine sapling. Tying one end of the rope around his waist, the slender mountaineer passed it around the sapling and let himself down over the edge of the bluff.
A moment later he was standing gingerly on the edge of the jutting stone, having made the rope fast in his belt, so he could swing in it in the event he should lose his footing and slip from the rock. Then he proceeded to tie the other end of the rope around under Haile's arms. This done, he set about trying to revive the wounded man, but his efforts were vain. The body was warm and there was a faint pulse, but he could not be roused.
At last, giving up hope of saving the man alone, the mountaineer decided to leave one end of the rope fast around Haile's body, ascend to the top, tie the rope to the sapling in order to keep him from falling in the event he should become conscious and move. He would then go for assistance, which would take some time, as there was no house near except the house of the man who had shot Haile, and he would probably not take kindly to the work of rescue.
Just as the young mountaineer reached the top of the bluff he took hold of a bush and released the rope. The bush gave way, and he fell back the fifteen feet, missing the rock. His momentum was such that, in spite of the fact that Haile was far heavier, when the rope jerked taut it lifted the wounded man from the stone, and for a moment they hung suspended, one on each side of the jutting rock.
The mountaineer saw the danger of the double weight on the pine sapling, which was growing in thin soil, on top of a solid granite bluff, and scrambled for the stone. He was too late. The roots of the little tree gave way under the strain, and the two men fell. The rope caught on the rock and broke the fall, but just for a moment. It slipped off and they fell again. The rope caught on another point of rock just in time to save them from the sharp stones at the base of the cliff.
The mountaineer could now get his feet firmly on a large bowlder at the base of the cliff. He untied the rope from his own waist and let it pay out cautiously until he could ease Haile's body, which still hung limp in the rope, down between two big rocks.
The slender hunter worked his way quickly across the stones, and pulling the rope down, untied it from Haile's body. With remarkable strength for one so slight of build, he carried the wounded man down the dangerous slope to the stream at the bottom of the gorge. By the time he reached the water with his lifeless burden it was quite dark in the cañon.
The mountaineer had matches, but a light just then might prove dangerous. Mr. Little might happen that way. He laid the wounded man on his back on a gravel bar and examined him carefully. The wound in the shoulder was not dangerous, and was scarcely bleeding at all. He ran his fingers deftly over Haile's head, found the protuberance caused by the fall, and nodded his head in the darkness.
Within thirty feet of him he could see the dim outlines of Haile's wagon, which had “lit standin'” in a clump of willows. He went over and made a survey of the wagon and found that while it was smashed pretty badly, most of its contents were intact. He found a water bucket and a towel. Then he got out the bedding, and finding a level place near by he spread a bed. After that he set himself to the task of bringing Haile around, by the wet-towel route.
“What the hell's the idea?” asked Haile, as he struggled to sit up.
“How you coming, old scout?” came back the boyish voice of the rescuer.
Haile told the mountaineer where to find his first-aid kit, in the wagon. The wound was dressed the best that it could be done in the darkness, and Haile wondered at the deftness and skill of the mountaineer, and was still wondering when he lay down on the bed, and, after a time, went to sleep. He knew when his rescuer got the rest of the bedding out of the wagon and made another bed near by. What he didn't know was that this strange mountaineer of the Kimish heard every move he made throughout the night.
A few hours' sleep relieved the grogginess he had felt from the crack on his head. The wound in his shoulder was little more than a scratch for a strong man. When he woke the next morning he was right as could be. When he had asked how they came there the night before, his companion had said:
“Better not talk now. I'll tell you in the morning.”
It was morning now, and Haile was anxious to know a few things, but the mountaineer was asleep. He slipped out of his blankets, discovered that he was in the bottom of the gorge, and decided to take a look down the stream for a way out. Then he would come back, wake his friend and rustle some breakfast. The way downstream was clear enough for a quarter of a mile, and then Haile struck a real knot. There was a fall, where the water scooted down a smooth inclined plane for a hundred feet or more, into a deep, blue hole of water, with perpendicular cliffs rising from the water's edge on each side. The rushing water coming down the chute caused a whirlpool that no living swimmer could exist in.
“Nothing doing. I can swim a whole lot, but not through there,” mused Haile, and he turned back toward the camp at the head of the gorge.
When Haile reached the beds the mountaineer was up and gone. He heard some one splashing water just around a big bowlder, and stepped that way to greet his companion. When he rounded the stone the fellow was squatting on the edge of the water washing his face, while a wealth of wavy brown hair rippled down the back of his buckskin coat.
“What the hell and damn—oh! I beg our pardon. It was dark last night when saw you, and I didn't know it was a lady that helped me out.”
The mountaineer rose and faced him. It was, indeed, a young girl. The front of the buckskin coat was now open, showing a loose-fitting shirt of some soft goods that displayed the firm curves of a wonderfully modeled woman. She was well above medium height, athletic of build, with rich brown hair and clear hazel eyes.
“If you are disappointed I am sorry, but it can't be helped now,” she said.
“Oh, give me a chance, please,” pleaded Haile. “It was just the surprise. I never would have believed that a woman could have done what you did. Er—by the way, I don't believe I know what it was you did. You said last night you would tell me this morning,” and Haile's face flushed as the girl stood measuring him with a steady, level gaze.
“I think I did tell you that, in order to get you to go to sleep,” she said, “but I never can talk when I'm hungry. What are we going to do for something to eat?”
“Why, there ought to be plenty of grub in that wagon,” said Haile, as he made a dive for the willows.
When he returned he announced that they could not have eggs for breakfast, unless the young lady liked her eggs scrambled with cottonseed and sawdust. Otherwise, the menu would include bacon, toast, coffee, cereal, condensed milk and a variety of canned fruits.
A small fire was kindled in a sheltered nook, and breakfast was soon ready. Two healthy, and extremely hungry, young people were quite ready for it to be ready. They finished breakfast. Haile stuffed his old pipe full of tobacco and stretched out on the ground for a smoke. He was a philisopher. He was feeling quite comfortable just now, and had no desire to rush into the next step until he had finished this one. The girl sat on a rock, contemplating him gravely, as he smoked in silence.
“What did that man shoot you for?” she asked.
“Thank goodness, that's off my mind, at last,” said Haile. “I've been thinking all the time you shot me, and was afraid to ask you what for. I didn't see the gentleman that shot me, and didn't have a chance to ask him about it. Did you see him?”
“Yes, I saw him.”
“Why didn't you ask him?”
It was the girl's time to stammer now.
“Oh, well, it don't matter, now,” said Haile. “He probably had his own reasons. If I ever see him I'm going to ask him, and I'll tell you what he says. Now, since we are on this picnic together, let's get acquainted. My name is Rufus Haile. You can call me Rufe, while the picnic lasts.”
“My name is Harriet Hedwick, and you may call me Hattie, while the picnic lasts, since it is likely to be the last one either of us will ever attend,” said the girl, calmly.
“Why the last one?”
“There is said to be no way into, or out of this place, except by the top. We came in that way, but there seems little chance that we will go out that way. We might kindle a big fire, or arrange some kind of signal, but there is little chance that we would attract the attention of any one except the man who shot you.”
“Do you know that gentleman?” asked Haile.
“Yes, I know him when I see him. His name is Dave Little,” said the girl, observing Haile narrowly.
“Not on my visiting list,” said Rufus Haile, “but when we get out of here, I shall make an effort to get acquainted with him. Now please tell me as much as you can about what happened to me. The last I remember I was standing at the top of the bluff trying to make out what the 'wild waves were saying' or something like that. I heard a shot, and after that things are not quite clear.”
Harriet Hedwick told Haile that she did not see Little when he fired the shot, so she was unable to prevent it. She did see him unharness the horses and run the wagon over the bluff. She went on to tell of her attempt to save him, of their spectacular trip down the face of the bluff, and the various stages of his rescue up to the time he regained consciousness.
“Well, Hattie, you are one more game sport. You saved my life, all right, and I am going to get you out of here and back to—where do you live?”
“About eight miles from here, over the southeast side of Blue Point.”
“Is that a mountain or an oyster?”
“A mountain, in this instance,” said Harriet.
“Won't your folks be terribly uneasy about you?”
“I have no one but my father. He may be uneasy about me after a while, when he misses me, but he knows that I am fairly capable of taking care of myself.”
They washed up the breakfast dishes and started out to explore the gorge. On the rocks along the base of the cliff they found several skeletons of men, remnants of old saddles, the wreckage of a wagon or two, and general indications that it had been used for the same purpose for some time.
“This place seems to be a kind of depository for Mr. Little's cast-off friends,” said Haile. “I am glad to find that he had no special dislike for me, and that he was treating me no worse than he had treated others. I hate partiality and discrimination. We are all on a democratic level down here. None of us can say we came by a superior route, or came over in the Mayflower, or anything like that.”
“Oh, don't talk that way about this gruesome place! If we have to spend another night here I shan't be able to sleep for fright.”
“They are not nearly so dangerous as the live people in the Kimish, if half I have heard is true,” said Haile.
“The people in the Kimish are very much like the people elsewhere,” said Harriet, “except that they are a bit more extreme. This Sycamore Cove outfit, with Dave Little at the head of it, comprises all the really bad people in this part of the country. Some of the others I know are as extremely good as that gang is extremely bad.”
“I've seen one sample of badness and one of goodness,” said Haile, “and the good deed outshines in its goodness the bad deed in its badness. So we'll let it go at that.”
They made a careful survey of the situation. There was no possibility of escape down the stream. Even if they could pass the whirlpool by swimming, it was remembered that there was a worse one just above the last crossing on the stream, a few miles below. At noon they ate dinner and sat for some time afterward talking over the situation.
“Now, Miss Hedwick,” said Haile soberly, “you got into this place in an effort to save my life. You undoubtedly did save it, and I have never been a quitter. That is why I am in this country now. I am not going to quit now. I am going to get out of this place alive, and am going to take you out with me. By the way, how long have you lived in this country?”
“About three years.”
“You know a great many of the people here, then.”
“I have seen a good many of them. I know, personally, very few.”
Haile drew a pocketbook from a receptacle somewhere inside his clothing. Taking a photograph from the book he handed it to the girl and said:
“Do you know that man?”
“Why, that is Dave Little!” exclaimed Harriet.
“I was beginning to suspect as much, said Haile, dryly, “I am afraid Mr. Little is going to be sorry he made such a poor shot, before this little adventure is ended.” He returned the picture to his pocket. “I shall tell you some things about Mr. Little one of these days. Just now he is too far above us to be spoken of lightly. Besides, I must think about a means of getting out of this place.”
They went up to the head of the stream, a hundred yards or more above their camp. The water broke over a fall about twenty-five feet high. Above the fall, as well as they could make out, the water came from beneath shelving rocks in the head of the gorge. There was a passageway up the rocks by the side of the fall, but it was slippery and dangerous.
Haile went back to the camp and got the rope and the ax. He cut some willow poles and made a kind of ladder. Late in the afternoon they climbed up above the fall and found themselves on a broad, level surface of stone, at the mouth of a great cavern from which the water poured. The opening to the cavern was as high as a man's head and extended entirely across the gorge. They stepped a little way inside, and found that the water poured up through a crevice in the stone floor of the cave and beyond that it was quite dry.
“Let's bring the camp things up here and stay to-night. It is not quite so close to those, horrible things in the gorge,” begged Harriet.
Haile agreed, and he worked until it was quite dark moving as much of the camp supplies as he could, including the bedding and food, and a considerable quantity of dry wood, together with some pieces of the wagon body. On the last trip he brought the mashed and battered lantern, and the gallon can of kerosene that by some miracle had come through the wreck untouched. The lantern globe was broken, but the bowl and wick were intact, and would make a sort of light when there was no wind.
Rufe Haile had an idea of his own, but he didn't mention it to the girl, because he didn't want to raise false hopes. As they ate supper in the falling darkness, by a scanty camp fire, there was very little talking. Haile had to admit to himself that the outlook for escape from the gorge was anything but encouraging. Had he known the route they would eventually take he would have been afraid on account of the girl.

