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THE SHOOTING OF
DAN McGREW

A Novel

BY

MARVIN DANA

Author of WITHIN THE LAW, etc.

BASED ON THE FAMOUS POEM OF

ROBERT W. SERVICE

PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES
FROM THE PHOTO PLAY

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1915, by
BARSE & HOPKINS

The Illustrations Shown in This Edition Are Reproductions of Scenes from the Photo-Play of "The Shooting of Dan McGrew"—Scenario by Aaron Hoffman—Produced and Copyrighted by the Popular Plays and Players Co. Inc., to Whom the Publishers Desire to Express Their Thanks and Appreciation for Permission to Use the Pictures.

EDMUND BREESE AND COMPANY IN "THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW."

THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW

Produced by

THE POPULAR PLAYS AND PLAYERS, Inc.

Scenario by

AARON HOFFMAN

CAST OF CHARACTERS

THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW

CHAPTER I

A clatter of hoofs on the gravel of the driveway. A shout from the rider as he swung himself down from the saddle:

"Lou!"

A woman came swiftly from the cool shadows of the porch into the brilliance of the summer sunlight, to meet the man who now advanced toward her with fond, smiling eagerness.

The two kissed very tenderly, for they were lovers still, after seven years of married life. The delicate rose of the wife's cheeks deepened a little under the warmth of the husband's caress, and the graciously curving lips trembled to a smile of happiness as she looked up into the strong face of the man she loved. In the slightly rugged features, she read virility and honesty and loyalty. An exquisite contentment pervaded her. She felt that the cup of joy was brimming. Husband and child and home—!

Her train of thought was broken by the man's words, spoken quickly in a tone that mingled curiously amusement and chagrin:

"Dangerous Dan! He's coming, Lou! He's buried the hatchet, and is coming to visit us. Dangerous Dan McGrew! Now, what do you think of that?" He waited for an answer, staring quizzically into the suddenly perturbed face of his wife.

"My rival!" he added whimsically, albeit a bit complacently.

"Never!" the wife declared with emphasis. A note of harshness had crept into the music of her voice. "Never your rival, Jim, though he tried to be." The earnestness of utterance gratified the man, in whom a vague, latent jealousy stirred at thought of that other who had loved where he loved. But there was no gratification in the new mood of the woman. Instead, a subtle dread touched her spirit. The contentment of a moment before was fled. There was nothing precise, nothing formulated, in her thoughts. Only, something sinister, menacing, pressed upon her. She welcomed the distraction afforded by her daughter's appearance on the scene.

The girl came running from the gardens behind the ranch-house and sprang into her father's arms with a cry of delight.

To her six years, his frequent rides to the village ten miles away were in the nature of great events, and she welcomed each return as if from long and perilous voyaging. Moreover, there was always an added thrill for Nell in her father's home-coming, because of the mysterious charm in the gift that never failed. To-day, indeed, the present was destined to mark her life; even to be of vital import in a crisis of distant years.

No hint of the gravity of things-to-be shadowed the radiant joy of the child's face, as she was lifted in the man's arms and kissed. There was only vivid anticipation of the gift that would mark this wonderful hour.

James Maxwell lowered his daughter to the ground, with an affirmative nod toward his wife.

"Now, Nell," he said in a voice of authority, "stand perfectly still, and keep your eyes shut, and maybe something will happen."

The girl rested uneasily in an effort of obedience, with her eyes screwed tight-shut, giggling expectantly.

The mother looked on, smiling again, the momentary depression of her spirit allayed, if not destroyed, by the scene. She met the man's glance with understanding in the brown, gold-flecked deeps of her eyes. The father took from a pocket a small leather case, and opened it, and held up for his wife's inspection the gold chain and pendant locket, set with an initial N in tiny pearls. The wife nodded her approval. Straightway, the chain was adjusted about the child's neck, with the locket hanging low on the slender breast.

"Now!" the father cried sternly.

On the instant, Nell's dark eyes flashed open in swift inquiry to her father's face, then, following the direction of his gaze, the proud chin was drawn in, and she stared down rapturously at the trinket lying on her bosom. Followed little squeals of bliss, then reverent touching of the treasure. The secret of the catch baffled her, and the father had to come to the rescue lest patience become too hardly strained. When the locket had been opened, she stared into it through long seconds in wordless pleasure. Finally, she spoke in a hushed voice, as if in the presence of something very sacred.

"It's you, Daddy!" It was a broken whisper of happiness. Her eyes, lustrous with glad tears, were lifted adoringly to her father's face for a moment. Then, again, her glance went to the locket.

"And you, Mamma!" she exclaimed, and turned to regard her mother with equal love. "Oh, it's just beautiful! Pictures of both of you—Daddy and Momsy!—all my very own!... And may I really, truly wear it?" Nell's voice was suddenly become timid, infinitely wistful.

The mother answered, as she stooped and kissed her daughter.

"Yes, darling; it's all your very own, to wear every minute, day and night, if you want to."

Presently, when the intricacy of the locket's catch had been fully mastered, Nell stole away to her favorite shady nook in the rose-garden, to be alone with her delight, while husband and wife ascended the steps of the porch, and seated themselves at ease in the wicker chairs. The lattice-work of vines shut off the rays of the westering sun. Blowing over the stretches of lawn, thick-set with shrubberies and studded with trees, the soft breeze came refreshingly, and bore to the two the multiple bland aromas of the generous earth. Beyond the green within which the mansion stood, rolled rich acres of ripening grain that undulated beneath the gentle urging of the wind in shimmering waves of gold. The whole scene was one of peace and prosperity, where a fruitful soil lavished riches in return for the industry of man. The house itself was a commodious structure, bountifully equipped with the comforts and elegancies of living; for James Maxwell was, though still a young man, one who had achieved a full measure of success from out the fertile fields of the West, and his culture and that of his wife had given to their home a refinement unusual in regions so remote. Thus far, their married life had been almost flawless. The wholesomeness and simplicity of their life together, blessed with the presence of the child, varied by occasional visits to the larger centers of civilization, had held them in tranquil happiness. Yet, this afternoon, there lacked something of the accustomed serenity between the two. Now, the oppression that had affected the woman at the mention of Dan McGrew returned to her in some measure, and, by reason of the sympathy between her and him, a heaviness weighed on his mood as well, though he concealed it as best he might, even from himself, and spoke with brisk cheerfulness.

"Yes, Lou, Dangerous Dan McGrew is about to descend upon us—handsome as ever, I suppose, and with all his wiles still working. I can't cease to wonder, Lou, how I ever came to win you from him." There was a new tenderness in his voice as he spoke the final words.

The wife laughed softly.

"Don't fish, Jim," she retorted. "You know perfectly well that Dan never had a chance with me—not really. He was always a fascinating fellow enough, but, somehow—" She fell silent, a puzzled frown lining the warm white of her forehead beneath its coronal of golden hair.

"Yes," the husband agreed; "somehow, there is always that 'but' when one gets to thinking of Dan." He would have added more, but checked himself, reluctant to speak ill of one who had been his friend, one whom he had bested in the struggle for a woman's favor.

The wife had no such scruple. She spoke incisively, and her voice was harsher than its wont.

"I never trusted him," she said. "I always found myself doubting his honesty."

Thus encouraged, Jim spoke his mind frankly.

"Dan was always as crooked as a dog's hind leg," he declared, without any trace of bitterness, but as one stating a fact not to be denied.

"He wrote to you?" Lou inquired, with a suggestion of wondering in her voice.

"No; it was Tom."

Jim thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and brought forth an envelope, from which he took out and unfolded a single sheet of typewritten paper. Then he read the letter:

Dear old Chum:

"Dan McGrew is back again in his old home after five years. He is coming down to see you and his old sweetheart, Lou. He has not yet forgiven you for winning her. He seems to have the same old unsettled disposition and I think he requires the strong hands of a friend to keep him in the straight path.

"Sincerely your old friend,

"Tom."

"Then you don't know when he will get here?" Lou asked.

Jim shook his head.

"No," he said, rather irritably; "we'll just have to wait for the visitation to descend upon us, be it sooner or later."

"We shall have to be nice to him, of course," the wife said.

"I'm not specially keen on dry-nursing Dan McGrew," Jim remarked plaintively. "We were never really intimate, though we were friendly enough. To tell the truth, Lou, I'm mighty sorry Dan's coming here." His face was somber as he gazed into his wife's eyes and read in their clear light sympathy with his own repugnance at the prospect. With an impatient ejaculation, he sprang to his feet and went into the house, where he seated himself before the grand piano that occupied the center of the spacious living-room. In a fierce crashing of dissonances, he voiced the resentment that was in him. But after a little, indignation somewhat relieved by such audible interpretation, his fingers flew into rippling arpeggios, out of which came, at last, a lilting melody, joyous, yet tender. For Jim Maxwell, lover of music all his days, had a gift of improvisation, with a sufficient technique for its exercise. To it he resorted often for the sounding of his deeper moods, and in it found a never-failing solace. So now, presently, soothed by his own art, he got up from the piano and went back to the porch, where he faced his wife, smiling.

Lou smiled in response.

"Thank you, Jim," she said softly. "You scared away all the blue devils with those dreadful discords. And then you just tempted all sorts of good fairies to come and hover, and they did. You cheered me up. It's all right that Dan should come to visit us. Only—"

She broke off, nor did the husband utter any question as to the uncompleted sentence. But in the hearts of both lurked still something of the dread which the music had failed entirely to dispel.

CHAPTER II

The time of Dan McGrew's arrival was not long left in doubt; for, on the third day following Tom's letter, Jim received one from Dan himself.

Dear Jim:

Am back again in the old home after five years, and have grown rich. Am coming right down to see you and my old sweetheart, Lou. I can still hardly forgive you for winning her from me, but I suppose you're the better man. I am still the same rolling stone, ever seeking the gold that seems to get further away as I approach. Will reach your place the Tuesday following your receipt of this letter.

Sincerely,

Dan McGrew.

So, on the appointed Tuesday, Jim drove in his light, covered buggy to the town, to meet the through train from the East. With him, mounted on her pony, went Nell. She wore the precious locket proudly displayed against her trim khaki coat, and she rode in happy excitement, for the trip to her was a great adventure, and there was, in addition, the thrilling novelty of this stranger's coming, who might be a prince in disguise.

When, at last, the limited roared into the station at Coverdale, and Dan McGrew swung himself down from the Pullman's steps, Jim went forward and seized his visitor's hand in a warm clasp.

"It's good to see you again, after all these years," he cried heartily. At this moment, there was only kindness in his feeling toward the tall, handsome man who returned his greeting so genially. He meant to be as friendly as he could to this guest, to be helpful and loyal, so far as he might, though the other had no claim upon his friendship, and though he himself had neither liking nor respect for Dan McGrew.

After the first exchange of exclamations between the two, Jim called to Nell, who had remained standing diffidently at a little distance, her deeply tanned face, under the dark masses of hair, tense with interest, as her eyes searched the newcomer in vast curiosity. A great shyness was upon her as she approached.

"This is my daughter, Nell," Jim said, with manifest pride in the winsome creature.

"And Lou's!" the other muttered, under his breath. But Jim caught the words, and was moved to a fleeting pity for the man who had failed in love.

Nell murmured a stilted phrase in expression of her pleasure at meeting Mr. McGrew. But as the stranger bent and kissed her, she felt a sudden instinct of distaste under the caress that both frightened and puzzled her. For, hitherto in her childish experience, embraces and kisses had been matters either of pleasure, as in the case of her father and mother and others dear to her, or of utter indifference, as in the case of those for whom she cared nothing. Now, for the first time, a kiss was disagreeable. She felt herself somehow frightened by this fine gentleman, who might be a prince. She could not understand it.

The child could not have understood even had she been able to look into the heart of Dangerous Dan McGrew, there to see the black malice that fouled it.

For such was the fact. There was evil in the mind and in the soul of Dan McGrew. Through all the years since he had lost Lou Ainsworthy, he had longed for her. The circumstance that she was married to another man put no curb on his fierce desire for her. Unlawful passion throbbed in his blood. It was this that had driven him to the long journey. A man wholly without scruple, without care for any other than himself, save only the woman to possess whom he so craved, Dan McGrew was resolved to woo that woman anew, to win her for himself by any means, no matter how false or vile.

Thus, it came to pass that, in the days of his dwelling under the roof of the man whom he was determined to wrong, the visitor played the hypocrite with his host, aping a manner of bluff, candid good-fellowship. With the wife, too, he played the hypocrite. He dared not let her so much as suspect the hot fires that burned in him as he looked yearningly on her loveliness. He realized, at the outset, that her devotion to the man of her choice remained unaltered. He knew that the open confession of his illicit love would move her to scorn and loathing. Only by guile, and that of the craftiest, could he hope for triumph over loyalty and love. With the passing days, the task loomed before him as one almost impossible of achievement. From all that he knew of Jim's past life and all that he could learn concerning the husband's reputation in the community, there showed nowhere any least opportunity for attack. And attack must be made, for only by destroying the wife's faith could he have any opportunity to gain her favor. It occurred to him that, in a conspiracy, he would have need of accomplices. To get some information concerning such as might serve his end, he often rode alone to the town, while Jim was occupied with ranch affairs. There, he entered easily into the vulgar dissipations of the place, making himself hail-fellow-well-met with the riff-raff of the saloons and dance-houses, both men and women. The occupation was, in truth, congenial enough to him; for there was a coarseness in his nature that found satisfaction in loose living. Before he had been a week at the ranch, he had become known to all the blear-eyed habitués of Murphy's saloon—to some of the women frequenters there as well, and to certain men who were not blear-eyed; for they drank little, but played poker much. With these latter, especially, Dangerous Dan fraternized, since, like many a wiser man and better, he greatly admired poker—and his own playing of it.

Dan won the first day, and the second, and the third—as those playing with him meant that he should. But the stakes were small. Dan himself fretted because they were so small. It was his own suggestion, his own insistence, that the stakes should be raised. Immediately, then, Dan's luck slumped. It worried him only a little at first—more, as the ill fortune continued.

On the fourth day, Jess, one of the painted women of the place, leaned over him so closely that the heavy musk of her perfume deadened his senses. She whispered her admiration of his play. Dan forgot that she was the wife without the law of Fingie Whalen, who sat across the table from him, ferret-faced and with slender, agile fingers that touched the deck of cards always with the soft delicacy of a caress. Jess's praise fattened Dan's pride in his own skill. He insisted loudly on larger stakes, which were accepted grudgingly by his fellow players. There were four others at the table with him. Despite his experience in cities further East, he had no least suspicion that the odds of the game were four to one. He lost a most attractive pot on a full house of kings with treys. The event angered him. A little later, a pot that had been raised around the board until it was of admirable proportions, was lost by him to one who held a humble, but efficient, flush.

Dan was not an honest man. His losses irritated him. He believed, by reason of a certain dexterity in legerdemain, that he could thus cajole fortune. He misjudged his company. When he possessed himself of four aces, and held them concealed in his hand, he failed to note the eyes of Fingie Whalen, which had followed his every movement.

But this same Fingie, being a master of his craft, said nothing until after the bets had run high and it had come to the show-down. Dan had forced the betting to a point where the chips and bills and gold on the table totaled a most respectable sum. He swept the pot toward him, after a contemptuous glance at the four-of-a-kind which Fingie had offered against him. His own four aces were indisputably winners.

But Fingie Whalen thrust out an imperative hand in restraint.

"Nothin' doin'!"

In the same instant, his fingers closed in a viselike grip on Dan's left hand. Dan was the stronger man. But, in the moment of surprise, his muscles yielded. His hand was pulled forward—it lay open on the table.

Within his palm four cards were lying. With his free hand Fingie flipped the four cards upon the table. They were inconsiderable—a deuce, a nine, a pair of sevens.

His trickery thus baldly revealed, Dan would have acted, but he was too late. As he pulled the automatic from his pocket, the man next him thrust an elbow forward and the shot went wild. In the next instant, the pistol had been knocked from his grasp, and four men bore down upon him. Dan was a strong man, and, whatever his faults, absolutely fearless. He struck out vigorously, but the slender, silk-ankled foot of Jess caught him so that he stumbled and missed his blow. The fists of the four beat him to the floor.

It was then that Jim entered the room. He had business in town, and, on learning at the ranch-house that his guest had preceded him, he had felt it incumbent upon him to seek out Dan. He had acted from a rather futile sense of duty toward the man who, as Tom had put it, required the strong hands of a friend to keep him in the straight path.

At the hotel, he made inquiry of the clerk:

"Have you seen anything of Mr. McGrew?"

The clerk permitted himself an indulgent grin at the question. He admired Jim Maxwell, as did all the better element in the community, and he found himself wondering over the disreputable associations of the stranger who was the ranch-owner's guest. His answer was prompt:

"You're pretty sure to find him in the back room over to Murphy's. Usually, when he hits this burg, he sets in a game with the gang over there."

Jim's face lined grimly. He felt a great distaste for his mission. He was no precisian. He was not above taking a glass on occasion at Murphy's bar. But he had no liking for the vicious. The coarse debauchery of such a place was repulsive to him, as it must be to any decent man. Nevertheless, he went out of the hotel, and strode rapidly toward the corner on which stood the rough frame building of the saloon. As he drew near, the report of a shot came sharply.