### CHAPTER V.
#### Boiling Beneath the Surface.

On the morning after Dave Little's visit to the hermit's cave the world seemed disposed to smile. At an early hour, about the time that Rufus Haile and Harriet Hedwick were eating their belated breakfast in the bottom of the gorge, Mr. Little was going about his home with a merry heart. He was singing, “Let the Lower Lights Be Burning,” in a manner that would have assured the unsophisticated that all was quite well with his soul.
Lena had slept little, and was haggard and listless at the breakfast table. She had spent the night thinking and wondering about things that were becoming more and more a puzzle to her.
The Indian woman went about her housework as usual. Her face, always a mask, was more inscrutable than ever. No one could fathom the thoughts that were busy behind those glittering eyes.
When Dave Little had finished certain chores about the place he put his own horse and Lena's pony in the stable and fed them. Then he turned the other horses out and drove them away.
After that, still singing sacred songs in a soulful manner, the King of Sycamore Cove went to the house, shaved, trimmed his tawny mustache, pulling a few gray hairs therefrom, and dressed himself in a neat-fitting suit of modest pattern, with a white shirt, collar and necktie. He put on a pair of new boots, combed his hair carefully, and emerged from his room quite a personable fellow, indeed. He would have easily passed for forty or less. Then Mr. Little did a thing that he had never done before. He entered Lena's room and asked her for a book to read.
The girl was almost speechless with astonishment at the change in her father's appearance. But the thing that puzzled her most was the expression in his eyes that she could not fathom. She only knew that it was not good to see.
She gave him the book, but he did not leave the room. He sat down and glanced about him.
“I've done pretty well by you, Leeny. You are educated. You ain't never worked none, and you won't never have to work. You stay by me, and I'll do my part. I'm going to tell you something in a few days that will open your eyes. We'll make this old place gay, yet, or else we'll go where we can be gay.”
The girl was so surprised at the actions of her father, about whom she really knew very little, that she attempted no reply. Presently Little rose to leave the room, and walking over to where Lena sat he placed his hand on her head and bent it back, then stooped over and kissed her full on the lips. Lena was an unsophisticated convent girl, but she had felt the hot breath of passion on her face when Harrington had kissed her the evening before. Like a flash she interpreted the lustful light in the man's eyes, and fear gripped her heart. What could it mean? Was her father a brute?
At the dinner table Little was unusually cheerful and talkative. His wife was unusually glum and silent. Lena ate sparingly, in a kind of frozen horror. Kahlita interpreted the glitter in Little's eyes when he looked at the girl, readily enough, and her hands clenched beneath the table. She had given herself to Ben Brown, but still Little was her husband, and he had no right to look at any other woman in that manner in her presence. Especially, he had no right to bend such an ardent look of desire on a beautiful woman like Lena, even if she were his daughter. When the meal was finished Little rose from the table and said:
“I'm going to ride down Sycamore this evening, Leeny. If you want to go with me I'll saddle yo' pony.”
“Why, I—I don't believe I feel like riding this evening,” stammered the girl, taken completely by surprise.
There was a fiendish grin on the face of the Indian woman, who had her back to them at the time.
“Very well,” said Little, “you can go some other time.”
Lena went to her room to wait until her father was out of the way. Then she would saddle her pony and go to meet Harrington, as usual. Peering out a back window, Kahlita saw Little saddle his own horse, and then turn Lena's pony out and drive it away.
Half an hour later, when Lena went to get her pony, she was panic-stricken to find that it was gone. She must see Harrington. Heretofore she had wanted to see him because she loved him, and was not happy except when she was with him. Now she wanted to see him because she wanted him to save her from some hideous thing that she felt was impending, and that she could not express or even understand.
Returning to the house she hastily put on a pair of strong shoes and a short walking skirt. She then set out to walk to the trysting place. As she went along she kept thinking of the mystery that surrounded her, and of being a prisoner here in the mountains. In the stress of her excitement she ran. As she gained the place where the trail climbed out on to the mountain she was out of breath and stopped to rest. Quite naturally, in her fear, she looked back down the mountain to see if she was being pursued. There was no one in sight, but she could see the window of her own room quite plainly, and it gave her an idea.
Just after she passed on over the crest she met Harrington, and was in his arms before she spoke.
“Why, darling, have you walked all the way up here to see me?” asked Harrington.
“Yes. I had to walk. They have taken my pony away from me. I am a prisoner! Oh, it is too horrible! I can't explain! I can't understand!”
“There, there,” said Harrington, soothingly, “you are excited, little girl. It can't be so bad as that. In a day or two you will find an opportunity to tell your father all about me. He cannot possibly have any objection to me. Then I can come to the house to see you, and everything will be lovely.”
“Oh, no, no! It can't be! I fear him most of all. Oh, I can't, tell you! I don't know what to say, or what to do!”
“Well, never mind. We'll talk of other things, and plan for the day when I am to take you to my own home in Texas, where you will always be happy, and my happiness will consist in making you happy.”
They tried, but the effort was not a success. Lena's mind constantly reverted to her fears, and to the mystery that surrounded her. They were sitting on a fallen tree, in the shelter of some young pines.
“I must go now,” said Lena, as she stood up.
Harrington took her into his arms for a last embrace, and looking up into his eyes she said:
“Promise me that, no matter what comes, you will not forsake me, dearest: I feel that some dreadful thing is about to befall. That you and I are about to be separated.”
“I promise, darling, but there is nothing that can keep us apart. I will come boldly to the house and claim you.”
“You cannot do that, yet. I will be here to meet you again to-morrow afternoon. If I should not come, then wait here until after dark. Go to that large tree that stands on the point. From there you can see the window of my room plainly. The curtain will expose the lower half of the window, in which there are four panes of glass. If the window is all light, I shall be all right, and you need not come. I will meet you the next day if I can. If it is all dark, or if two of the panes of glass are darkened, come at once, but be careful, for it will be dangerous.”
With a last kiss Lena darted away down the mountainside. Harrington turned to tramp back across the mountains to his friend's home. As he went along he pondered the strange situation that be found himself in. That he, an honorable man, every act of whose life was an open book, was daily meeting a girl in this clandestine manner, seemed incredible. Yet it was true, and it was also true that he loved her with a love that would not be denied. He called the whispering old pines and the night winds, that were gossiping in their waving branches, to witness that his attitude toward Lena was as honorable as that of any man who told his love in the parlor of the most conventional home in all America. He would stand no more of this. He would go to the girl's father, as man to man, and tell him of his love for Lena.
Had he but known the things that were to happen before he saw Lena again Harrington would have taken her with him then, without the consent of any man. Had Lena dreamed of but half the ordeal before her, she would have run after him, clung to him, and begged him to take her.
Lena hurried home, but there was no need for haste. There was no one there when she got there, nor for some time afterward. The Indian woman slipped in from somewhere soon after sunset, and was busy preparing supper before Lena knew she had returned.
Dave Little's ride down Sycamore that afternoon seemed an aimless trip. He met two or three men. To one of them he said:
“Don't bring any more stuff up here until I give you notice. It may be a month before I can handle any more.”
To another he said:
“Pass the word that there is no stock, and I am going to be out of business for a month or two, maybe longer.”
None of his conversations were long, and it was little past the middle of the afternoon when he started back up Sycamore toward his home. He rode leisurely along, apparently in deep study. When he came to the mouth of the gulch that led to the hermit's place he stopped, looked cautiously along the road in both directions, and then turned into the gulch.
“Just as well get it now, and save a trip to-night,” he said to himself.
At the dugout Little knocked boldly, and entered.
“My God! David, what brings you here in the daytime?” asked the old man in startled tones.
“Oh, don't be alarmed,” said Little. “I wanted that sleep medicine. I might not be able to come to-night, so I thought I'd come by and get it. You don't know what a terrible thing it is not to be able to sleep.”
The old chemist's hands trembled as he produced the white powder and gave it to Little in a small package.
“Better give me some directions. I might take too much, or not enough, or something like that. Mistakes with medicine are mighty bad sometimes. You know that, don't you?”
“It is put up in separate papers. One powder will produce sleep that will last from eight to ten hours. If you should take two of them the result would be fatal, nine times out of ten.”
“Oh, well, if I take more than one dose I will take the first and the tenth,” said Little, facetiously. “Nice to know all about those things Mr. Sar—I mean Mr. Prell. This is a delightfully quiet place you have here. I have a very nervous friend that I may have to bring here for a rest, some time.”
“Oh, David! You can't mean that! Please don't bring any one here!” pleaded the hermit. “Your coming here in the daytime is dangerous, but to bring any one else here, at any time, would be suicidal.”
“Well, don't worry about it. I shall probably never bring any one here, but if I should I am sure you would not turn them away, on account of your kindly feeling for me.”
Little left the old man writhing in terror. “He is losing his senses,” muttered the hermit. “I cannot imagine what has taken possession of him. And the way he is shaved and dressed to-day. If any one saw him who knew him fifteen years ago he would be recognized instantly.”
Little rode back down the gorge and entered the Sycamore cañon cautiously. A little farther on he set spurs to his horse and cantered gayly homeward, arriving at the house about dark. He tied his horse at the gate and went in. At supper he was quite pleasant and talkative, and the glances that he bent on Lena renewed the fires of hatred in the heart of his half-breed wife.
“I may not be back here to-night. I hope you will not be afraid, or lonesome here with Kahlita. Stay in the house. It is naughty for little girls, especially pretty girls, to go out at night,” Little said to Lena, as he rose from the table.
Mounting his horse the King of Sycamore Cove rode eastward, toward Blue Point, with a great clatter of hoofs. A quarter of a mile from the house he stopped, dismounted, and tied his horse to a tree. Then he stole back to a point between the house and the stables, where he could command the entrance to the house without being seen.
The house was in total darkness. Suddenly a light flashed from the kitchen window, disappeared, flashed again, and disappeared.
“That was a strange performance,” was Little's mental comment. Had the light come from Lena's window he would not have been surprised. He was watching her. He had become suspicious of her, and had decided to bring his plans concerning her to a speedy consummation. But if there was a hanger-on he wanted to get him first. Mr. Little took no chances. He never had taken any. That was the sole reason for his being here now. He wondered if it were possible that his wife was in league with the girl, against him.
Then he saw the kitchen door open and a woman steal softly away from the house. That was Kahlita, he knew her walk. No white woman could walk like that. He would follow her, and see where she was going, and what she was up to. He had no intention of doing anything worse to Kahlita than administering two, or at most three, of the little white powders in her coffee the next morning. Still, she was his wife, and he should see to it that her behavior was not unbecoming the consort of a king.
He followed her across Sycamore at a distance, and up the trail toward the crest of the ridge. He saw her meet Ben Brown, and saw Brown take her in his arms. This was too much. The feelings of an outraged husband could not stand such wantonness in a wife, even though he did intend to poison her in the morning. He was very near them. The woman stood between him and Brown, with her head on the man's shoulder. There was a shot. The bullet passed through both of them.
It was a gruesome scene. Too much for Mr. Little's tender heart. He went back home. Went on and got his horse, and mounting rode boldly up to his own front gate, dismounted and entered the house. There was a light in Lena's room. She had not yet retired.
The King of Sycamore Cove entered his own castle with lordly tread. He knocked on Lena's door, and she opened it.
“May I come in a while?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Lena dutifully, but tremblingly.
“You know, Leeny, I told you to-day that I would tell you something before long that would surprise you. Well, I have decided to tell you to-night, and have it off my mind,” said Little, as he sat down on a chair quite near the girl.
“You have always thought,” he continued, “that you were my daughter, and 1 wanted you to think that until recently. But since you came here to live I have changed my mind. You are not my daughter, nor are you any kin to me, whatever. When you came here, and I saw how wonderfully lovely you were, I fell in love with you. I want you to be my wife. I must have you.”
“But, father!” cried the girl, in wide-eyed horror.
“Don't call me father. I tell you, before Heaven, I am not your father, nor am I any kin to you. I took you when you were an orphan, a baby almost. I have done much for you. I had no thought, then, of course, of ever wanting to marry you. But you have developed into a wonderful woman. No man has a better right to you than I have. I have never been married, except to Kahlita, and you know how much of a wife she was. I have been cheated all these years of the love of a beautiful woman. I have not had the soft, yielding white body of a real woman to caress, nor rosy, girlish lips to kiss. Now I will have them, and no man shall say no.”
“But, Mr. Little! I do not love you, cannot love you!” faltered Lena.
“It has never been my custom to beg,” said Little, in cold tones. “I have usually taken what I wanted. I had hoped that you might care for me, but if you do not, that will not change matters. There is nowhere else for you to go. No one else shall have you,” and Little reached a hand toward her.
Like a flash she darted from her chair and out the door, but halfway to the gate he caught her. One wild scream of terror rang out across the night, before he placed his hand over her mouth. The hand that less than an hour before had taken the life of his own lawful wife.

### CHAPTER VI.
#### The Last Match.

When Rufus Haile and Harriet Hedwick had finished supper, after moving their camp from the gruesome neighborhood below the falls, they sat some time in silence, each busy with thoughts that did not admit of expression to a stranger.
Hattie Hedwick was an athlete, and was also an independent thinker. The same freedom that had developed her physical strength to a remarkable degree, had developed her mind in a like manner. She had been hedged about by none of the conventions that make so many young women supersensitive of their physical limitations.
And yet, Hattie was very much a woman, with all the finer instincts fully developed! The thought of being imprisoned there in the gorge, with its unscalable walls, with a man whom she had never seen before, came to her with as much force as it would have come to the most conventional prude in the world. But, it came tempered with reason and common sense. The situation was the result of a combination of circumstances that were beyond human control. Worrying, and giving way to sadness and repining, or to senseless fear, could not mend matters. Haile's behavior indicated that he was a clean-minded gentleman. Further than that, she had discovered that he had some great purpose in the Kimish, which was occupying his mind to the exclusion of all else. The solving of the problem of escaping from the gorge, as the next step in that great purpose, was evidently occupying his mind fully just then.
While these thoughts were running in Hattie's mind, she was silently watching Haile, who was working at something on the other side of the fire. He seemed to be an ingenious fellow, with a quick mind. From somewhere he had produced a large cork, such as are used to stop jugs. With the small blade of his knife he cut a hole through the middle of the cork. Then he unraveled two lengths of small cotton rope that he had cut from his wagon sheet, and twisting them together drew them through the hole in the cork. He then removed the cap from the kerosene can, dropped the rope into it, and screwed the cork firmly into the mouth of the can, thus making a very creditable torch. The cork bound the wick tightly, and would prevent the flame from running down into the can. Cork would burn, of course, but it would burn very slowly. The point of his knife was driven through the tin near the top of the can, forming a vent for any gas that might be created by the heat, and the torch was ready for business.
When his labors were finished Haile took the torch a little way inside the cave and set a match to it. It proved a splendid success. Returning to the camp fire he said:
“I am going to have a look at the inside of the cave. You will be perfectly safe here, if you do not wish to go. I will divide the matches with you, leave one of my pistols, and all the food. If I should not return you must do the best you can.”
Harriet Hedwick stood up and flexed the muscles of his sinewy arms.
“No, Mr. Haile, I am going with you. I am not a quitter. Then, if either of us gets back, we'll both get back.”
Hattie was brave and self-reliant enough, but the fact that she would be horribly lonesome by herself, with the moaning fall below her, and knowledge that skeletons lay strewn on the rocks of the gorge, had much to do with her decision. Then, too, she had been noticing the slant of Hale's mighty shoulders, and making mental comment on the strength of them. Somehow the man looked reliable and comforting. After all, Hattie was a woman.
“Good,” said Haile. “I'll carry this end board from the wagon and the torch. I can carry the ax in my belt. You carry this little bucket of food, the short pole and our old life line. A rope comes handy sometimes.”
Thus equipped they advanced into the cave. The board was laid across the fissure where the water came up, and they crossed over dry-shod. Here the floor of the cave was smooth and dry. Overhead, at a distance of ten feet or so, was a rough granite ceiling, with none of the disagreeable dripping water common in such places. The air in the cave was pure and fine, indicating a draft through it. They advanced for a hundred yards, or more, and then they were confronted by a solid stone wall running square across the cavern in front of them. All their elaborate preparation for exploration had seemingly been wasted.
After their eyes had become accustomed to the place they saw a sharp angle in the wall, far to their right, and almost out of the circle of light from the torch. They approached the angle, and turning the sharp corner found a fissure in the stone, not more than two feet wide by seven or eight feet high. Haile held the torch above his head and peered into the tunnel. The walls and floor were smooth and dry, so far as he could see, but the other end of the passage was shrouded in gloom. He looked over his shoulder at the girl.
“Are you game for this?” he asked.
“Go ahead. I'll follow you,” she replied.
The passage was fully fifty yards long, and opened into a roomy compartment, with broken, irregular walls. As they emerged into this room Haile put his hand in his coat pocket and drawing it out sprinkled a small quantity of sawdust with bits of eggshell in it, on the floor of the cave.
“We might want to find this place again,” he said.
They went forward, and passed through several large rooms, with more or less clearly defined doors and passages, Haile marking the entrances from time to time as a matter of precaution. At last they approached a narrow passage and a sudden gust of wind extinguished the torch. It had gone out once before, on account of a sudden movement. Haile was using a short wick to conserve the oil. He now put his hand in his pocket for the matchbox. It was gone! Here they were, far in the very bowels of the earth, with no light. Strong man as Haile was, his voice trembled as he asked:
“Have you a match?”
Harriet felt in the pocket of her coat.
“Just one,” she replied, feeling for Haile's hand in the darkness.
Groping his way back from the draft Haile pulled up the wick in the torch, and praying for success struck the last match, and lighted it.
“Miss Hedwick, I have lost all my matches. This is our last light. If we don't find them, and our torch goes out, we can never find our way back to the gorge. I am sure that this draft comes from the outside, and am anxious to try the passage, yet I am afraid the wind will blow the torch out again. I am going to leave the decision to you.”
“I am following you, and am willing to trust your judgment,” said Hattie.
Haile sat pondering the situation for a full minute, then he removed the cork from the mouth of the can, drew out the wick and cut off a strand of the oily rope. When he had replaced the wick he split up half of the end board and made a fire directly in front of the gusty passage.
“Now,” he said, “that fire will burn for ten minutes. We'll wrap this piece of wick on a stick and light it for a torch to hold in front of us, hold our torch behind us to protect it from the draft, and try to get through the passage. If the wind blows out the torches we can come back to the fire.”
So equipped they pushed forward into the passage. The small torch held in front of them flickered and wavered in the strong draft, but the wood, saturated with oil, kept it alight. Presently they came out into a large room. To their right, the floor of the compartment slanted up for fifty feet or more, and seemed to join the ceiling like the point of a wedge.
They had brought along the balance of the board, and seeking a sheltered corner, where there was no draft, they kindled another fire. After a careful survey of the room, it became apparent that the only outlet from it was the one by which they had entered, and yet, where did that wind come from?
“Stay here by the fire, and don't let it go out,” said Haile. “I am going to make some explorations.” A moment later he was crawling up the steep, sloping side of the cave, with the draft coming strong in his face. It was quite obvious that there was an opening somewhere for that wind to get in.
He had reached a place where there was hardly more than a crevice between roof and ceiling, when suddenly he stopped. He had heard something and had seen something. He was peering down into a room where there was a dim light. He could see no one, but he could hear movements that seemed to come from some distance.
The crevice through which he was looking was only a few inches wide. He was simply lying on the face of a gigantic wedge-shaped rock, one side of which formed the sloping floor of the room he was in, while the head of the wedge formed one wall of the next room. It was a sheer drop of twenty feet through the crevice to the floor below. Haile approximated the width of the opening. It lacked fully two inches of being large enough for his body to pass through. It was even doubtful if the slender body of the girl could get through it. There was no hope of escape through it.
The crevice was about ten feet long, and at the end where he was looking through it was widest. At either end it ran to a point. He noted that the floor of the room below was smooth. With a sigh of disappointment Haile scrambled back down the slope and joined the girl by the fire. Time has little to do with the acquaintance of people who meet under such circumstances as those which had thrown these two young people together. Haile spoke to the girl gently, almost tenderly, as if he had known her for years:
“Hattie, can you bear to be almost in reach of a great hope, and yet unable to attain it? We are now confronted with such a situation.” Then he told her what he had seen.
“Did you try to put your head through the crevice?” asked Hattie. “You know, your body will go through any place your head will go through.”
“Yes,” said Haile, “that is a theory that I have often put to the test, but the crack was in a fence, and I could get both feet on the ground while trying it. This is a place that if I go through I should prefer to go feet first.”
They sat talking almost in whispers, and suddenly the draft through the room died away.
“The wind must have quit blowing outside. I'm going to have another look at that place,” said Haile.
When he reached the crevice again there was no light in the room below, and no sound could be heard. Returning to the fire he split up the remaining pieces of the board, and taking up the torch, said:
“Watch the fire for your life, now. Be saving with the wood, but don't let the fire go out.” Then he moved slowly up the incline, the ax in one hand and the torch in the other.
Haile knew that breaking two inches from that granite bowlder, with nothing but an ax, and less than two feet of striking space, was well-nigh impossible. It might be done in days, if the ax held out, but without food and water it would be doubtful even then. He would cheerfully make the gamble, as far as he was personally concerned. It was a cold gamble, with the odds all against him, but then he had gambled on long chances before. There was another element to be considered in this case—the girl. Had he a right to stake her life, like so many blue chips, on the green felt table of chance? Oh, well! He would play one hand, anyway. It was early yet. Men have said that before in the gambling rooms of the world, and they were still playing when it was not early, and all hope of winning was past. So, Haile labored up the slope, fixed the torch and began pecking away on the granite with the poll of the ax.
Nature is always getting some fellow into a tight place and holding him until he wiggles himself nearly to death, and then laughing at him. Haile pecked away at the granite, occasionally breaking a small flake of the stone away. It reminded him of the “constant dropping” adage. He raged that he could not swing the ax and give that rock what was coming to it. He had never worked in a quarry, and did not know that those steady, gentle taps were perhaps doing more good than so many smashing blows would do. He was so eager, and the change was so gradual that he did not notice that the blows, which had a sharp ringing sound when he first began, now gave out a dull, hollow thud. Suddenly a section of the stone about four feet long began to slip. Moving hastily back Haile saw it slip forward and fall with a crash into the other room. There had been a seam in the rock that ages had not healed. The constant light blows had loosened a great sliver of the stone, which giving way had made a hole almost large enough for a horse to pass through.
Exhilarated at the thought of escape from the underground prison, Haile climbed back down the slope, taking the torch with him. When he reached the level he saw that the fire was out and the girl not in sight. His heart gave a great bound. He had looked at his watch just before going up to try the experiment of breaking the stone, and it was three o'clock. He looked at it now, and it was five. For two hours he had hammered on that stone, and he thought it but a few minutes. His hands were blistered and his knuckles bleeding, where he had struck them against the rough granite. He raised the torch above his head and peered into the shadows where the fire had been. There on the ground, just beyond the little heap of ashes, lay Hattie Hedwick, on the ground.
Fear gripped Haile's heart, as he protected the torch with his hand and stole softly forward. What if she were dead, after all she had done for him! As he approached her he saw that she lay with her head pillowed on one arm, her bosom rising and falling in the long, even respiration of one in sound sleep.
With a sigh of relief Haile gathered up the remaining splinters and pieces of wood and started the fire again. Then he uncoiled the rope, and taking it and the short pole went back to the crevice. He tied the rope around the pole and laid the pole across the opening. Then knotting the rope at close intervals he dropped it into the room below. All was now ready for their escape into the next compartment of the cave. After that, he knew not what.
When he returned to where Hattie still slept he had not the heart to wake her. As she lay on the hard stone floor, her long lashes resting on her oval cheeks, she did not look the same as when she was awake.
Then he stooped over, and touching her lightly on the shoulder, called her name. She sprang up and stared about her for an instant, then said, quite calmly:
“I must have slept for a minute.”
“Yes, just a minute,” said Haile, gently, “and now we are going to try to get out of here.” He told her then of enlarging the crevice, and gathering up the ax, the torch, and the little bucket of food, they climbed to the top of the slope. Haile explained the knotted rope, and said:
“Will you go first, or shall I?”
“You go first, but don't leave the rope when you get to the bottom. I want to come right down, before something happens to separate us.”
A few minutes later they stood in the lower room of the cave, with the torch, the battered old ax, and the little bucket, but no sign of an opening to the outer world in sight.
“I'll jerk the rope down now. We may need it again,” said Hattie, and taking hold of it began swinging it.
“No, no!” said Haile, catching her arm, “We may have to go back that way.”
At the same instant they heard a chain rattling at the other end of the room, and low, muffled voices came to them. Haile blew out the torch, drew a pistol with his right hand, and unconsciously put his left arm around the girl's waist and drew her back against the wall beside him. There was a terrible stillness in the cave, and they could hear their hearts beating.