"What hell's mess is on now?" he muttered savagely, and broke into a run. In the next instant, he had leaped through the door to the back room. He could not see clearly for a few seconds in the gloomy place, after the glaring sunlight of outdoors. But the evidences of conflict were plain enough from the sounds of stamping boots upon the boarded floor, the soft thudding of fists against flesh, the snarling curses, gaspings and guttural gruntings of the combatants, the shrill screams and whimperings of women. Then his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, and he made out the form of Dan McGrew, girt about with the thrashing arms and legs of his assailants. Without any hesitation, Jim plunged into the fray. His fists shot home in sledge-hammer blows, against which the four, taken completely by surprise, were defenseless. As they fell away from their victim, Jim saw the automatic lying where it had fallen on the floor during the scuffle. Before his adversaries could rally to the attack, he had pounced upon it, and had sprung back against the wall of the room, whence he menaced the four, who halted in fear of the weapon.

"There's been enough of this," Jim declared, and his voice was ominous, heavy with authority. "I don't know the rights of the fuss, and I don't care a damn, I guess. But there'll be no murder done here—unless it's been done already."

There came some profane grumblings from the discomfited quartette, but they ventured no other opposition to Jim's will, for they feared this man, and he knew it, and he did not fear them in the least.

"We caught 'im cheatin'—blast 'im!" Fingie affirmed, sullenly.

"I'm not interested in the history of the row," was the contemptuous retort; "only in the end of it." Jim thrust the revolver in his pocket, assured that there would be no further trouble; for now the bartender and Murphy had made a belated appearance on the scene. He stooped over the beaten man, who had already begun to show signs of returning consciousness. Presently, in fact, Dan was able to sit up, and to swallow the brandy Murphy had brought. His injuries, though painful enough, were superficial, and after a little he was able to clamber into the buggy, which Jim had hired from the hotel livery for the return to the ranch.

They had gone a mile from the village, when Dan spoke for the first time:

"It was all a devilish frame-up to rob me," he asserted. His tone was vindictive, but, somehow, not quite convincing.

Jim could not keep the scorn from his own voice as he answered:

"You can't complain—you knew what sort they were."

Under the lash of justice in the taunt from the man who had rescued him, Dan McGrew was silent; but the black malice in his heart seethed still more fiercely from quickened fires of hate.

CHAPTER III

Jim explained the affair to Lou, with a bitter emphasis that forbade questioning as to details.

"Dangerous Dan," he said, unable to avoid a sarcastic inflection on the adjective, "got into a fight at Murphy's. When I arrived, there were four on top of him."

"And you pulled them off, I suppose," Lou said, her lips curving to a smile in which amusement blended with admiration for the stalwart man who had spoken so curtly.

"I can't say that I exactly pulled them off," Jim answered, with a faint responsive smile. "Anyhow, I managed to get them off him, one way or another. That's the reason he's here now—worse luck!"

In the days that followed, Dangerous Dan played the hypocrite to perfection. He went no more to town. With Jim, he was all amiability, full of reminiscences concerning the long-ago, when they had pranked together in the devious ways of boys. Indeed, he was so agreeable that Jim found himself at least tolerant of the company of this guest, for whom, without any obligation whatsoever, he had assumed some measure of responsibility. For he remembered always that phrase in the letter Tom had written him: "And I think he requires the strong hands of a friend to keep him in the straight path." He felt an onerous responsibility for the visitor whom fate thrust upon him, though he detested that responsibility—and the man.

It was the time of the harvest. Jim was busy with overseeing a multitude of details in the gathering of the crops. Often, he was away from the house from dawn to dark. Nell, too, was frequently absent, for she delighted in the activities of men and horses and machines in the fields. On her pony, she spent hours in her father's company. The consequence was that Dan McGrew enjoyed unlimited opportunities of association with his host's wife. Necessarily, the intimacy of their former relations had its effect on their present intercourse. Indeed, Dan made a habit of half-jesting, half-sentimental references to that time when he had wooed so vainly. The phrase was often on his lips:

"Do you remember, Lou, when we were sweethearts—?"

Lou, for her part, undoubtedly found something pleasant in the situation. Dan showed himself at his best toward her. Since he knew the utter hopelessness at this time of winning her from her allegiance, he strove to hide from her any expression of the passion that burned within him, though the effort taxed his strength of will to the utmost. But, because of his restraint, Lou was unsuspicious as to the visitor's designs, and accepted Dan's proffer of innocent friendship. He was an amiable and entertaining companion, an agreeable variation from the somewhat monotonous loneliness of the ranch-house; especially at this season of the year, when husband and daughter alike so constantly deserted her. Certainly, she knew that her guest was her lover as well. But the fact did not militate against him in her regard. On the contrary, it gave piquancy to their companionship. The unvarying manner of respect for her as his friend's wife lulled suspicion. She sympathized with him for his failure in attaining the desire of his heart. A mild feminine vanity found gratification in the presence of one so humbly devoted. She had no shred of liking for him, in any deeper sense. Sometimes, indeed, of an evening, when the three were together under the lights of the living-room, she found herself comparing the two men. She admitted that, in a superficial way, Dan was perhaps the handsomer. His features were as clearly cut as those of some Roman emperor. The eyes, set wide-apart, gave dignity to his expression. There was in his air always a suggestion of ruthless strength, even of lawlessness, as of one who would wreak his will, reckless of consequence. It was that quality which in his boyhood had won him the name of Dangerous Dan. He had been given over to escapades, to exploits of daring prowess, to fights against odds for the sheer love of fighting. In bodily strength and the usual manly qualities, the two men were well matched. Lou could see little to choose between them. But her comparison ended always in a great welling of love for her husband. There was in his expression a kindliness, in no way weakness, that the other lacked. And there was, too, something subtle, a quality of the soul, to be felt, though not to be seen or described, by those with whom he came in contact. It occurred to Lou once, as she thus meditated while the men talked together, that Jim's love for music, together with his skill in its interpretation, was characteristic of the difference between the two; for to Dan, though he was at times swayed easily and deeply by music, the art meant little to him, made no component part in his life.

Strangely enough, it was Jim's music that, very directly, precipitated a crisis in the situation.

It was a day of languorous heat from a sun like molten brass. Jim, a little weary after hours among his men, found an opportunity for leisure, and welcomed it. He rode to the ranch-house, and sighed gratefully as he entered the cool-shaded porch, where he found Lou busy with some sewing, while Dan lounged at ease over a pipe. The wife welcomed her husband gladly, and fussed over him, and brought him lemonade. Jim was listless at first from fatigue, and listened lazily to the chatting of his wife and their guest, without taking part. But presently, he felt himself revived, and entered heartily into the talk. Perceiving his increased animation, Lou made a request.

"If you're not too tired, Jim," she said eagerly, "I wish you would play over that melody you worked out the day you received Tom's letter. I do hope you remember it," she continued, with a little catch of anxiety in her voice. "Bits of it have been running in my head all day."

Jim rose obediently, with a smile for his wife. As their eyes met, Lou smiled mischievously.

"Perhaps, you will remember it began with a great lot of startling chords. But you don't need to repeat them."

Jim grinned appreciatively.

"I'm not in the mood for those chords, as you politely term them, to-day. But I think I have that song still in my head—and in my heart." The last words were spoken softly.

From the living-room, a moment later, came a ripping charm of arpeggios that in their sequence told softly of the melody to come. Then, soon, the air itself sounded in its joyous, lilting rhythm of a passionate tenderness.

It was plain that the player was telling the truth of his heart. The music made a rhapsody of love. Deep within it was a whisper of spiritual things, of things sacred. But, too, the weaving notes made a mesh of sensuous splendor. There was a voluptuous spell in the throbbing cadences.

It was the sensual witchery of the music that probed the emotions of Dan McGrew, and beat them to swirling revolt against the calmness he had striven to maintain. The finer, nobler meaning of the love-lyric touched him not at all. But the sorcery of that exquisite voluptuousness thrilled in his blood. He sat watching the woman, and his eyes were aflame. The enchantment of the melody was upon her as well. Body and soul, she responded in her mood to the mood of the player, whom she loved, even as he loved her. The oval of her cheeks bore a deepened rose. The red curves of the lips bent to a tremulous smile. The dark glory of her eyes shone more radiantly, as she stared, unseeing, into the distance. The lithe, gracious form was become tense in this moment of absorbed feeling. Never had Dan McGrew seen her so wonderfully alive, so vibrant of emotion, so beautiful, so desirable, so altogether adorable. With the beat of the music lashing on desire, the spectacle of the woman's loveliness fed the flames of longing, until the fires of his passion consumed utterly the will that would have held them in control. The music softened at last to a mere breath of beautiful sound. Then, a clangor of triumphant harmonies—and silence.

Lou rose quickly, and went into the living-room.