### CHAPTER VII.
#### Mr. Prell Has a Guest.

The King of Sycamore Cove, the gentleman who had boasted that it was his custom to take what he wanted in this little old world, even to the matter of wives, made a startling discovery when he undertook to use violence with Lena. The same latent will that had sustained her in walking six miles in order to meet her lover earlier in the evening, now came to her aid. That will was reënforced by the superhuman strength and frenzy of a great fear.
Little had undertaken the fight of his life. Lena turned on him with the ferocity of a tigress. She scratched his face, bit and kicked like some vicious, captured animal. She knew nothing about firearms, but she succeeded in drawing Little's pistol from the holster, and in another moment would have shot either him or herself with it had he not wrenched it from her hand.
The pistol fell to the ground, and as Little stooped to pick it up the girl broke away and ran screaming out of the gate. Fear lent wings to her feet, and she started east. She had no clearly defined purpose, perhaps, but instinctively she ran toward where she had last seen Harrington. Her freedom was short-lived. Within a hundred yards from the gate Little overtook her. Smarting with the scratches Lena had inflicted on his face, rage supplanted every other passion in his breast.
Worn out with the unequal struggle, Lena could do nothing but scream. Deftly knotting a heavy silk handkerchief around the girl's neck, after drawing it through her mouth, he effectually gagged her. With another handkerchief he then bound her hands and led her back to the horse.
“Now, young lady,” he snarled, “you are going with me. You can go quietly and without trouble, or you can keep on raising hell, but you are going.”
Lena could make no reply for the gag, but the fire of rage and defiance blazed in her eyes. As Little was untying his horse she made another dash for liberty. This time he tripped her with his foot, and as she fell he grabbed her and choked her almost to insensibility. Then picking her up he set her on the powerful horse in front of him and thundered away down Sycamore and up the gulch to Prell's dugout.
The old recluse was roused, and trembled with apprehension as he heard irregular footsteps without. At Little's knock the door opened, and he staggered in with his burden.
“Oh, David, you should never have brought a woman here,” cried the old man.
“No, I reck'n not,” snapped Little. “Ought to have just let the cat run wild in the woods. That would put you and me and some more people I know in a pretty bad mess. I ought to put her where the balance of her tribe went, and at the same time. But I didn't. She knows too much now to be turned loose. Besides, I want her, and will have her when I am ready.”
“Who is she?” whined the older man.
“That is none of your business,” snapped Little. “I could kill her, but I don't want her dead. I want her alive. I am going to leave her here with you, and if I don't find her here when I return, you know what I'll do. I am going now. The only thing for you to remember is that she must be here, must be alive and uninjured when I get back.”
“When are you coming back?”
“That is not important. Attend to your business as if you expected me any hour, and then you will not be caught off your guard. Things are breaking pretty fast for me right now, and I have my hands full. The country is full of marshals, and you want to keep close. When I come back I shall take this girl away and marry her. There is now nothing to prevent our lawful marriage.” With that Little passed out the door, and on to his horse in the gulch.
Dave Little's remark about marshals in the country was made purely for the purpose of keeping Prell close. So far as he knew there were no marshals in that part of the country, except the skeletons of three that lay in the head of Hell Roaring Gorge. He knew where they were, but he was not afraid of them. When he said there was now no legal bar to his marriage to Lena, Prell thought of the white powders, and shuddered. Then he had an idea.
Lena lay moaning and struggling to get her breath through the gag. Prell approached her and removed the handkerchief from her face.
“Give me some water, please,” she begged.
The old chemist went to another part of the cave to get the water, and Lena got up and stole to the door. A heavy chain had been passed through a hole in the door, around the door post, and locked with a padlock on the inside. There was no hope of escape. She had just returned to the rough bunk on which she had been thrown, and had assumed her former position, when the old man returned with the water. As she drank it he noticed the blue finger marks on her white throat, and his gorge rose at the sight.
“Let me bring you a pan of cold water, and you can bathe your face and hands. That will make you feel better,” said Prell.
She assented, and soon her hands were untied. She bathed her face and hands, and rubbed them with a coarse, but clean towel.
“Now,” said Prell, “you had better lie down and try to rest and sleep.”
“Sleep! In this terrible place?”
“Yes, you are perfectly safe with me. I would never harm a hair of your head.”
“But, but—he—might—come—back,” yawned Lena, and then she closed her eyes and slept, whether she would or not.
Mercifully, the old chemist had administered a powerful narcotic in the water he had given her. He now removed her shoes, loosed her clothing, and throwing a blanket over her, stood contemplating his prisoner.
“I wonder who she is, and where he could have found her? Oh, my God, how is it possible for a human being to do the things that man does! Other men had died a thousand deaths for less than half the evil that he has brought into the world,” murmured the old man.
This seemed destined to be a night of unusual experiences for Mr. Little. Things were, indeed, breaking with amazing rapidity for him. It was near midnight when he reached home again. He had forgotten to put the light out in Lena's room, and he saw it through the window. A hundred yards from the house a man stepped from behind a tree. Little jerked his pistol from the scabbard, as the man said:
“Never mind, Dave, you may need me. There are plenty of other people to kill that would do you a lot more harm than I ever will.”
“Hello! That you, Bill?”
“Yes,” replied Bill Brant, the man who had warned Rufe Haile to stay out of the Kimish, at the little store near the mouth of Hell Roaring Creek.
“What are you doing snoopin' around my house in the night?”
“I had some business with you that won't keep. We can't talk about it here, because they ain't but one safe place in the Kimish, to-night, and that ain't here.”
“Which way'd you come?”
“Up Hell Roarin', an' I got scared danged night to death, as I come along, too.”
“What skeered you?”
“They's a fiery eye gleamin' out of the head of Hell Roarin' Gulch.”
“Aw, cut that kind of stuff. You been hittin' the jug too hard. There is nothing with fiery eyes, or any other kind of eyes, in that gorge.”
“Maybe not,” said Brent, doubtfully, “but they's things with eyes and ears both, outside of that gorge, and they are asking questions that are hard to answer. Let's go where it's safe, and I'll tell you some things.”
Little dismounted and tied his horse. He then went into the house and blew out the light that he had left burning in Lena's room. When he returned he and Brant disappeared in the thick grove of willows at the head of Sycamore Creek. The darkness was impenetrable in the thicket, but Little led the way, and Brant followed at his heels. At last they entered a passage between two giant bowlders. At the end of the passage a key grated in a lock. They entered and closed the door. A match flared and a candle was lighted, and set on a projecting stone in the wall of the cave.
The men sat down on rough stools. The feeble rays of the flickering candle struggled in a hopeless attempt to penetrate the gloom of the place. It picked out grotesque shadows for a little way, and then gave up the effort. Beyond was a wall of darkness. Somewhere in the distance could be heard the swish and gurgle of running water.
“Now we are safe, go ahead and talk,” said Little.
“Dave, ain't you never afraid I'll kill you?” asked Brant.
“No. There is the same reason why you don't kill me, that there is why I don't kill you. We need each other. If you killed me you would lose a chance to make a lot of money. If I killed you I would lose the best help I have at the business I'm in. We both know something, and each one is afraid all the time somebody will kill the other one before he finds out. But go ahead and tell what's on yo' mind. We've talked about that before.”
“Yes,” said Brant, “but it happens to be that very fear that brings me here to-night. You have a secret about making whisky, and you have never let me in on it. I have a secret about selling it and not getting caught, and I have never let you in on that. What I propose is that we fix it some way that the one that is left gets tbs whole works.”
“Oh, we've talked about all that before. We both know that if it was fixed that way, the first one that turned his back would get killed. If that's all you have to talk about we may as well get out of here.”
“No, that is not all. The other thing is what made me think of this. Did you get that fellow I told you about, that passed my store the other evening?”
“You bet I did!”
“Where is he?”
“In Hell Roarin' Gorge, and his wagon is in there with him. He won't make anybody any trouble.”
“Yes, and I saw a light——”
“I told you to cut that fool stuff out. When a man goes over that bluff, no matter whether he is dead or not, he'll be dead when he strikes the rocks at the bottom. That man went over, and besides that, he had a bullet right where his head joins his neck, when he went. Of all the cinches in the world, that is the deadest one.”
“Well, of course it's uh cinch, if it was that-a-way, but still, the most money I ever lost in my life was lost on a cinch.”
“You won't lose any on that one. Come on and get the load off'n yo' stomach. What's pesterin' you?”
“Well, it's like this. I forgot to tell you that this feller looks to me like he might be some right smart he-hawss. He had a plumb cold poker face, and he didn't look like he was much afraid of the Kimish, or of anything else on earth, for that matter? Did you look at him any?”
“No. He was standing on the edge of the bluff with his back to me when I shot, and he just tumbled in. I was some piece off and the sun was in my face. 'Bout all I know is that he was the same fellow, and that he has gone where he won't come back.”
“Well, what I want to tell you is this,” said Brant. “Yesterday morning two fellers comes to my place and asks particular about that fellow in the wagon. In the afternoon one fellow come by, and asks me a whole lot more of the same thing. Of course I ain't seen him, and I tells 'em that, but they don't seem satisfied. Then this morning two more fellows comes to the store and asks about this same traveler, plumb persistent.”
“I don't see no booger in that,” said Little. “He's safe out of the way, and they didn't nobody see him go. Let 'em question all they want to.”
“Yes, that sounds all right, but it won't work. They are going to comb the Kimish this time, and they'll find everything that's on top of the ground, and maybe they'll do some diggin'. As I come up Hell Roarin' they's a camp at the second crossin'. I slipped by, and they didn't see me, but they's six men in the party, and they are packin' guns like a huntin' party—which they ain't, by a whole lot. Who's on the north trail to-night?”
“Nobody—that's workin',” said Little, absently. He was thinking that perhaps he should have left Brown to guard the trail, instead of killing him.
“Where's Ben?”
“Dead.”
“Where's Kahlita?”
“Dead.”
“Why, Dave, the first you know you won't have no next of kin, or close friends to inherit yo' estate when you die.”
“I ain't aimin' to die right soon and sudden,” said Little, “but this stuff you are telling don't sound very good to me. If it comes to a show-down, we can stay in here in the daytime. Plenty of water——”
“And not a blamed thing to eat,” broke in Brant.
“Which suggests that we can carry a lot of grub from the house, and get some bedding, and be plumb comfortable here as long as we want to stay.”
For more than an hour the men were busy bringing food, bedding, candles and the like from the house to the cave.
“Now, let's go turn our horses loose and hide our saddles. It's apt to be foot work for us for the next few days. Then we'll shut up the house and make it look like they ain't nobody at home, which is not a crime under them Arkansas statutes that governs this country. Just before daylight we'll slip back here and lie low through the day. We both need some sleep anyway.”
They were out more than two hours that time, and when they returned Little said:
“Wish we had taken time to go up and move those folks off the trail. If the marshals really are goin' to make a raid, they'll get plumb suspicious the minute they see a man and a woman layin' dead by the side of the trail, that-a-way,” said Little.
“Yes, it would have been better,” said Brant, “but it's too late now. It is already coming daylight, and we may have been seen as it was if they are close around here. They don't need anything to make 'em suspicious. That fellow in the wagon disappearing that-a-way was plenty, and too much for them.”
“Well, let 'em rave. They won't find anything else but the two dead ones, and somebody has to bury them, anyway. Here's where I get a good night's sleep in the daytime, and to-night I'll sneak out. I'm about due to leave this country anyway.”
Then entered the cave, and Little drew the chain around the post at the side of the door and locked it.
“Don't rattle that chain so blamed loud,” said Brant. “I've got the jumps now. Dig out a bottle of somethin' that ain't poison, and let's take a drink. Then we can eat some breakfast and go to bed.”
A match flared and went out.
“What the devil is that I smell in here,” said Little. “Did we leave a candle burning when we went out?”
“No,” growled Brant, “you are always accusing me of seeing things. Now you are smelling things.”
“Yes, I'm smellin' things good and plain, right now. If you let somebody know where this place is, and have smuggled 'em in here, you are going to be sorry of it, right now.”
“Aw, cut out the baby talk. There is no one in here but you and me. Why should I bring anybody here? I couldn't have done it, anyway. You have been right with me all the time, and you have the key.”
“That's so,” said Little, with a low laugh, “Reck'n I am getting nervous, but I shore smelt something, Bill, and I smell it yet. Smells just like somebody had blowed out an old brass lamp with no chimbley, and the wick was burnin'. Listen——”

### CHAPTER VIII.
#### A Battle in the Dark.

There was a slight rustling at the other side of the cave, and Little drew his pistol and fired in that direction. There was the thud of the bullet, and a smothered gasp.
The peculiar odor in the cave was caused by the smothered wick of Haile's torch, and it was a slight brushing of Harriet's buckskin coat against the wall that Little had heard. His first shot struck Haile in the left side, and glancing around the ribs, tore an ugly flesh wound.
“Lie down,” whispered Haile in the girl's ear, and she instantly obeyed him.
Picking up a small fragment of rock at his feet, Haile tossed it across the cave, but not in the direction of the two men. The instant the rock struck Little's pistol flashed again, as he shot at the noise, but this time he had been tricked. As his gun flashed there was a spurt of flame from the opposite wall, and Little grabbed at his breast and fell forward onto the floor of the cave.
“Are you hit, Dave?” asked Brant, as he bent forward over his fallen companion.
“He's got me, Bill. Look out for yourself,” gasped Little.
As he spoke another flash ripped the gloom of the cave, and Brant fell forward across his companion's body, with a bullet through his head.
There was silence in the cave for several minutes, and then Harriet stood up and put out her hand to feel for her friend, in the darkness. She touched his side, and it was warm and wet and sticky. Too well she knew the feel of fresh blood.
“You are wounded,” she whispered.
“Yes, but not seriously, I think,” he replied, in the same tone. “Stay where you are, and let me investigate.”
Haile tried his old ruse, and threw rocks all over the cave. He even threw them in the direction the voices had come from, but there were no more shots or answer of any kind. At last he crept cautiously toward where he had last heard the men.
Left alone in the darkness, knowing her companion was wounded, and not even knowing where he was, Harriet's stout heart began to quail before the horror of it all. Just as she was on the verge of crying out to Haile, a match flared, and a moment later the steady but feeble flame of a candle began the battle against the gloom of the cave. Haile then returned to her, and striking another match set it to the torch.
“Where did you get those matches?” asked Hattie.
“Out of the pockets of our friends the enemy.”
“Are they——”
“Both dead,” said Haile. “There were only two of them.”
“Who were they?”
“One is Dave Little. The other is a breed.”
“You are badly hurt,” said the girl, as she noticed the blood on Haile's clothing.
A few minutes later she had found the stack of blankets that the outlaws had brought into the cave. A pallet was made on the floor, and lying clown on it Haile submitted to an examination of his wound. The large-caliber bullet had struck just below and to the left of the heart, and instead of entering the cavity, had torn a frightful wound outside the ribs.
Trickling water could be heard, and a search with the torch discovered a cold spring far back in the corner of the cave, while a few feet below it a yawning pit, several feet, deep, showed a torrent of water rushing through it.
Harriet carried water in the bucket, bathed the wound, and stanched the blood as best she could. Then she bandaged it with strips of torn clothing. Haile was pale and weak from loss of blood. He lay on the pallet and watched the girl deftly bind up his wound, and wondered where she had acquired such wonderful skill in surgery. When the blood had in a measure ceased to flow, Harriet said:
“Lie perfectly still, now, while I bring another bucket of water,” and taking up the bucket and torch she went again to the spring. When she returned Haile was not on the pallet!
In alarm, she turned and was about to call out to him, when she saw him carefully going through the pockets of the dead men, and even tearing open their clothing. From about Little's body he took a heavy belt that was worn inside his clothing.
“You should not have moved from the pallet,” said Harriet. “You will open the wound again, and you cannot stand much more loss of blood.”
With tender solicitude she helped him back to the couch. Haile took out his watch.
“Six o'clock,” he said, “We can't get out of here to-day, now. There is no telling how many more are watching outside. I have stripped that carrion of everything I wanted, and now I wish they were out of here.”
Harriet quieted him, and then she built a small fire in the fireplace, found the food the outlaws had brought, and prepared some of it. Haile ate a little, and drank a cup of coffee, but he was very weak. Soon afterward he dropped into a light sleep. Harriet watched him a few minutes, shading the light from his eyes. When he was sound asleep she took the torch and went back to the place where she had seen the water flowing through the pit. Casting the light on it she saw that the pit was about ten feet wide by twenty feet long, and a very flood of dark water pouring through it. She had lost all sense of direction and did not know that the water was the underground source of Sycamore Creek, which broke out of the mountain a little farther down, a bold flowing stream coming from under a projecting ledge.
She left the torch and returned to Haile's pallet. He was still sleeping. The air in the cave was suffocating. With the door closed there was no draft. The pungent odor of the burning torch, the acrid fumes of the powder smoke, and the sickening scent of blood, combined, made the place unbearable. Harriet stood undecided for a moment, then dragged the bodies of Little and Brant to the pit and rolled them in. They floated toward the lower end and disappeared. She did not know it, but they lodged on the rocks a hundred yards below the head of Sycamore.
When this gruesome task was done, and some of the blood wiped up, Harriet stole to the door and listened. Through the hole where the chain went through the door she could see that the entrance was a winding passage through the rocks, faintly lighted by daylight. The key was still in the lock, and softly turning it she opened the door. A great gust of air rushed in and through the cave. The girl was faint from the labor and the bad air, but after a few minutes she regained her strength, and closing the door returned to her patient, who was still sleeping.
The day dragged on. Haile slept by fits, rousing up from time to time to ask for water. Harriet sat by his side, drowsy, but afaid to go to sleep. There was a great mystery about it all.
After noon Haile began asking for water with greater frequency, as his fever rose. Harriet bathed his face with cold water, and revived him, but in a few minutes he would lapse into a stupor, only to start up and call insistently for water.
As night came on her only hope was that Haile might have strength enough in the delirium of fever to travel a few miles. She did not dare to leave him there in the cave. She turned to him, and made ready for the trail. His belt and two pistols lay beside the pallet. These she buckled about her own waist. She was an expert pistol shot, although she only carried a rifle when she had rescued Haile, and that was left at the top of the bluff. When all was ready the girl roused her patient and said:
“Come, Mr. Haile, we must be going.”
“Going to look in the Kimish? All right,” he said, as he staggered to his feet.
They passed out, and she closed and locked the door. Then began a journey that to Harriet Hedwick was a nightmare ever afterward. The cool night air revived Haile somewhat, and they made the trip to the top of the hill, where Little had first shot Haile, with very little difficulty, but the climb had taken the last of his wonderful reserve of strength, and from thereon it was a battle with death. Sometimes he walked, with Harriet supporting him. He would talk in broken, gibbering sentences, and once or twice he broke into song. Finally he collapsed completely, and for some distance she actually carried him. His wound had opened again, and the warm blood came through the bandage.
For eight miles from the gorge at the head of Hell Roaring Creek, over the south side of Blue Point, and on to a cabin in the outskirts of a civilized settlement, she struggled with her almost lifeless burden. She was making good her statement that she was not a quitter, but her own wonderful strength could not last much longer. She had had little sleep for two nights, and had very little food that day. Just as the first streaks of dawn were painting the east, Harriet Hedwick staggered to the door of the cabin, half supporting, half carrying the now almost lifeless body of Rufus Haile.
An hour later Haile, his wounds dressed, bathed, and clad in snowy linen, lay sleeping under the influence of a soporific. In a tiny room adjoining the cabin Harriet was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.
On the following morning when Haile woke up he looked up and rubbed his eyes, as if to correct his vision. There was a wonderful woman that he had never seen before in his life, standing by his bed and smiling at him. When she spoke, he knew it was Harriet, but she was clad in a sober-toned dress of some soft, clinging stuff, instead of a buckskin hunting suit.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Haile?” she asked.
“Why—oh, is it you, Miss Hedwick?”
“Certainly. Did you think it was a ghost?”
“No, but—you are—changed. Where are we?”
“Why, we are at home.”
“How did we get out of that cave?”
“We walked out. Don't you remember?”
“No. The last I remember, you gave me a drink of water and told me we were going somewhere.”
There was a puzzled frown on Haile's face.
“Where is that belt, and the things I took off Little?”
“We left everything in the cave just as it was, and I locked the door as we came out.”
“And the key. Where is the key?”
“I have it. Do you want it?”
“No. Just keep it for me.”
Haile ate a good breakfast, and called for his pipe. His fever was gone, and his voice strong as usual. In the afternoon Harriet came in and sat down by his bed.
“Why, you are almost well,” she said, as she laid a cool hand on his head, in a professional manner.
“Oh, I feel fine,” said Haile, “aside from being a little sore when I move.”
“Are you still puzzled about where you are?”
“Yes, there are a great many things that are a mystery to me. Tell me about it.”
“Well,” said Harriet, “there is no mystery about it. My father, who has nursed us both during the night, was a surgeon in a great city, and had quite a reputation. His health broke down, and after a long illness he recovered, but his mind was slightly affected. He had an hallucination that he should have made a study of mathematics, instead of surgery. He has regained his health completely, but he still works at impossible problems. He has been much better of late. The greatest alienists in the country say that some day his trouble will suddenly disappear, and he will be the same as he was before he became ill. We came here to these mountains three years ago, thinking father would hunt and fish and spend much of his time out of doors, but have been disappointed. When he was young, and even up to the time of his illness, he was a great hunter, but since then he has never hunted. I have spent much of my time in the woods. My father taught me surgery from my childhood, and for a few years before he became ill, I was his assistant. I also have some knowledge of medicine. I have lived properly, and have developed my body until I suppose I am wonderfully strong for a woman. I was hunting on the mountain, and had trailed a deer over Blue Point, when I saw Dave Little shoot you. The balance of our adventure you know.”
“Yes, except that I don't understand how I could walk eight or nine miles over a mountain in a delirium and weak from loss of blood.”
“I supported you, and I—I carried you part of the way,” stammered Harriet, her face flushing.
“You seem to be determined to save my life,” said Haile.
“I think it quite likely that you saved mine at the fight in the cave. Turn about is fair.”
“I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness to me,” said Rufe Haile. “I do not remember anything about leaving the cave, or anything that happened on the way here. Did we pass any houses, or see any one?”
“Yes. The cave is only a short distance from Dave Little's house. We passed along the foot of the mountain back of his house. I saw no one as we passed, but when we reached the road that leads over the mountain from Sycamore Cove, I looked back, and there was a light in the window.”
“I will rest and sleep to-night, but to-morrow I must go back there,” said Haile.
“May I go with you?” asked Hattie.
“I don't know the way, myself,” said Haile, with an odd smile, as the color crept into Hattie's cheeks.

### CHAPTER IX.
#### The King Is Dead.

The day that Haile lay wounded in the cave was rather an exciting one in Sycamore Cove.
Day was just breaking when four men on horseback rode up Hell Roaring Creek, passed the gorge, climbed the winding road to the crest, and passed on down into the cove.
At the same time two horsemen, deputy United States marshals, came over the trail from the northwest. Halfway down the mountainside the two came upon the bodies of Ben Brown and Kahlita, by the side of the trail.
“This is Ben Brown,” said one of the men, dismounting and looking at the body. “Some one has beat us to his case, but who is the woman?”
“That is Dave Little's breed wife,” said the other man.
“Must have been some kind of family trouble. We'll get on down to the house. Maybe Mr. Little don't know about this, and we can tell him.”
They rode on down to where the trail crossed Sycamore Creek, and stopped to let their horses drink. One of the animals put his nose to the water, snorted and whirled back out of the stream, almost unseating his rider.
“Now what do you suppose is the matter with this fool horse?” said the rider.
“Look what's peepin' over those rocks there in the creek, and you'll have your answer,” replied his companion.
Twenty feet above the trail, awash on the rocks lay the body of Brant, the head raised above the rocks, as if really peeping over them.
“Seems to have come from upstream a ways,” said one of the men. “Let's make a little investigation.”
They dismounted and started up the stream on foot, after dragging Brant's body out of the water. A few yards farther on they came upon the body of Dave Little, washed ashore on the same side of the stream.
“This is getting serious,” said the man who had proposed an investigation. “Seems to have been a regular epidemic. This is all the business we came after, and a woman thrown in. Let's go up the creek and see if we can find where it happened.”
They went on to where the stream boiled out from under the mountainside into a great blue pool, but there were no evidences of a battle of any kind.
“Well, they are pretty wet, but a coroner would never say they died from drowning. Little got a bullet through his heart and Brant got one through his head.”
“No. I guess it's pretty plain what stopped these two gents. The question is, who done it?” replied the other officer.
“I take it they went in swimmin' with their clothes on, had a fallin' out and shot each other. That's about as close as we'll ever get to the facts. Whatever way it happened, it saves us some trouble, because this gang was plumb ripe to be got, and it was up to us to get 'em.”
“Looks powerfully like some of that fool shootin' Rufe Haile does, with both his eyes wide open and his guns at his hips.”
“Oh, yes. I've seen Rufe shoot, and I've heard a whole lot about it, but where is Rufe? Far as anybody knows he never even got into the Kimish with that wagon of his.”
“Maybe not. He started here, though, and I ain't never knowed him to fluke on a proposition yet. Let's ride on over to the house. The rest of the gang ought to be there by this time.”
At the Little home they met the four men who had come over the mountains. At the same time two men came up the Sycamore road, and joined them. The chief of the posse had been with the four who came over the crest.
“Well,” he said, to the two men who came up Sycamore, “what did you fellows pick up? See anything of Rufe Haile?”
“Nothing,” replied one of the men. “The country's plumb quiet down that-a-way.”
“We've hailed the house, and there's nobody at home. Did you fellows see anything as you came down the mountain trail?” asked the chief.
“Yes, we seen uh right smart. Up the trail a ways we seen Ben Brown and old Dave's breed wife layin' by the side of the road, dead. We comes on down to the creek and found Dave Little and Bill Brant in the creek, both dead.”
“Best luck we've had in some time,” said the chief, “but nobody has seen Rufe Haile. Wonder what could have become of him.”
The bodies were all brought down to the house and laid out on the porch.
“I don't know where Rufe Haile is but there's his tracks. I'll bet a hundred dollars he can stand in a dark room and shoot a man in the head by the sound of his voice.”
“I've heard that somewhere before,” said the skeptical marshal, who had found the bodies.
“Well,” drawled the chief, “you won't get any bets out of anybody that knows Rufe Haile. As to believing he can shoot, Rufe don't care a whoop whether anybody believes it or not. All the same, I'd like to see Rufe and find out how it all happened.”
“I guess Rufe won't be able to tell much if you ever do see him,” said the skeptic. “He's been in the Kimish three or four days, and we ain't even been able to locate that fool waggin.”
“Well, this ain't getting us anywhere, standing here arguing about Rufe Haile. He's either dead or alive. I'm betting he is alive. If he is dead I've lost the best man on my force, and it can't be helped. Two or three of you fellows ride down to them tenant houses and round up everything that can walk, and bring 'em up here. We'll see what we can find out. Tell 'em to bring a spade or two.”
An hour or more later the detachment of marshals returned, bringing with them three men and two women. Interrogation developed the fact that two of the men, and their wives, lived at the rear side of the farm. They all stated that they had heard no shooting, either that morning or the night before. They were all white people, but ignorant and illiterate. They declared that none of them had ever been at the Little house before, and had only been on the farm a few weeks. The chief gave them up as hopeless, and turned to the third man, who said he lived in a cabin on the front side of the farm, and seemed to be a kind of foreman.
“You know all these dead people, do you?”
“Yes,” said the man in surly tones.
“Did they all live here?”
“No. Brant lived down Hell Roarin', and Brown lived somewhere over the ridge. They both came here, sometimes.”
“Did any one else live here, besides Little and his wife?”
“Been a girl here for about a month, but I ain't seen her lately.”
“Did you hear any shooting last night, or this morning?”
“Heard one shot just after dark, last night. Haven't heard any since.”
“Rather strange that you heard only one shot, if you heard any. Here are four people killed, and it must have taken at least one shot to kill each one of them. We'll just take you along on account of what you don't seem to know, and because your hearing is defective. Turn to, now, and bury these people and then the balance of you can go back home. We'll call for you if we want you.”
While the burial was taking place the marshal and one of the men entered the house. The clock still ticked on the mantel. A cat slept peacefully in the edge of the ashes at the fireplace. Silence reigned throughout the house. A door stood open leading from the living room into another room of the house. The marshal approached the door and looked in. The only sign of disorder was one chair turned over.
“Pretty swell-looking room for a dive like this,” was his only comment.
By mid-afternoon the cove had been carefully searched, with no further developments. The two ignorant tenants and their wives had gone back to their cabins. The King of Sycamore Cove, and the queen, too, for that matter, was dead and buried. There had been no “keening,” no “whillelew” had been raised. It was an informal funeral of four without tears. The foreman of the farm was a prisoner, with no charge pending against him other than certain knowledge that he might possess in regard to the activities of Little and his confederates. In other words, he was under suspicion of knowing too much, and telling too little.
Just before night the cavalcade of marshals, with their one unimportant prisoner, rode up the slope to the crest, and then wound down the trail toward the camp at the second crossing on Hell Roaring Creek. As they reached the crest the chief looked back to where Sycamore Cove lay dreaming in the October sunset. A more peaceful scene could not well be imagined.
“Well, boys,” he said, “there is one more dirty nest cleaned up. I don't know how it was done, nor who the main agent was, but it was a good job. There was not a thing definite on any of those men, but everybody in the country was morally certain that they were guilty of every crime in the calendar, and too smooth to get caught. It has cost some mighty good men to get headquarters to the point of making this raid. Hurt and Lefwell came in here and never returned. Now, Rufe Haile has disappeared. If Rufe ever shows up he may be able to throw some light on this situation. If he never comes back the secret of Sycamore Cove will remain a mystery, perhaps. At any rate, the nest is broken up. I don't know who the next of kin to Mr. and Mrs. Little is, but I do know that he will be watched for a long time after he takes possession.”
“I reck'n the girl 'll inherit the property,” said the prisoner, who had been riding in glum silence since they left the cove.
“What girl?”
“Little's girl, of course.”
“Why didn't you tell me Little had a girl?”
“I did tell you, but you didn't pay no 'tenshun to me. I told you a girl had been there for a month, but I ain't seen her for the last week. Guess she was Little's girl. She calls him father.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Well, she is not anywhere around here, unless she is buried. We have given this neighborhood a good combing to-day.”
“It'll take a danged sight better comb than eight depity marshals, to find out what's in the Kimish,” retorted the prisoner, with an evil grin.
The chief felt sure that his prisoner could tell a great deal more than he had told, but there was no means at hand of making him talk. The marshals lapsed into silence, and the creak of saddle leather, the beat of hoofs and the sullen roar of Hell Roaring Falls, were all the sounds to be heard.
Out on the northeast shoulder of old Blue Point, at that moment, sat a lone hunter. He had a rifle lying across his lap, but the anxious expression on his face was not that of a hunter in quest of game.
Harrington had come to the trysting place as usual, and had waited through the waning afternoon for Lena, but she had not appeared. He lingered on through the twilight, and when the first deep shadows fell he was beneath the tree on the point, from which Lena's window could be seen.
As darkness drew on and no light appeared the suspense became unbearable to him. Shouldering his rifle he worked his way down the mountainside. An hour later he stood in the deep shadows near the house, listening intently, but there was no sign of life about the place.
Harrington was a man of action. To stand idly, waiting for developments, was not in his nature. He knew nothing of being afraid, and even fear, if he had felt it, could not have held him back from that house of mystery, that sheltered, or should shelter, the girl that he loved. Grasping his rifle firmly he strode boldly up to the house and knocked at the door. There was no movement within. He knocked again, more loudly and insistently, but there was still no response.
He took hold of the doorknob, turned it, and the door opened. Foolhardy and dangerous the action might be, but if Lena was in that house he meant to know it. She had said something of being a prisoner. The man who kept the woman he loved a prisoner would have to reckon with him. Inside the house he boldly struck a match. The place was deserted. He knew which was Lena's room, and striding into it he lighted the lamp that still sat on the table. There was no disorder, save the one overturned chair. No sign of a struggle. Could he have known what had taken place in the yard the night before he would have gone mad with rage.
Harrington searched the place thoroughly, then gave up in despair. Wearily he plodded back to the tree on the point, where he sat and waited in the hope that the light might flare forth to tell that all was well, and that Lena had only been out for the evening. But no light came, and such sleep as he got that night was taken on the bare ground, beneath the tree.
He had noticed the tenants' cabins from the crest of the mountain, and with the first rays of morning light he was on his way to them. A frowsy-headed woman stood in the door of one of the cabins.
“Good-morning. Is your husband at home?” asked Harrington.
“What do y'all want him fur? He ain't done nuthin',” said the woman.
“I don't want him. I merely want to ask him some questions,” replied Harrington.
The woman went inside, and presently the man came out. The sleep was still in his eyes, and his breath rose on the cold morning air like white steam.
“Good morning. Can you tell me where Mr. Little is? There is no one at home there,” said Harrington.
“Yes, I kin tell yuh whur he is. He's dead.”
“Where is Miss Little?”
“She's dead, too.”
“My God, man! Are you sure of this?”
“Oughter be. I seen 'em, an' helped bury 'em.”
“He means the Injun woman, not the gal, mister,” called the woman from the door.
“Oh, I see,” said Harrington, with a sigh of relief, “it was Mrs. Little who died.”
“Yes, that's what I said, only she didn't die. Somebody kilt her and him too.”
Shocking as this revelation might have been to Harrington at any other time, the violent death of Mr. and Mrs. Little was not troubling him just then.
“Can you tell me then where Miss Little is?”
“I told you she were dead, dang it!”
“Aw, Hen, he-all means the gal,” called the woman again.
“Oh, her. I ain't seen her for a week.”
“She was there the day before yesterday,” said Harrington.
“You seen her since I have then, podner. She wan't at the buryin' none. Them marshals mought have found her and buried her. They shore raked hell with a fine-toothed comb around here yistiddy. 'Peared like the Little fambly had been takin' somethin' they oughtn't to, an' they were a plumb damn eppydemic 'mongst 'em. The marshals didn't seem sorry that they was dead. Y'all ain't no relation, I reck'n?”
“Miss Little could not have been implicated in anything wrong,” said Harington.
“If you mean the gal, I don't know nothin' ahout her, but she had powerful white hands, and wore mighty good clothes for a honest woman.”
Harrington begged a cup of coffee. When he had drunk it, and offered pay, they refused it, and invited him to breakfast, but he wanted no food, and wearily took his way back up the mountainside