In his fevered imagination, Dan McGrew could see the caress between husband and wife, and, though he continued to sit immobile, staring dazedly at the spot where a moment before the woman had been, wrath surged in him against that other man. By so much as his love for the woman welled in him, by so much the tide of his hate mounted. For a long time, he sat there, through ages of torture, as it seemed to him. He heard Jim go out of the house by the back way. Soon afterward, there came to his ears the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the gravel of the drive, and he knew that the ranch-owner was off again to the fields, though he did not look up to see. With mad eagerness, he was awaiting the woman's return. Reason no longer had any hold on his mood. He was helpless in the clutch of passion. The music had softened the fibers of resolve. The allurement of the love-light that had shone from Lou's face while she sat listening, had drawn his desire of her into a vortex that held him powerless against its rush. He had no plan of action, no thought as to what his course should be. He was conscious only of an intolerable need of this woman. As the minutes passed, and still she did not return, the longing mastered him completely. He got to his feet, with unaccustomed awkwardness, and went into the living-room with shambling steps wholly unlike his usual elastic tread. He moved falteringly, as might one in the dark in a strange place. For, in truth, the mists of passion had settled on his spirit, shrouding and blinding him.

Lou was reclining in a low easy chair, within a nest of cushions. In the abandonment of her posture, the suave grace of her body's lines, still maidenly, rather than matronly, despite her full womanhood, were clearly revealed to the man's avid eyes. On her face was still the expression of rapturous tenderness that was not for him, which, nevertheless, had enthralled him. Dan McGrew, in this hour of folly, was bereft of judgment utterly. The woman there in the chair, who did not even turn her head toward him as he entered, was a loadstone that drew toward her irresistibly every atom of the blood racing in his veins. He went toward her—without any hesitation or faltering now. All the life in him seemed in this instant to be at its best, potent as never before, and not to be denied. So, he moved forward lightly and swiftly. Before the woman had so much as guessed his presence there beside her, he had stooped and taken her in his arms.

Lou cried out sharply under the shock of fear in the first second, when the man's arms closed about her. But, in the next instant, as she felt herself lifted bodily from her place, and crushed against Dan's breast, a horrible fear beset her that sapped her strength, and left her limp within the fierce embrace. Her face was suddenly become pallid. She was half-swooning under the dreadfulness of the thing that had befallen. Dan rained kisses on the golden masses of her hair, from which the delicate perfume penetrated his senses, and inflamed him to new madness. He loosened his clasp upon her body, in order to raise the white face to his lips. But then, at last, the energies of the woman were suddenly restored. A hot flush of mingled shame and anger dyed face and throat. The heavy lids lifted from the dark eyes, which now were blazing. Her body tensed, then writhed in an abrupt, violent effort for freedom. Her action caught the man unawares. She slipped from his arms, and darted behind the chair in which she had been sitting, so that its bulk was interposed as a barrier between them.

"Oh, you have dared—!" She broke off, choking over the humiliation of such an outrage against her womanhood. She was pale and flushed by turns. Her body was racked by convulsive shudderings. She was wounded to the depths of her being.

Dan, nevertheless, was without compunction at sight of her distress. He was still crazed by desire of her—a desire only intensified a thousand-fold by that brief contact of her within his arms. With a great leap, he was upon her before she could flee again, had caught her shoulder, wrenched her about, and, for a second time, swung her to his breast. The shriek she would have uttered was muffled by his lips on her mouth.

Jim returned early from the fields that afternoon. His heart was fairly singing with happiness, as he mounted the steps of the house. His love was overflowing. All things in life were perfect to him. He halted on the porch, somewhat surprised that neither Lou nor their guest should be there. He chanced to glance through the window into the living-room. It was the very moment when Dan McGrew held the woman strained to his bosom, his mouth on hers. Jim stared, uncomprehending, unbelieving. Then, horror fell upon him, enveloped him in a black pall of agony—for his wife lay supine, unresisting, yielding to the kisses that polluted purity. But, in another second, Lou found strength to twist her lips aside, and the cry that had been stifled broke from her. Its appeal was unmistakable in its frantic suffering. Jim heard and understood, and answered with a roar of rage, as he hurled himself through the door and upon the man who thus dishonored him. Lou, released as Dan heard Jim's shout, shrank away, and stood trembling against the wall, while the two men reeled back and forth in a frenzied grapple. Their strength was so well matched that neither at the outset could gain an advantage; for each was keyed to extreme endeavor by the urge of elemental passions at their full. Then, as their lurching bodies sent a massive chair volleying to the floor, Jim's hold was loosened. Dan had time to snatch the automatic from his pocket—but not time to use it. Before his arm could be raised to fire, Jim had caught his wrist in a grip not to be broken. A hip-lock threw Dan backward violently against the table that stood on one side of the room. Strong though it was, the table yielded under the impact of the two heavy bodies upon it, and went crashing to the floor, with the two men atop the splintered boards. The force of the fall stunned Dan for a moment. The automatic dropped from his released hand. Jim saw, and seized the weapon. Ere Dan could move, he had scrambled to his feet, where he stood menacing the fallen man. Perhaps he would have shot his enemy there and then—but Lou interposed. She had watched with dilated eyes the fight between the men who loved her. Her whole feeling had been a desperate prayer for her husband's victory: a prayer made vital by hate against the man who had so grossly insulted her. Now at the end, however, a softer, feminine emotion compelled her. She leaped forward, and clung to her husband's arm.

THE TABLE WENT CRASHING TO THE FLOOR, WITH THE TWO MEN ATOP THE SPLINTERED BOARDS.

"No, no, Jim!" she implored him. "Don't shoot! Tell him to go.... Oh, my God! Tell him to go, Jim."

Dan clambered clumsily to his feet. The muzzle of the automatic stared at him in vicious threat of death. The issue had left him helpless. He was too weak for further combat, in the reaction from great emotions. He stood with downcast eyes, swaying a little unsteadily.

Jim spoke, his voice metallic:

"You hear?" he said. "Get out of here, you dog! I'll send your things to the hotel to-night. Not a word out of you—damn you!—or I'll kill you in your tracks."

Husband and wife stood rigidly motionless, watching. The beaten man ventured no rebellion against the decree. He went out of the room with a stealthy, slinking haste, as though he feared lest the self-restraint of his victor might fail. But in his heart was neither remorse nor despair—only a fiercer hatred of the man, a fiercer love of the woman.

CHAPTER IV

On the porch, Dan caught up his hat, which had been lying on the chair, and hastened to the stables. He did not scruple now to make use, for the journey to the village, of the horse which he had been accustomed to ride. As he trotted down the driveway, he encountered Nell, mounted on her pony. The girl's gypsy-like face was flushed from a brisk canter under the hot sun, and her black eyes shadowed by the long, curling lashes, were sparkling with the joy of life. She called out cheerily in inquiry whether her father was at the house. Dan called a curt, "Yes," in answer, without checking his pace. But, as the two came abreast, the girl's glance took in the haggard fury on the man's face, and the fearfulness of it fell like a blight on her gladness. She was terror-stricken, without in the least understanding why. For his part, Dan McGrew rode on his way with an added curse for this innocent child.

Dan McGrew registered at the hotel in the village, with a careless announcement to the clerk that the loneliness of the ranch had outworn his patience, and that his luggage would be along presently. Then, after he had been fortified with a solitary drink at the bar, he betook himself to his cell-like room, which was the best the hotel afforded, and there gave himself over to evil plotting. As a result, when night had fallen he sent a message by the hotel porter to Fingie Whalen, who at this hour would doubtless be found somewhere about Murphy's. Under the circumstances, naturally enough, he deemed it a measure of prudence not to visit Murphy's, where he would be at the mercy of the men from whom Jim had saved him. He was sure, however, that Fingie would not permit any false delicacy to stand in the way of possible gain. He had decided that he could make use of the gambler, and of the gambler's painted woman, Jess, and he meant to bribe the pair to his purpose.

Fingie came promptly. Within fifteen minutes from the dispatching of the porter, there came a heavy knock at Dan's door, and in response to a summons to enter, the squat form and lowering face of the gambler appeared. He grinned evilly at Dan, and swaggered forward truculently.

"What in hell are you up to?" he demanded, as he came to a standstill, facing his host, who remained sprawling in a chair, seemingly quite at ease. Dan had determined precisely on how to conduct himself in the interview. So, now, he waved his hand hospitably toward a bottle of whiskey which, with a jug of water and glasses, stood on the table.

"Help yourself," he exclaimed genially, "and sit down. I want to have a talk with you."

"You'll have to do some mighty tall talkin' to get rid of them extra four kyards I seen with my own eyes," Fingie retorted. He approached the table, however, without any reluctance, where he helped himself liberally before seating himself.

Dan made his explanations glibly.

"I got on to the fact that I was getting the bad end of a crooked deal in that card game.... Now, hold your horses!" he commanded, as Fingie scowled and would have spoken. "I don't mean anything for you to get mad about. Only, the four of you were doing me up. I had too much of Murphy's dope, and tried a silly trick. It failed, as it ought to have failed, and I was in bad. I'm sorry, and I want you to let bygones be bygones. You bruised me up good and plenty, if that's any satisfaction to you, and, besides, you got my money. Not quite all of it, however!" he added suggestively. He noted with satisfaction the increasing amiability of Fingie's expression, and the avaricious glint in the ferret eyes of the man at the concluding words.