### CHAPTER X.
#### A Ray of Light and a Ray of Hope.

Harrington plodded back up the slope of Blue Point, going without reason to the place where he had last seen Lena Little. His mind was a whirling vortex of half-formed, intangible thoughts that, in his great love for the girl, he strangled at their birth. Thoughts came to his mind that he would not allow himself to entertain.
Weary from his night's vigil, sick at heart, and despondent over the loss of Lena, he sat down on the old log, beneath the sheltering young pines, and tried to grope his way out of the mental labyrinth in which he found himself. For several days he had been on the verge of telling the girl that he would not continue in this clandestine manner. That, as a man having a high sense of honor, he could not continue to pay his regard to the woman he loved, in the skulking, cringing manner of a moral coward. But the delightful sensation of their love being a secret from all the rest of the world, together with Lena's pleading that they would not be permitted to meet if her father knew of it, had deterred him. Now, it was too late.
The father was now gone, but where was Lena? If the final hour had come when she could no longer stay beneath her father's roof, why had she not come to him? Who could have so great a right, to whom could it be so great a privilege, and so pleasant a duty, to protect and care for her? These questions came to him over and over, and like all other unanswered and unanswerable questions, they were the precursors of doubt and acute unhappiness.
The tone of the ignorant tenant to whom he had talked left no doubt that Lena's father was an outlaw, at whose death there was little regret among the people who knew him. If they were respectable people, why were marshals scouring the country in search of them and their associates?
Thus, the cold, logical reasoning of the judicial mind sought to smother the fires of passion, and did smother them for the time. Harrington rose from his seat on the log and bent his steps along the mountain trail. His dream had suffered a rude awakening. He would go back to his Texas home and forget. The episode would be but a memory of a wonderful fortnight of unalloyed happiness, that ended in a cataclysm of sorrow, which time alone could heal.
Arrived at the sawmill Harrington packed his belongings, and left his rifle standing in the corner of the room, intending it as a gift to his friend. By the time he had finished it was late afternoon. He could not leave until the following morning. Worn out with the mental and physical effort of the last twenty-four hours, he lay down across the bed to rest.
When Dave Little left Prell's cabin he expected to return, at least, by the next night. Prell knew that he expected to return soon. He knew the man, and knew that when he had set his heart on a more than ordinarily ruthless piece of wickedness, he never rested until it was accomplished. Prell was not surprised that he did not return that night, and he hoped and prayed that he would not return the following day. He had a horror of any one coming to his hiding place in the daytime.
Lena slept through the night, and far into the next day. She woke as the shades of evening were falling, and started from the rough bunk with a cry of alarm, then remembered where she was and shuddered. Her throat was dry, and she asked for water. Prell, who sat near her, brought a dipper of cold water, and she drank it gratefully.
“You must eat, now,” said Prell.
“I don't want anything to eat,” replied the girl.
“Come, come, that is no way to do. You are only punishing yourself by refusing food.”
“Let me out of there, and I'll eat before I go.”
“I can't do that. You heard what Mr. Little said to me. If you are not here, and well, when he comes, he will kill me.
He lighted his candle, which was set in a kind of sconce cut in the wall of the cave, in order that its rays could not be seen through the door. Lena's eyes lighted up suddenly, and she became quite cheerful.
“Let me help with the supper,” she said.
The old man looked with suspicion on the proffered assistance, but seeing no reason to doubt its sincerity, he permitted Lena to lay the table for the simple meal. He watched her closely, at first, but as she had said nothing further about her wish to escape, and seemed more cheerful, he decided that her action had been prompted by a desire for companionship in the lonesome old cave.
When supper was over they sat by the fire, talking on various subjects. Little was not mentioned, nor was any reference made to the gill's being a prisoner. The old hermit, if he had ever known much about women, had forgotten what he knew. He had not noticed that she had secured several matches from a box in the rough cupboard where he kept his dishes. If he had noticed her he would have had no idea what she expected to do with them. There was nothing in the cave that would burn except the small stock of firewood, and the few pieces of rough furniture, all of which would have made but a puny blaze.
Lena had slept twelve hours the night before, under the influence of the drug, and she was not sleepy. She felt reasonably certain that her jailer had slept but little. She had not been permitted to go near the door, but had been close enough to note that the old man, through force of habit, had laid the key on a little shelf cut in the wall.
Several times Prell suggested that the girl lie down, and try to go to sleep, but she assured him that she was not sleepy, and kept on talking to him. At last, well after midnight, she sought the bunk, yawning as if she were sleepy. Prell, prompted by some rags of decency that still remained in him, turned his back while the girl retired. When he looked around again she was in bed and covered up. He watched her for a few minutes, and as she seemed to fall asleep, he turned to the fire, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and sat dozing and nodding in his chair.
He did not know Lena had the matches. Neither did he know that she had a sharp old table knife, that had been worn down until it was a perfect stiletto. He did not know that when she went to bed she got beneath everything except the mattress, which, she had discovered, was of wild grasses and pine needles.
She had reached the point where she was no longer willing to let this old man's life stand between her and freedom. It was now his life or her own, or what, for her, would be worse than death.
As the old fellow nodded by the fire Lena worked the cover down toward the foot of her couch with the cunning caution of a great fear. Softly she set her feet on the floor, and for one breathless second she sat staring at the old chemist. She held the knife in her right hand, while with the left she scratched a match and ignited the grass in the mattress. Then, catching the corner of the mattress she ran toward the door, scattering a stream of fire between herself and her jailer.
The old hermit slept soundly, and Lena had reached the door and had the key in the lock when he woke with a start and sprang from his chair. With a hoarse bellow of rage and fear he sprang toward her, hestitated a moment at the curtain of fire, then plunged through it. His long whiskers and hair burned like dry moss. His clothing was on fire in several places, and a demon was in his eyes.
Lena threw the door open as the chain fell, but the hermit was by her side as she went out. His long beard was singed from his face, and his heavy hair singed into shaggy scallops. He saw the knife in Lena's hand, and as she drew back to strike he caught her wrist.
Insane with fear, now that her effort to escape had failed, Lena fought with maniacal fury. Driven by a still greater fear, not of the girl, but of Little, and the possibility of discovery, Prell fought like a demon for the mastery. He was weak from close confinement, and the girl was wild with fright. They struggled back and forth in front of the open door, until, losing her footing, Lena fell to her knees, and Prell wrenched the knife from her trembling hand, and raised it to strike. In his rage he had forgotten Little's command to keep the girl alive, and unharmed.
Harrington, in the meantime, lying upon his bed at the sawmill, had been thinking. Doubt of the wisdom of his decision to leave the mountains had crept into his mind. Had he been fair to Lena? It now occurred to him that he was preparing to leave this girl to her fate, without making an effort to aid her. That he was about to condemn her without a trial. If he had doubts as to her fitness for a life mate for him he should have entertained them before, and not after he had taken her in his arms and vowed eternal constancy to her. If she was yet to be condemned, it could not hurt him to at least give her that which was accorded a felon, under the law—a fair and impartial trial. With this thought hammering in his mind he ate supper and said nothing about his intended departure.
A little while after dark he buckled on a pistol, and taking up his rifle abruptly left the house. There was some mystery about all that had occurred in Sycamore Cove, and he would make another effort to solve it.
When he got out on the mountains he noticed that the sky was overcast and starless. The wind had been blowing steadily from the northeast all day, and was raw and cold. He set forward with all speed, intending to go again to Sycamore Cove, guiding himself by the wind. But the wind veered to the east, and steering by its course he went too far to the north. At last, when he knew he had gone far enough to have reached his destination, and the country was totally unfamiliar to him, he realized that he had missed his course and was lost in the mountains. He came to a deep gulch and sat down to rest, thinking to wait there until morning.
A few minutes later a long pencil of light shot out of the darkness across the way, and soon afterward a burst of light from an open door, as a woman's scream rang out across the gorge. It seemed to Harrington that it took him ages to cross that gulch, and reach the scene of the struggle, in front of the dugout door. In reality it was a scant ten minutes. Just as Prell raised the knife to strike, the barrel of Harrington's rifle crashed on his head, and the old man slipped to the ground.

### CHAPTER XI.
#### Harrington Reaches a Decision.

Harrington's fighting blood was aroused. Here in this wild, lawless country, where justice could only be had by strength of the body and quickness of the gun hand, he had reverted to type, and was imitating his pioneer ancestors who had helped to free Texas from the Spanish yoke.
As soon as he had ascertained that Lena was not dangerously hurt, he examined the old man, who was already coming around from the glancing blow he had received. The fire in the cave had burned out. Harrington took Prell inside, where he found cords and bound him hand and foot. Then he threw a pile of bedding in a corner, and placing him on it, left him to his meditations.
Relocking the door on the inside, to prevent surprise, Harrington and Lena sat down by the fire, while she told him as best she could the terrible ordeal through which she had passed since she saw him last at their trysting place beneath the young pines.
“If you are really not that beast's daughter, then who are you?” asked Harrington.
The old doubts were coming back into his mind, and quite unintentionally his tone showed it.
“Oh, Chester!” and a little heartbroken sob escaped Lena. “The only man who could tell my name is dead. There is nothing, not a trace. I do not even know my age, exactly. Oh! what can I do?” and Lena's chin quivered.
Then the primal instincts of man snapped their fingers in the face of conventions, and Harrington took the girl in his arms and comforted her. In his absence from her he might have doubts and misgivings, but when she was near she was altogether too desirable. He could not withstand the lure of Lena's beauty, and now in her distress she was a thousand times more lovely than she had ever been before.
Harrington was playing with fire again, and for anything he could possibly know, there might come a time when he would regret the step he was taking. In spite of all her cloistered life Lena was more thoughtful than one might have expected her to be. Looking up at Harrington through her tears, she said:
“No one can ever know how much I love you. I love you so much that I will never marry you while I am nameless. I know you would take me as I am, and would love me always, but there would always be a little rift in our happiness.”
“Don't say that, darling,” said Harrington, his arm around the girl and her golden head pillowed on his shoulder. “We will try every way to find out who your people are, but in the event we do not, that must never come between you and me.”
Lena was almost hysterical from her recent experiences, and from the loss of sleep. Harrington soothed her, and finally persuaded her to lie down and rest a while. He spread some blankets that had escaped the conflagration, and made her a bed near the fire, and there she slept, while he kept a grim vigil over the woman he loved and the man that he wished he had killed.
He did not wake Lena until he had prepared breakfast of bread, bacon, coffee and such things as he could find in the hermit's larder. When she was up and they were in a distant part of the cave from the old man, who still lay bound, on his rags in the corner, Lena said:
“We are still in great danger, dearest. Little is likely to come here at any time.”
“Little will never bother you again, darling. He is dead,” said Harrington.
“Oh, thank God! I can be happy now. I have been fearing he would come here and kill you. Did you go to the house in search of me, and kill him?”
“No. There seems to be no one that knows who did kill him.” Then Harrington told her as much as he knew. He also told her of his own visit to the Little home in search of her. “But let's not tell the old man that Little is dead just now. His fear of Little may make him do things for you that he would not otherwise do.”
The breakfast was placed, on the table, and the old hermit was unbound and permitted to eat. He took his breakfast in silence, answering only when he was spoken to.
There was another breakfast scene in the Kimish that morning, in which a man and a woman figured. Rufe Haile and Harriet Hedwick ate an early meal at the Hedwick cabin.
There was a deference in his actions toward the girl that Haile made no attempt to conceal, and she could not fail to notice. At the same time there was a tone in her voice when she spoke to him that thrilled him with pleasure. The time was opportune for personal confidences, and Hattie wondered that Haile did not take advantage of it.
They had secured horses, because she had insisted that Haile must not attempt the walk across the mountain. They started early to the Little place. Harriet rode slowly, and watched Haile as if he had been a little child, cautioning him from time to time.
“It is really dangerous for you to be out such a morning as this, with that wound,” she said. “The mist is thickening, and I am afraid it will rain. I could never forgive myself if you should take cold,” said Harriet.
“Why say that? It is not your doing, and indeed it is imperative that I go, or I should not have taken the risk. How are you responsible in any way? You could not prevent it, because the matter is of so much importance to me that I would go if I had to crawl.”
There was a tinge of red in Hattie's cheeks that the ride across the mountains had nothing to do with.
“I shall always shudder when I think of that place,” said Hattie, as they passed the head of the gorge where Little first shot Haile.
“And I shall always consider it the turning point of my life,” said Haile. “I had known nothing but bad luck all my life, until I fell from that bluff. Since then I have known nothing but good luck.”
They approached the Little house and found no one about the place. Riding on to the willow thicket they dismounted, left their horses, and entered the cave. Everything was just as they had left it, and when a light had been made, Haile began a systematic search. In a crevice in the wall, hidden by a bowlder, he found a common tin dispatch box. Taking it out he set it on the table. Then he opened the belt that he had taken from Little's body, and removed its contents. For half an hour he went over a mass of papers and photographs. Harriet sat by and said nothing. At last he returned all the papers to the box, and placed it back in the crevice.
“Miss Hedwick,” he said gravely, “you have done me more than one great service, and you are here with me now, not knowing how great danger we may be in. I owe it to you, and to myself, to tell you what I am, and why I am here.
“I am a United States deputy marshal, and have been in the Indian country a little more than a year. There were two great criminals at large somewhere in the United States. Every effort had been made to apprehend them. I have spent much time in various parts of the country in an effort to find them. At last I became convinced that they were in the Kimish. After a year I succeeded in persuading my chief to permit me to come here in my own way, and make the investigation, in the hope that I would find them. He consented with reluctance, and I came into this country in a wagon, just as any other traveler might.
“Little was one of the men I was seeking. The other one, I am sure, is still at large in this country. Little was a devil, and the other man was chiefly vicious on account of being Little's dupe and tool. I should not have killed Little, for he had facts in his possession—or at least I believe he did—that are of the utmost importance to me. If you will let me, I will tell you why this means more to me now than it ever did. It does not take years to become acquainted when two people meet as we have. It does not even take more than a few hours for a man to know that he loves a woman. I know that I love you. I believe that you will not be offended with me for saying so; and if you do not forbid it, I shall come to you some day, I hope soon, and ask you to be my wife.”
“I shall not forbid it,” said Harriet, in low tones. “I think I loved you as soon as you loved me. And the thing I love you most for is the simple, matter-of-fact way in which you tell me that—you love me. You might have said it half a dozen times, and much as I love you now, if you had spoken sooner I should have hated you for it.”
“Thank you for another great kindness,” said Haile, simply. “Now, let's go down to Little's house.”
When Harrington and Lena and the hermit had finished their breakfast, Harrington turned to his prisoner and said:
“What is your name?”
“Prell,” answered the old man.
“Well, Mr. Prell, I made the mistake of not killing you last night, for I can't bring myself to kill you now in cold blood. But I give you my word that if you make the slightest attempt to escape, or do anything that gives me the opportunity, I shall kill you gladly.”
All through the night Prell had been wondering why Little didn't come. He had relied, was still relying on Little to come and extricate him from a desperate situation. He had not heard of Little's death.
“What are you going to do with me?” asked Prell.
“I am going to take you and turn you over to the law,” replied Harrington.
“You will never take me anywhere,” exclaimed Prell. “I refuse to go.”
“You have a considerable walk before you,” continued Harrington, apparently not noticing Prell's remark, “and we are about ready to go. It's beginning to rain, and you are an old man, so if you want to put on heavier clothing you may do so. We will start in a few minutes.”
“I tell you, I won't go!” almost screamed the old man.
“Yes,” said Harrington, “I heard you say that before, and I tell you that I am going to take you dead or alive, and it is time right now for you to make your choice.”
Prell considered; there was one more chance; they might meet Little on the road; so he finally yielded.
It was an odd party that took its way down the gulch. Lena's clothes were torn and disheveled; she was bareheaded, and great dark circles showed around her eyes. The prisoner presented a ludicrous appearance that, under any other circumstances, would have excited mirth; his long beard had been burned almost entirely away; his hair was singed into a ragged mat; brows and lashes were gone, and he was an altogether woeful and bestial-looking wreck of humanity. Down the gulch they wound in the raw east wind and drizzling rain. Lena was uncomfortable and wet, but was happy in the knowledge of having her freedom and her lover. Still ignorant of what had occurred in the cove, the old hermit had staked his last hope on either meeting Little, or finding him at his home, where he understood they were going.
Tired, cold and bedraggled, they filed up Sycamore Creek, and just before noon reached the big log house in the cove. Two horses were tied at the fence, and a man and a woman were standing very close together in the shelter of the porch.
“My name is Harrington,” said the young lawyer. “I have a prisoner here that I want to surrender to the proper authorities.”
“You needn't take him any farther, then. I am a United States marshal, and my name is Rufus Haile.”
“Good! Glad to know you, Mr. Haile. Is there any one in the house? This young lady is very cold and wet.”
“The house is empty, but the door is open, and you are welcome,” said Haile. He nodded to Hattie, and she passed into the house, and on into Lena's room with her.

### CHAPTER XII.
#### Gathering Up the Threads.

This is not my house, Mr. Harrington,” said Haile, as he, Harrington, and the prisoner entered the living room of the old house, “but we needn't be afraid of being disturbed.”
There was plenty of dry wood, and Harrington soon had a roaring fire in the fireplace. Haile made a foray into another room and found some of Little's clothing, which Haile knew he would never need again, and in a short time Harrington and the old hermit were clad in dry, comfortable garments.
“Now, Mr. Harrington, if you will keep the prisoner company a few minutes I think I can find what I want in a very short time,” said Haile.
Harrington assented, and Haile left the room, returning in a few minutes with a basin of water, a razor, shaving mug and brush and pair of shears.
“I beg your pardon, but I do not know your name,” he said to the prisoner.
“Prell,” said the hermit, in a surly tone.
“Thank you. I believe you have heard my name, Haile. Now, Mr. Prell, if you will sit over near the light I believe I can improve your appearance.”
A wild look of apprehension leaped into the old man's eyes, and he protested volubly.
“I am going to cut your hair and shave you,” said Haile coldly. “If your throat is cut in the operation it will be your own fault. If you keep still I will not hurt you.”
In a few minutes Prell's hair was neatly trimmed and his face smoothly shaved. On the left cheek there was a long, deep scar from a knife wound. On the right cheek a blue stain like a powder burn, grotesquely resembling the shape of a dragon.
Haile studied the transformation of his prisoner critically, but made no comment. Then he dried the razor, washed the mug, and disposed of the utensils. When he came in he sat down near the handcuffed prisoner.
“Mr. Sarkey,” he said, “you have eluded the law for a long time, haven't you?”
The old hermit, with a protest, started from his chair.
“There is no use getting excited,” remarked Haile calmly. “Those are the same old scars, and the face has not changed greatly. You have doubtless been hoping, since you left your den with Mr. Harrington, this morning, that your brother, David Sarkey, would come to your rescue. I am obliged to remove that hope permanently. David Sarkey is dead—he and his wife, Ben Brown, and Bill Brant, all of whom were probably friends of yours—and they were buried near here the day before yesterday. I have learned this from a tenant on the place, who does not seem to know how they died. This leaves you playing a lone hand, I am afraid, and what happens to you in the immediate future will depend greatly upon your own behavior.”
“Who are you, anyway?” gasped Sarkey.
“Rufus Haile, a United States marshal, who was called a fool for daring to come into the Kimish in quest of Charles and David Sarkey.”
“How did you know about my scars?”
“I had a photograph of you, and had heard something of you before I came here. You are a chemist, I believe, Mr. Sarkey?”
“Yes.”
“Good! I shall want your opinion upon some matters in that line. But the ladies have announced dinner. We will go in and eat first.”
They went out to dinner, and none of the party, not even Hattie, who was beginning to think she knew Haile very well, sensed the volcano of emotion that was stirring beneath his calm exterior. After dinner he said, quite calmly:
“I want to ask you all to take a walk with Mr. Sarkey and myself. He is going to sign a document, and I want you to witness it.”
“I will sign nothing,” snarled the prisoner.
“Oh, I think you will, when you understand,” said Haile. “At any rate, we will take the walk.”
Haile led the way into the willow thicket. At the entrance to the passage he said:
“I will go first, then Mr. Sarkey, after him Miss Hedwick, and the others will follow.”
At the entrance to the cave Haile lighted a match, and then a candle, which he placed on the rough table. The door was closed and locked. Sarkey was placed at the head of the table. On his left sat Haile, with Harriet beside him. On Sarkey's right sat Harrington, and beside him sat Lena. Haile had placed the open box on the table before him, and selecting certain papers therefrom he passed them to Sarkey and to Harrington. It was a strange council which sat in the silence of the cave. There was no sound except the rustle of the papers. For ten minutes the two men looked at document after document. When they had finished, Haile laid before them a series of photographs. They were pictures of Lena, one taken each year, and dated on the back, since her infancy.
“You are a lawyer, Mr. Harrington, and are competent to pass on the validity of these records. Do you think there is any doubt now as to the identity of the young lady?”
“None whatever,” said Harrington, proudly.
“Oh, who am I?” cried Lena.
“You are Miss Lena Haltman,” said Harrington.
“Oh, thank God! I am no longer a nameless waif,” said the girl, grateful that she had learned her identity from the lips of the man she loved.
“Do you agree with Mr. Harrington as to the young lady's identity, Mr. Sarkey?” asked Haile.
“There can be no doubt of it,” said Sarkey, “but they told me she was dead.”
“Your brother David told you she was dead. He lied to you and duped you, as he had done a thousand times before. You can see from these records that it was his purpose to marry Miss Haltman and claim the fortune that is hers by inheritance from her parents, both of whom are dead.
“Charles Sarkey, your brother David was, as you doubtless know, as great a criminal as ever went unhung. I killed him, here in this room. I did not murder him. He shot at me first, and hit me. I had not intended to kill him until I got some information from him, but the Fates willed it otherwise. You were your brother's dupe and tool, while he was alive. Now, you must go ahead, and straighten out some of the matters that he left undone. You can, at least, do that much toward reparation of the wrong you have done certain people, who never showed you anything but kindness. I will not charge you with having been in league with David Sarkey, for I think that he was really the head devil, but you can, and must answer my questions. You say this young woman's father is dead. Where did he die?”
“In the State penitentiary, at Jefferson City, Missouri,” said Sarkey, in a tense voice.
With a shocked exclamation Lena fell forward and hid her face on her arms. Haile sat looking straight at Harrington with an inscrutable expression in his gray eyes. No one knew what he was thinking. Harriet started as if to go around to Lena's side and comfort her, but Haile laid his hand on her arm. Harrington put his arm around Lena and said:
“Don't, darling! Don't take it so hard. You are not in any way to blame for these things; they can never make any difference to us.”