"What's the game?" Fingie demanded bluntly.

Dan forthwith revealed in detail the work he required to be done. He felt himself safe in being candid with this accomplice, who was wholly free from any moral restraints, and who, as he now made known with many oaths, was still suffering from a swollen jaw, the result of one of Jim's blows. In fine, the gambler entered into the conspiracy with such evident zest that Dan was able to make a better bargain than he had expected for his services and those of his mistress. For an hour, the two discussed the vicious plot, and then, at Dan's bidding, Fingie went in quest of the woman, Jess. Presently, he returned with her, and she, too, was stirred to pleasurable anticipations of the evils to be wrought through her aid. For, on one occasion, she had cast languishing and provocative glances on Jim Maxwell, which he had returned with a look in which pity could not conceal repugnance.

There was a round of drinks for the three, and then Dan made his payment to the gambler. This done, Jess was seated at the table with writing materials, and took from Dan's dictation a note, which she wrote in her natural hand, without any effort toward disguise, and signed with her own name. When, at last, the worthy pair took their leave, that note remained in the possession of their host.

Dangerous Dan's activities for the day were not yet completed. Within an hour, he was astride a horse from the hotel livery, riding rapidly toward the Maxwell ranch. When he was within a quarter of a mile from the house, he dismounted, and hid his horse behind some bushes by the roadside. He went forward on foot cautiously, for it was moonlight, and objects were clearly discernible. Yet, he had little apprehension of being observed, for he knew the customs of the place: that, though it still lacked an hour to midnight, the household would doubtless be fast asleep. There were dogs, it was true, which ran at large; but with these Dan had made friends, and they would raise no outcry against him, though he came with malignant purpose.

Dan, after he reached the lawns that spread before the house, picked his way so as to keep within the shadows of the trees and shrubberies. He avoided the gravel of the drive and the walks, going noiselessly over the turf. The dogs charged upon him, welcoming, but gave no alarm. Burglary was a thing almost unknown in this region, and the ranch-house, as Dan knew, was left quite unprotected from thievery—or worse. The prowler, when he had come to the porch, took off his shoes, and then crept silently up the steps, and on to a window of the living-room. As he had anticipated, it was open, though there was a wire screen. Under Dan's hand, the screen was raised. It slid easily along its grooves, and in another moment Dan stepped into the room. Enough moonlight fell through the side windows for him to see his way distinctly. He crossed to a corner in which was a writing-desk, commonly used by the master of the house for the keeping of papers not sufficiently important for the safe. Conspicuous upon it was lying a letter-case of Russia leather. Dan could distinguish the darker shadow of its outline upon the surface of oak. With a deft certainty of movement, he took from his pocket the note he had that night dictated to the gambler's woman, and, opening the case, thrust it within one of the compartments. Immediately, he retraced his steps across the room, and climbed out through the window, where he paused to lower the screen. When he had descended the porch steps, he sat down on the grass, and put on his shoes again. In due time, he reached his horse, and rode back to the town, filled with unholy joy over the success of his expedition.

Dan, like many another conscienceless scoundrel, slept soundly after his evil work. Yet, he was early astir, for time pressed, and there was still much to be done toward the accomplishment of his design. He found the morning clear, to his vast relief, since, had rain come, Jim would in all likelihood have remained at the ranch-house, thus shutting off the possibility of Dan's seeing Lou alone, which was his immediate purpose. At once, then, after he had breakfasted, he mounted and rode to the ranch-house boldly. He had no lack of courage, and freely ran the risk of meeting the man whose hospitality he had so abused. That risk, he knew, must be encountered for the sake of his plan. But he knew, also, that the chances of an encounter were small with the harvest requiring the rancher's presence in the fields.

As a matter of fact, when he rode up to the house, he neither saw nor heard anything of its master. But, even before he dropped from the saddle, he saw Lou, sitting on the porch with idly folded hands, and with an expression of deep melancholy casting its shadows over the delicate loveliness of her face. Dan's heart leaped exultantly. He wondered if, by any chance, the reflex of her mood from yesterday might contain some measure of sadness on his account. The slightest feeling of womanly compassion for the culprit might prove invaluable to him in his campaign of treachery. He was annoyed for a moment over the presence of Nell on the porch, playing with a doll. But a second thought caused him to decide that the child's company at the outset of the interview might be of benefit to him, as likely to place restraint on the mother's expression of anger against him.... That he was right in his conjecture, the issue proved.

At sight of Dan McGrew, riding to the door from which he had been so ignominiously spurned less than twenty-four hours before, Lou Maxwell sat in dazed amazement, which swiftly merged in anger, untinged by any thought of fear. That the man was dangerous, she knew. But she was no longer to be entrapped by a belief in the self-restraint of this lover. Moreover, she was on her guard now, not unsuspecting, as yesterday. And, too, there were servants within call. These things flashed upon her in the instant of perceiving him. So, she knew that she need not fear anything from him beyond the insult of his presence. But that he should dare thus to approach startled and confounded her by the sheer audacity of the act. She was stupefied by the effrontery of the man as he dismounted and ascended the steps toward her. She rose, under a sudden impulse of resentment, and stood regarding him with a level gaze, wherein was contempt that might have caused a weaker man to quail. But Dangerous Dan had the courage of his wickedness, and he was not to be intimidated, or swerved from his design, by her contumely, even though to win her favor was the dearest purpose of his heart. For the present, he must withstand stolidly the shafts of her disdain, to the end that he might entice her to his will against her own.

Dan swept the cap from his head, and stood undaunted, yet with an air of humility that was disarming. There was something pitiful in the appealing glance of his eyes, something almost pathetic in the soft tone of humiliation with which he spoke.

"I want you to forgive me, Lou—if you can forgive me—for a madness I couldn't help.... I'm sorry."

Somehow, the woman was appeased, despite herself. Her wrath against the man who had affronted her so mortally was no whit lessened; yet, his manner of humble contrition touched her, against her will, to a feeling of compassion. She still loathed him; notwithstanding, her mood was unmistakably tinctured by commiseration. She hesitated for a moment, then turned toward Nell, who, with round eyes of wonder, was regarding her mother and their late visitor.

"Run out in the rose-garden, dear," she said quietly, "and play there for a little while."

The child went obediently enough, though with obvious reluctance, for her curiosity was aroused. She had passed from sight around the corner of the house before Lou spoke again. Then, she did not mince her words:

"You have no right either to ask or to expect forgiveness," she said sternly. Her voice was very cold, charged with bitter contempt. "You have shown the kind of a man you really are. Nothing can change that. I despise you utterly. I hope I shall never set eyes on you again. I do not wish to hear another word from you. Your presence is hateful to me. Go! My husband may come at any moment, and, if he finds you here, he'll kill you on sight, as you deserve."

With the last words, she turned from him, unheeding his exclamation of remonstrance, and went into the living-room.

Dan did not hesitate to follow her.

"Let me say this much, at least," he pleaded, still with utmost humility. "I sinned so because I loved you so. I could not hold myself back. Forgive me, Lou." His voice was tenderly entreating.

The woman faced him resolutely. Her eyes were sparkling with wrath, her voice shook a little under the throb of emotion.

"You, and your love!" she cried, in disgust. "Faugh! Must I summon the servants to put you out of the house?"

Dan made an appealing gesture. He answered with a tone of deprecation.

"No, Lou, you need not do that. I'll go in a moment, and never trouble you again. But, before I go, I must tell you one thing—why I lost my self-control yesterday. It was because I saw you so tender and fond and devoted and unsuspecting in your love for a man who is—unworthy!"

Lou started involuntarily, then stood rigid, too astounded for speech. But, in another moment, she cried out in vehement rebuke:

"How dare you speak like that of Jim!" Her tone was virulent; the dark-brown eyes, usually so limpidly soft in their light, flashed with the fires of her anger. "Jim is as clean as you are foul. How dare you insinuate anything against him! Almost, I wish I hadn't interfered to save your life yesterday. Oh, you beast! How dare you!"

"Because it's true," Dan retorted. He felt now that the situation was well within his grasp, and there was an authoritative ring in his voice that somehow, against her will, caused a chill of apprehension in his listener. He went on speaking swiftly, with incisive earnestness, as one not to be denied. "You see, Lou, I know the truth, and you do not. For example, where is Jim this morning?"

He shot the question at her with such unexpectedness that she answered involuntarily:

"Why, Jim's out in the fields, of course." She realized suddenly the insolence of the question, and would have added a scathing rebuke.

But Dan went on imperturbably:

"Of course, you say that, because you do not know. But he was wise enough to tell you that he must go to town to-day, to attend the meeting of the directors of the bank."

Lou smiled in derision.

"To-day is the regular weekly meeting," she said, with an inflection of dawning curiosity, which Dan noted complacently. "He always goes to the bank-meeting. Why shouldn't he?"

"No reason at all," was the suave response. "But there is every reason in decency why he should not go to another place, of which you know nothing." He spoke in a voice that was significant, grave, portentous. "That's where he is now."