### CHAPTER XIII.
#### Sarkey Tells His Story.

Can either of you gentlemen write shorthand?” asked Sarkey, when the tense situation had somewhat relaxed.
“I can,” said Harrington.
“I told you, Mr. Haile, that I would sign nothing, but I have changed my mind. My race is nearly run. I have been a party to many wrongs, and now I am going to do what I can to right one of them. I will make a statement, and sign it.”
Harrington produced a notebook and pencil, and Sarkey began:
“My name is Charles Sarkey. My brother, David Sarkey, I now believe to be dead. He was my only known relative. We were born on a house boat, and spent our boyhood on the Black River, from Poplar Bluffs down to White River, and along the bayous of that stream.
“I do not know anything of our antecedents, but my father was an educated man and possessed a considerable library, which he carried with him on his house boat. He taught me, and I acquired some education. I had a good memory, and a predilection for chemistry. In my boyhood I knew the name of all the herbs that grew in that part of the country, and especially of those that were poisonous.
“When I was eighteen years old, and David fourteen, an epidemic of swamp fever swept away all our family except David and me. Thus, left to shift for ourselves, we went to Poplar Bluffs, a pair of typical river rats. After a time I secured work in a drug store, owned by Richard Haltman, a pioneer citizen of the old town. I soon demonstrated my knowledge of drugs, and my aptness at learning. There was no law at that time requiring pharmacists to register, and in a few months I had acquired sufficient knowledge to qualify as a prescription clerk.
“Meantime, David secured employment in the grocery store of James Yard. Haltman and Vard were both rich, and were recognized as two of the leading men of the town. David was really an apprentice in Vard's store. As a boy he had an ingratiating manner, and Vard took a liking to him, and took him to his house to live, and he continued living there for several years. Vard had but one child, a daughter three years younger than David. They grew up together in the same house, and played together, as children.
“Haltman had one child, a son about my own age, Richard Haltman, junior. From the first day I was in Haltman's drug store I conceived a dislike for young Haltman, who. stayed in the store when he was not in school. He was a bright boy, and had a splendid knowledge of the business. I owed my education and my ability, in a great measure, to my dislike for my employer's son. I spent every hour of my spare time in study, in an effort to excel him in the business. I never showed my dislike for the boy, and he never suspected it, but always treated me in the most kindly manner. There was, however, a tone of condescension toward me in his manner that, instead of winning me, made his kindness the more irritating to my dislike for him.
“David had a quick mind, and while not well educated, he gave promise of making a capable business man. At the age of twenty he had the confidence of his employer, and I do not think that up to that time he had any evil intentions. I had then been in the Haltman drug store six years, and by close application had made myself indispensable to the business. Young Haltman had been away at school a great deal of the time. I was of a quiet, secretive disposition, and no one ever learned of my dislike for him, except my brother David, to whom I talked unreservedly.
“David and I had, up to this time, behaved ourselves in a becoming manner. We were respected in the community, but there was a social circle to which we were not admitted. There were certain social events attended by young Haltman and Ella Vard, from which David and I were excluded. This roused in us a fierce something that seemed always to lie dormant in the hearts of river folk.
“I had no social aspirations, but David had, at last, fallen desperately in love with Ella Vard. She had been away from home two years at school, and when she returned she was a wonderfully lovely woman. When David, presuming on their old comradeship, told her of his love, and asked her to marry him, she refused. When he protested she flatly called his attention to who and what he was. She told him she could not consider marriage with a man of his class, and that he had no right to presume that she would entertain such feelings for a river rat whom her father had rescued and tried to make a man of.
“This roused all the latent rage of the river people in David. He came to me with his troubles, and I counseled him to keep his temper, and wait for an opportunity for revenge. I had no thought then of committing any crime. Petty annoyance was all I thought of at the moment. My mind in those days never ran far from my books and my prescription case. I had proved my ability and Haltman had every confidence in me.
“Then, like a bolt out of the blue it was announced that Richard Haltman, junior, and Ella Vard had married. The people in the town commented on the fact that, by the marriage, the two largest fortunes in the county had been consolidated. David came to me and swore that he would kill Haltman, but I counseled him to wait for an opportunity to humble his rival.
“Several years passed. A son was born to the Haltmans, and five lears later a girl was born. When the little girl was three years old an epidemic of yellow fever visited the South, and extended farther north than it had ever been known to go. At Poplar Bluffs there was a great scare, and although there was no yellow fever there, there was a great deal of sickness.
“By this time old Richard Haltman was dead, and his son had succeeded to the business. James Vard was also dead, and Richard Haltman and his wife occupied the old Vard home, which was the finest in the town. Thus the Haltmans became immensely rich. David and I, who had worked many years in the two stores and had done much toward building up the fortunes, received nothing but our meager pay.
“During the epidemic of sickness Mrs. Haltman and the two children became very ill. Richard Haltman was a pharmacist, and always insisted upon filling all prescriptions for himself and his family. I think now that this was not intended as a demonstration of a lack of confidence in me, but at the time it enraged me. One evening, late, Haltman came into the store with two prescriptions that had been given him by the old family doctor. He filled them, wrapped up the medicine, then went away and forgot it.
“The grocery business had been sold, and David was out of a job at this time, and he often loafed about the drug store with me. He had heard me talking about a powerful narcotic that would produce hours of sleep, and even apparent death, and if given in heroic doses, would produce death. When Haltman left the store, David, seeing the package, suggested that I substitute this sleeping powder for the mild soporific that Haltman had prepared for his wife, under the prescription. Notwithstanding I was the elder, David always had his way with me when he set his heart on it. What I did was wrong, but I had no serious purpose. The powders would make the woman sleep. Would frighten Haltman almost to death. And, if the medicine were examined, would ruin his confidence in himself forever afterward, for he would think it was the medicine he had prepared.
“I made the substitution. While I was doing it, David went to the show case and got a fresh cigar. When he came back I had wrapped the medicine up again, and he said he would carry it to Haltman's house. On the way he doubled the powders, emptying two powders into one paper and throwing the other papers away. The two children were suffering with colds, and the bottle of medicine prepared for them was a mild soothing sirup. Into the bottle he emptied one of the double powders. Then he went on to the house and gave Haltman the medicine, inquired after the sick, kindly, and went on about his business. All this he told me only a few years ago, but he has held it over my head since them to make me do his bidding. It was a diabolical crime, but wholesale murder was not the worst of the plan, as you will see.
“The woman took one of the powders, and died before morning. The amount placed in the bottle was not enough to produce death in the eight-year-old boy, but the little girl died within an hour of her mother. The people became panic-stricken. They thought these were the first cases of a plague that was to sweep the town of its population. Haltman, who was a sensitive, nervous man, and not physically strong, was prostrated. The boy lay in a stupor for twenty-four hours, and afterward slowly recovered. No one would go near the house, and even the servants ran away, except one faithful old negress, who stayed on, nursed Haltman and the boy, dressed the dead woman and the little girl, and with the help of David Sarkey, who as a friend of the family volunteered his services, placed them in their coffins.
“When I heard of the deaths I was in a frenzy of fear. It was David who told me. He then had me at his mercy, and from that day I was his slave. He made me give him the antidote for the poison, which was a liquid, and he took it with him that night to the house, where he was sitting up with the bodies, alone. No one else would go near the place. He examined the little girl, in her coffin, and was convinced that she was not dead, but in a state of coma. He injected the antidote with a hypodermic needle, then wrapping the child's body in a blanket he took it to a house boat owned by a man with whom he associated. The next morning before daylight the boat dropped down the stream, and disappeared in the bayous of White River.
“David then went back to the house and placed enough weight, in the coffin to deceive any one who might handle it. When morning came he and the old sexton buried both of them, without opening the coffins. In the afternoon of the same day the doctor picked up the bottle of soothing sirup and smelled of it. The condition of the boy was perplexing him greatly. He gathered up the two packages of medicine and brought them to the drug store. He asked me several questions about the preparation, and I told him that Haltman had prepared it himself, and that I knew nothing about it. We were standing behind the prescription case talking, and the doctor still had the medicine in his hand, when the city marshal, who had entered the store quietly, came around the end of the counter, and holding out his hand told the doctor to give him the medicine. There was no help for it, and the doctor yielded the package. The officer was a bitter enemy of Haltman, who had opposed him politically.
“Within a week Haltman was arraigned for poisoning his wife and children. He admitted mixing the medicine, and the evidence of myself and David, together with his own admission, convicted him. Because the medicine had been out of Haltman's hands between the time he prepared it, and the time it was given to the woman and children, the jury recognized a doubt, gave Haltman the benefit of it, and made the verdict life imprisonment. His case was appealed, and he lay in jail for months, but was finally sent to the State penitentiary, where he died five years later, still believing that he had poisoned his wife and child. That was the starting point of David's career of crime, and from that hour he had no compunctions about murdering any one who was in his way.
“Fear clutched me until I broke under the strain. Up to that time no one had suspected me, and I left the town. Later David left. Nearly four years later I met him one day in Fort Smith, and he told me that I had been suspected, and brought me here and hid me in the mountains. This is the first time I have been away from my dugout since I came to this country.”
The four hearers had sat spellbound with the horror of the recital. When the old man stopped talking Haile said, in tones as cold as winter:
“Is that all you know?”
“All, except that David told me it had been his intention to revive the girl, keep her hid until the opportune moment, and then produce her to inherit the Haltman fortune. But, he told me the child had died on the house boat, and had been buried in the White River swamps. Enraged at this, he had hired an assassin, who went to Poplar Bluffs and murdered the boy. He showed me a newspaper clipping giving an account of the finding of the boy's body. I have lived in dread all these years, and now the end has come. I am willing to sign this statement. It is true, but never in my life have I had intent to murder, and in late years I have often begged David to refrain from the crimes he was about to commit.”
“Your signature to that statement, together with these other documents, completely removes the stigma from the memory of Richard Haltman, Lena's father, and shows that he was a martyr, and the victim of two soulless plotters who posed as his friends,” said Haile.
“David Sarkey made his mistake when he intrusted the murder of the Haltman boy to a hired assassin. The murder was committed, and the assassin no doubt received his pay. But no allowance was made for the fact that on the day before, the Haltman boy had given a suit of clothes and cap to an orphan river rat. When the mutilated body was found it was promptly identified by the clothing, the face and hands having been destroyed. The papers published a long article about it, and the death was supposed to have been entirely accidental.
“David probably never knew that the old bachelor lawyer who defended Richard Haltman, was a very close friend of his, and a great admirer of the Haltman boy; that, on the day of the alleged death of the Haltman boy, that lively youngster was out at the lawyer's farm, with the lawyer, on a rabbit hunt; that the lawyer, who was also trustee of the Haltman estate, learned of the death of his young friend through a paper, and instead of taking him back to town, took him into another State, and put him in school under another name.
“The boy was then nearly nine years old, and the lawyer explained the situation fully to him. No one, except the boy and the lawyer, ever knew that the boy was not dead. The boy grew to manhood under an assumed name, and traveled widely. The lawyer, at first deeply interested in the Haltman case, became obsessed with the idea that the Sarkey brothers were the criminals, and he spent many thousands of dollars of the Haltman fortune in an effort to find them. Haltman money has been defraying my expenses in this campaign. The lawyer also had the grave opened and found that instead of a skeleton in the little girl's coffin there was a book, and two heavy door props.
“As for you, Charles Sarkey, the end is indeed near. But, you shall not die by my hand. Death is too good for you. You shall lie in that same prison where Richard Haltman died, and repent of your crimes.”
Sarkey leaned back in his chair and said:
“No prison taint, or hangman's rope shall ever touch me.”
There was a slight grinding of his teeth, and a moment later he stiffened in his chair and fell to the floor.
“Apoplexy,” said Harrington.
“Poison, I should say,” said Haile. “He was a wizard in chemistry, and a poisoner by profession. Such men sometimes carry a deadly poison in a tiny sealed glass capsule, under the tongue. When in danger of being taken to trial for their crimes they crush the capsule with the teeth, rather than suffer the punishment that they know will be meted to them.”
Examination of the dead man's lips disclosed tiny bits of glass in the froth.
“We will just leave him here, for the present,” said Haile. “The marshals will be here in an hour or two to take charge of a very interesting collection of articles in another part of the cave that we will not visit, and incidentally to break up the last vestige of the worst nest of crime that the Kimish ever has known, or ever can know.” Then replacing the papers in the box, Rufus Haile led the way back to the house.
As they stood in the old living room, with the clock still ticking away on the mantel, and the fire burned out in the fire place, the clouds broke away and the evening sun poured in at the window.
“Pardon me, Mr. Haile,” said Harrington, moved by his professional curiosity, “but how long have you been following these criminals?”
“Several years.”
“What induced you to take such an interest in the case, and above all, to risk your life here in the Kimish?”
“I think Providence must have had a hand in that. The best answer is that it is because I am Rufus Haile Haltman. Lena is my sister, you are going to be my brother-in-law, and this young woman is going to be my wife,” and Rufus put his arm around Hattie and kissed her.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1948, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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