"You mean something—something nasty, I suppose," the wife exclaimed. Her tone was full of abhorrence for this traducer of the man she loved and trusted. "I'll listen to none of your lies against Jim, Dan McGrew."

"I chanced on some information in the town last night," Dan persisted, undismayed by her outbreak. "I have heard gossip before. There's a woman—one of the sort you good women shrink from. She had been drinking too much. She let drop something about the rich man who was coming to visit her to-day, and she said his name was Jim."

Lou felt a tremor of fear. The jealousy that sleeps or wakes in the heart of all lovers stirred within her for the first time. She sought to stifle it, ashamed of even a thought of doubt as to her husband's loyalty. It was monstrous that she should be thus moved by slanderous accusations of one for whom she had only contempt. Again, she would have spoken, but the man forestalled her.

"The woman, whose name is Jess, was bragging in her cups that her lover, Jim, always came when she sent for him. And she said she had written him—Jim—to visit her to-day."

The speaker's sneering assurance, his malignant emphasis on her husband's name, filled the measure of the wife's wrath full to overflowing. She advanced a step, raised her right arm, and with all her strength struck the palm of her hand across Dan's cheek.

"Liar!" she cried, savagely.

The man did not flinch under the blow. The eyes of the two clashed, and held steadily. Dan's cheek whitened where the stroke had fallen, then burned redly. It was the woman's gaze that dropped at last, and Dan smiled, cynically exultant.

"I don't ask you to believe me," he said impressively. "I only ask you to open your eyes to the truth. I suppose Jim would take pains to destroy any note from the woman, Jess. But there's always a chance. Men get careless when they have wives that are so very trusting." His sharp eyes perceived a lessening tension in the woman's form, a growing listlessness in the expression of her face. He knew that there had come a reaction from the strain of her emotions, that her will was growing impotent, that now, at last, she would be pliant to his purpose.

He strode to the desk, and drew out the letter-case, while Lou watched his every movement narrowly, as though she expected some trickery, while powerless further to combat him. Her loyalty to Jim was no less, but her powers of resistance had snapped. So, she looked on as Dan fumbled for a moment among the papers in the letter-case, and then held out to her the note that the woman had written in his room at the hotel, the night before.

Lou took it rather gropingly, in mechanical obedience, because of the utter weariness that was fallen upon her. She read it with eyes that were dimmed—and again. Then, she stood staring still at the page of coarse paper with its rudely scrawled lines, with its words of vile insinuation; but her gaze was unseeing. The man's voice came to her very faintly, as from a great distance.

"Well?"

"It's all a lie, of course," Lou said, feebly. "But I—don't understand."

The cynical exultation in Dan's smile grew. At last, he was bold enough to bring the affair to a crisis.

"Do you dare to ride with me to the town, to test the thing for yourself?"

"Do I dare?" Lou repeated, arousing in some degree from her apathy. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that," he said. His voice was intentionally brutal. "You've begun already to be afraid of the truth. Do you dare to ride to town with me, and so test the truth with your own eyes?"

The taunt provoked her to a new anger, to a new strength. Once again, the slender form grew tense, the head was raised proudly. Her voice came harshly. There was no note of fear in it now, only a great disdain and something of cruelty.

"I will ride with you, Dan McGrew," was her answer, "to find my husband, and I shall tell him what you've said, and he'll kill you. Now, do you dare?"

"I dare," the man said, quietly. "Let's go."

CHAPTER V

Dan McGrew had plotted with devilish cleverness. He had seized on the fact of Jim's attendance at the bank-meeting as timely to his purpose. He had, indeed, made it the pivot about which the details of his scheming were grouped. As a result of his carefulness in planning, during the hour of his interview with Lou, Fingie Whalen was stationed in the street outside Murphy's saloon. He sat on a bench that stood against the wall of the structure, and smoked incessant cigarettes, the while his ferret eyes scanned closely the length of the main street, down which Jim Maxwell must ride on his way to the bank. Just before him, a saddled horse stood patiently, with the bridle-rein trailing. Within the saloon, Jess, also, waited—with a drink, as well as a cigarette, to comfort her in the interval. Thus, it befell that, when Jim Maxwell came riding briskly into the town, his approach was noted from afar by eyes hired for the purpose. Instantly, then, Fingie acted. He sprang up, and darted into the back room of the saloon, where he called Jess's name, and beckoned. The response of the woman was no less prompt. She stood up quickly, and hurried out of the place, while Fingie himself remained to peer anxiously from the window that gave on the street. There, for a minute, he observed events outside. Afterward, he lounged against the bar with a gratified smirk.

Jim, as he rode slowly down the main street, idly noted the woman who hastened out of Murphy's, and mounted astride the horse. He wondered a little that she did not start away. But, as he drew closer, his keen eyes perceived that the form of the woman was swaying unsteadily in the saddle. Alarmed for her safety, though with a suspicion that only excess of drink ailed her, Jim quickened his horse's pace—too late. Before he could reach her, the woman lurched, and fell heavily to the ground, where she lay motionless, evidently stunned, if not more seriously injured, while the startled horse backed away snuffing.

Jim was on the ground almost as quickly as the woman herself, and was beside her before the few others in the street who came running. He did the natural thing under the circumstances, precisely as Dan McGrew had expected that he would. Since the woman lay with closed eyes, showing no signs of consciousness, unless in the faint moaning that issued from her rouged lips, Jim lifted her in his arms, and bore her through the side door, which Fingie had thoughtfully left ajar, into the back room of Murphy's saloon.... It was at this moment that the gambler left the window to lounge unconcernedly against the bar. Jim carried his burden to one of the round tables which was empty, and placed her gently upon it, continuing to support her with his arms about the waist and shoulders.

JIM CARRIED HIS BURDEN TO ONE OF THE ROUND TABLES.

"Bring brandy!" he called out sharply to the nearest of the occupants of the room, who now came crowding forward with ejaculations of dismay. The man addressed was Fingie Whalen himself. He stared down at the woman with shocked surprise writ large on his sullen features.

"Why, it's Jess!" he mumbled, in a voice that he vainly strove to fill with distress. "Whatever has she been an' gone, an' done?"

"Get that brandy!" Jim reiterated the command curtly.

"Yes, sir," Fingie answered humbly, and hurried off to the bar. In a moment, he was back with the liquor, which he held to the woman's lips. To Jim's relief, Jess swallowed the draft easily enough—to tell the truth, rather greedily; but of that fact her rescuer was quite unaware, and from it he augured well.

Jess managed her apparent recovery from the effects of the fall with such art as she possessed, which, in truth, was not of the highest, though ample for the beguiling of a man who was honest and kindly and wholly unsuspecting. Soon, her eyes unclosed a little, and she breathed more deeply, and the moaning, which had been interrupted by the brandy, was resumed more vigorously. Through the paint on her cheeks showed the deeper red of a genuine flush, the natural result of the dram, but a sure evidence of vitality, none the less. Jim rejoiced over these signs of restoration, and even smiled on Fingie, as he bade him continue the chafing of the woman's hands.

"She's not seriously hurt," he remarked, with much satisfaction in his voice; "though the way she flopped off that horse was enough to jar her teeth loose." Being ignorant of the fact that Jess had been a member of a circus troupe before she yielded to the blandishments of the gambler, Jim wondered mightily that so severe a fall should have had no worse effect.

Jess opened her eyes wide, and stared up blankly into the face of the man who held her in his arms.

"Where am I?" she asked, with the languid air of her favorite stage heroine when swooning.

"It's all right," Jim hastened to explain soothingly, having due regard to her dazed condition. "You were dizzy for a second, I suspect, and fell from your horse. But there doesn't seem to be anything much the matter, and you'll be all right in a jiffy." He addressed Fingie.

"Bring her another nip of the brandy."

The gambler would have remonstrated against this unnecessary extravagance, but could find no plausible reason for refusal, and Jess, who was enjoying herself hugely, offered him no assistance. When the drink had been brought, she swallowed it without too much display of eagerness, and coughed as a lady should who is unaccustomed to strong waters. At once thereafter, she straightened up to a sitting posture on the table, though she still accepted the support of Jim's arms to his discomfiture, and regarded him with coquettish glances of gratitude, which were offensive to him, and to Fingie Whalen as well. He tried to withdraw his arms, but she leaned upon him too heavily, and he was forced for a few minutes longer to retain her in a passive embrace. But, as he repeated the effort tentatively, Jess bethought herself that her recovery had now advanced so far as to make such support unnecessary. Therefore, to play her part, she withdrew herself, and sat up unassisted, but with a hand to her brow to indicate that her brain had not yet wholly cleared.

"Oh, you have been so good to me, Mister!" she gushed. "I shall be thankful to you to my dying day. Why," she added in a burst of imagination, "the horse might have stepped on me, if you hadn't been right there to save me."

"Nothing like that, I'm sure," Jim declared, as amiably as he could contrive. "The horse seemed to be doing his best not to step on you without any help from me. You don't owe me any thanks, really."

Jess put out an appealing hand. It was accepted reluctantly by Jim, and, with his assistance, and that of Fingie on the other side, she got down from the table totteringly, and sank into a chair, where she sat limply, with closed eyes, following her rôle devotedly to the end.

"You'll have a drink with us, Mr. Maxwell," Fingie urged, twisting his lowering features to an expression of affability. "What's past is past an' done. You sure did give me an almighty swat on the jaw t'other day, but I ain't one to nuss no grouch, an' Jess here, an' me, we're plumb grateful for yer kindness to her this mornin'. What'll you have, Mr. Maxwell? I'll bring it."

Jim shook his head in refusal. He, too, had no wish to nourish a grudge; but he had no liking for the gambler—less for the woman, whose tawdry airs nauseated him. He was already a little disgusted, with the episode, and desirous to end it.

Jess saw the refusal in his face, and was quick to intervene; for failure now would mean the utter collapse of all their plotting. She spoke gently, and, in the genuineness of her anxiety, her voice trembled with appeal:

"Please, sir—please, Mr. Maxwell!" she besought him.

Jim, in spite of his repulsion, was touched by the woman's earnestness. His sense of chivalry impelled him to yield to a plea so natural and so ingenuous on her part. He smiled, a bit wryly, in answer to her imploring look, and nodded assent.

"I'll have a glass of beer," he said to Fingie, and, as the gambler hurried off to the bar, he seated himself at the table beside Jess.

The woman prattled nervously, made garrulous by the brandy, and by fatuous ambition to impress this aloof companion with her charms. As a matter of fact, the conspiracy came perilously near to failure in consequence of her chatting, which almost drove Jim to flight. His instinct of politeness, however, conquered inclination, and he remained in his place, listening with a forced semblance of interest to hide how desperately he was bored. Yet, throughout, he rested without a faintest suspicion that this affair was aught beyond the innocent thing it seemed. To him, the happening was merely a nuisance—nothing more, nothing in any wise sinister. It did not occur to him to wonder why Fingie should have volunteered to serve as their waiter. He did not trouble even to follow the gambler with his eyes, as the fellow went to the bar.

For that matter, it would have availed Jim nothing, had he watched never so closely. The card-sharp possessed the dexterity of his trade. Those long, slender, mobile fingers of his had been fashioned by fate for a surgeon, a conjurer, a gambler, or a pick-pocket. Not even the keen-eyed bartender, who was close to him, noticed the tiny vial in Fingie's hand, as it hovered over the frothing glass of beer on the counter, or saw the trickle of the colorless drops into the brew. So, the gambler came back to the table presently, with a tray, on which were two glasses of brandy—one for himself, of generous size; the other for Jess, so tiny that she frowned indignantly at sight of it—and the glass of beer for Jim. The three drank together.... Then, the gambler and his woman watched avidly for what should befall.

There was no delay. Jim, glad that the ordeal was at last done, would have risen to leave. But a strange lethargy held him fastbound. A black cloud descended on his brain; thought ceased. Suddenly, he slumped in his chair. His arms dropped heavily on the table. His head fell on them. Fingie and Jess chuckled aloud in gloating over the inert form of the man. They were not afraid lest he hear them, now.

CHAPTER VI

There was not a word exchanged between Lou and Dan on their ride from the ranch-house to the town. For his part, the man was filled with rejoicing over the triumph that he anticipated. He had no fear of failure. The ingenuity of his plot insured success. Its strength lay in the seeming simplicity of the events that would lead to the desired climax. Dan's only doubt had been concerning his ability to hold the woman to his will, and to make her play her vital part in his machinations. He had realized that he would have need of all his wit to secure from her even a hearing of his accusations against the man she loved. By his arts, he had enticed her into listening, and by reason of the very indignation thus aroused, he had warped her mood to his purpose. So, he went forward full of confidence as to the outcome, exultant, heedless of the misery of the woman who rode by his side.

That misery was poignant. At intervals, wrath flamed high in her, and she longed for the moment when she should bring the two men face to face, that the slanderer might receive the punishment he merited from the one maligned. But, oftener, her emotion dropped into abysses of despair. There had been something unspeakably revolting to her wifely instincts in the tawdry phrases of the ill-written note, signed "Your loving Jess." Her spirit writhed as she recalled the words, so damning in their explicitness: "Shall expect you at the usual time. Don't let your trusting Lou keep you away, as I can't do without you." The wife found herself compelled to fight with all her energies against the demon of doubt that so hideously beset her. That note had been addressed to "Dearest Jim." And Jim was her husband's name, and the note had been lying in his letter-case. And, if these things of themselves were not enough to sap faith, there was the sneering use of her own name: "Don't let your trusting Lou keep you away." The distracted wife told herself a hundred times that her belief in the loyalty of her husband remained unshaken, but it was not so. She lied to herself, from very horror of the truth. Only by fierce and incessant denials of the doubt that welled in her could she repel the assaults of despair. Of the man beside her, she thought hardly at all, except in the fitful and constantly lessening flashes of her anger. Her thought was for the husband, with a pitiful wondering over the hateful mystery that had come to pass. Oh, surely, there was some simple explanation of it all—there must be! It was a hoax, a jest, some misunderstanding—anything! But, though she argued against belief, there remained always in her consciousness the stubborn, sickening facts, and a great dread lay crushingly upon her spirit. The agony of suspense grew unbearable. Her quirt rose and fell in a vicious lash on the flanks of the mare. The astonished thoroughbred leaped and stretched into a run.... Dan McGrew pressed his own mount forward, to keep pace.

While the two thus rode toward the town, there was a period of tedious inaction for Dan's accomplices. In the back room of Murphy's saloon, Jess remained impatiently in her seat at the table, with the empty brandy glass before her. She would have liked another drink, but dared not call for it, since it had been forbidden by her master, because her part in the sordid drama was not yet finished. Beside her, Jim sat motionless, his body sprawled clumsily over the table. He had not stirred since his yielding to the influence of the drug. The only evidence of life about him was the sound of stertorous breathing. The habitués of the place had given no heed to him after a few sneering comments concerning one who would get drunk so early in the day.

Fingie Whalen, after he had seen his drops take effect on the victim, went out of the saloon, and reëstablished himself on the bench against the wall, where once again he gave himself over to an unremitting survey of the main street, down which any one coming from the ranch must pass. He smoked with nervous rapidity, which increased as minute after minute passed, and there was still no sight of those for whom he watched. At the end of an hour, the gambler's impatience had become anxiety. He began to fear failure at the last, when success had seemed assured. It might well be that, in spite of Jess's note, Dan McGrew had been unable to persuade Lou Maxwell into accompanying him. Or—as would be equally disastrous—they might come too late. Fingie had been as liberal as he dared in the drugging of the beer, but there is a great difference in the reactive powers of various men against such poison. He had not been minded to run any risk of murder. Therefore, he could not tell with precision when Jim Maxwell would recover consciousness. As the minutes hurried on, Fingie's fear mounted by leaps and bounds. From time to time, he left the bench, and peered in through the window, to reassure himself as to the continued unconsciousness of the drugged man.

Then, at last, as he turned from one of these glimpses through the window, Fingie Whalen saw in the distance the forms of two riders coming at a furious gallop. For a second, he stood staring, to make sure that there was no mistake, that these were in fact those for whom he had waited with such anxiety. In another moment, he became certain that one of the two who approached was Dan McGrew. The flapping of a divided skirt proved that the other rider was a woman. He could no longer doubt that McGrew had succeeded. There needed now only to set the stage for the final scene. For the second time that day, Fingie whirled and darted into the saloon. He caught up from the bar a glass of brandy, which he had left under the barkeeper's charge, since he had not deemed it safe on the table within Jess's reach. He moved now without undue haste, in order to avoid attracting attention to himself and the others concerned. When he had reached the table at which Jess and their victim were seated, he put the glass down, with a nod to the woman to indicate that the end of the play was now at hand. Jess shoved her chair close to that in which Jim slouched. At the same time, Fingie seized the unconscious man by the shoulders, and lifted the heavy form upright in the chair. Jim yielded limply to the procedure—a dead weight in the other's grasp. He was still unconscious. His face was hot and flushed, the face of one under the influence of liquor. His breath still came noisily. Fingie, straining under the weight, tilted the flaccid body over a little way, until it rested against the shoulder of Jess, who braced herself to sustain it. Fingie raised Jim's left arm, as the unconscious man reposed thus against the woman at his right, and laid it about her neck. Thus the two remained in an embrace, which bore every evidence of fondness that knew no shame in this public and disreputable place. Jim's head sagged, until it rested upon the woman's bosom. Her right arm was wreathed about him, holding him tenaciously, with all her strength, lest he lurch away from her. With her left hand, she took up the glass of brandy, which Fingie had brought, and held it close to the lips of the unconscious man.

JIM'S HEAD SAGGED UNTIL IT RESTED UPON THE WOMAN'S BOSOM.

Such was the business of the piece, as it had been arranged beforehand in each detail by the conspirators. Jess cast a look of inquiry toward the gambler, to learn whether or not the situation met all the requirements of the plot. He gave a brief nod, and grunted approval. He heard the clatter of hoofs in the street outside—a clatter of hoofs of horses ridden in haste. It ceased just without the door of the saloon. Fingie walked quietly to the bar. A quick glance about showed that the attention of none had been attracted to his movements. He grinned evilly in anticipation.... From the time when he had first sighted the riders, not more than a half-minute had elapsed. He leaned against the bar, and stared furtively toward the window that gave on the street.

Dan McGrew drew close alongside Lou, as the pair pounded down the main street of the town.

"Stop at the corner, this side of the bank," he called to her. "At Murphy's saloon."

The woman shivered as her ears caught the words. She knew the character of the notorious place, which catered to the most depraved tastes of the community. Was it to a resort so ignoble that she must go to refute the slander against her husband? To refute it! Or—she broke off her thought, appalled by the terrible alternative. Then, in the following instant, she found herself already abreast of the saloon. She heard her companion's brisk command:

"Stop here!"

She obeyed, though, almost, the dread that beat upon her forced her to flee on, and on—anywhere away from the horror that menaced. She pulled her mare to a standstill, and got down from the saddle, and let the bridle-reins trail. She moved as one in a dream—rather, as one in a nightmare. Yet, now the crisis was upon her, she did not suffer quite so cruelly. Her feeling was numbed, somehow. It was with a certain listlessness in her voice that she addressed Dan McGrew, as he stepped to her side.

"Well?"

"There's no need to go inside," Dan explained. "We can see enough, I fancy, through the window.... Come!"

Lou followed obediently whither he led. So the two came to the window, with the dirty glass and its tattered shade raised high, so that whosoever would might look freely on the squalor within. Dan stepped forward and peered into the room for a moment, then turned and beckoned to Lou.... And the wife advanced, as he bade her, and looked over his shoulder.

Lou's eyes, accustomed to the full glare of the noon-day sun, could at first distinguish nothing more than a vague litter of weaving shadows within the murk of the dingy room. Very soon, however, her vision adjusted itself to the dim interior, so that she began to see distinctly. Even in this moment of emotional stress, Lou was conscious of her repugnance at the spectacle of coarsely flaunted vice. She noted the line of sodden men loafing along the bar, the few others grouped about the tables with the bedizened and painted women, whose wanton faces, and more wanton manners, proclaimed their unsavory sort. Yet, her attention was thus arrested for only a fleeting fraction of a second. Then her gaze fell on that other table and she saw her husband.

There could be no doubt as to Jim's identity. As she recognized him, Lou's dark brown eyes dilated before the fearfulness of this thing. For she saw, as well, every detail of his visible plight. The scene was etched on her consciousness with the acid of horror, there to remain indelible throughout the years. She knew, in the first second of seeing, every feature of the creature within whose arms her husband was lying. She knew the cut and color of the soiled bodice, with its drapery of cheap lace over the bosom—on which his loved face reposed. She felt a nausea. There was nothing lovable now in his face. Instead, it was bestial, repulsive—the face of a man who had given himself over to gratification of the beast within him, and who was wallowing in the mire of his degradation.... So it seemed to Lou Maxwell, as she stood staring, bereft, upon that scene which to her meant the end of all things. The life had gone out of her face. A sickness as of death clutched at her heart. Suddenly her gauntleted hands caught Dan McGrew's shoulder. Only his quick support saved her from falling. She spoke dully, in a broken whisper:

"Take me away."

CHAPTER VII

Lou was able to climb to her saddle with Dan's assistance, though she moved very feebly, and her white, drawn face was that of one who had been stricken with a mortal hurt. But once safely mounted, with less strain on her muscles, a little strength flowed back into her, so that she sat steadily enough as the two started back at a walk over the way down which they had ridden so furiously. By the time the town was left well behind, the fresh air and the motion had restored her faculties in part, both physical and mental. But with the clearing of her brain came an agony of realization almost unendurable. She urged her horse to its full speed, fain to put all distance possible between her and the detestable scene on which she had just looked. Indeed, the instinct of flight in this crisis of her fate was dominant. Her one desire was to flee to the ends of the earth, to escape forever from all that had been.

Throughout the years of her life hitherto, Lou had experienced no real anguish. Her sorrows, great though some of them had seemed to her as child and woman, had been essentially trivial, over trivial things. She had never known the ills of poverty. The death of her father had occurred while yet she, the only child, was too young to grieve deeply or long. Her mother's death had occurred some years after her marriage, when she had been weaned from the old home-life. In truth, all her years had been pleasant ones. The sum of her happiness had been far beyond that of most. The love between her and her husband had been a beautiful one, in which she had found supreme content. It had been crowned by the birth of the child. It had held the promise of serenely joyous years to come.... And now, the catastrophe! Here was the end of all things. Doubt of her husband's loyalty had never tainted her devotion. She had believed utterly in his cleanness, his wholesome manhood. And now, in an instant, the whole fabric of her life was in shreds, beyond any possibility of reweaving; befouled beyond any possibility of purifying. All her happiness had been an illusion, the gracious charm of it only a mask that covered the ugly truth.

Lou had never a doubt concerning that truth. With her own eyes, she had witnessed it. She had seen Jim in drunken debauch with the painted woman, who had boasted that this lover came always at her call. The wife had seen her husband fondled openly by a wanton in a public place, had seen the creature holding the glass to that husband's lips. Dan McGrew had plotted well. By his intrigue, he had destroyed absolutely all her faith and happiness.

The humiliation of the revelation sharpened the torture. It would not have been quite so terrible, Lou thought, if Jim had loved some woman of a decent sort. But the loathesomeness of being scorned for that infamous woman of the dance-hall—! The wife writhed under the ignominy: that a being so sordid should have ousted her from her husband's heart. His infatuation for one so base proved his entire worthlessness. He was but the gross, soiled caricature of her ideal. The idol of gold which she had worshiped was shown to be of clay—clay filthy and corrupt.

Dan McGrew realized, to some extent at least, the anguish of the woman at whose side he rode. Had it been consistent with his purposes, he would have spared her that suffering. In his way, he sympathized with her keenly. Yet the fact that her grief was wholly of his making, had no cause whatsoever except the visible lie which he had built for her eyes to see—the fact that he alone had thrust the iron into her soul troubled Dangerous Dan not at all. He had no remorse, though he pitied her. He was absolutely without compunction for the misery he had wrought. Dangerous Dan was a strong man, save for his vices. He was a hard man as well. What he desired, he meant to take, and he was ruthless and unscrupulous as to the manner of his taking. More than anything else in the world, he desired to possess for his own Lou Maxwell. To that end, he had concocted his scheme of villainy. The woman's present agony was a necessary part in the success of his plotting. So, though he was sorry for her whom he had thus fearfully wronged, he felt no vestige of regret—only exultation. In his way, Dan McGrew loved Lou. His love for her was, indeed, the chief passion of his life. But his love, like that of many another man, was wholly selfish. She was necessary to his happiness. That he must destroy her happiness in order to secure his was of no importance. Moreover, with the egotism of a strong man, he was confident that he would be able in the days to come to make her happier than she had ever been before.

Now, on the ride, Dan discreetly kept silence. He could follow well enough the workings of the woman's mood, and he believed that it would be unwise at this time to attempt the direction of her thoughts. It seemed to him certain that under the circumstances she must inevitably reach the conclusion he desired. There might be danger that a suggestion from him would provoke suspicion, though this possibility was remote, after the effectiveness of the scene on which she had looked. Nevertheless, despite his confidence in a victorious issue of the affair, Dan was glad when Lou went forward at full speed. He, like Fingie Whalen, knew that the influence of the drug on Jim Maxwell would be only of a temporary sort, and that soon the ranch-owner would recover consciousness. Just how long an interval there might be before the husband's return to the ranch, Dan could not tell. But, because he was in a fever of impatience for a rapid development of events, he rejoiced over the haste in which they rode, and welcomed with a sigh of relief their arrival at the ranch.

As Lou dismounted, Nell came running from the porch with a rapturous cry of greeting. The mother dropped to her knees, and gathered the girl into her arms, with passionate kisses. She realized, with bitter self-reproach, that in all this time of trial she had had not a single thought for the daughter whom she so loved. In her humiliation as a wife she had forgotten her obligation as a mother. Now, abruptly, the shameful significance to the daughter of what had befallen was borne in upon Lou's consciousness.

"He is unworthy ever to look on her face again." She was unaware that in the intensity of her feeling she had spoken aloud with deliberate emphasis.

Nell, already somewhat perplexed by the ardor of these caresses, became even a little frightened by the unfamiliar expression on her mother's face, and by the sternly spoken words, which she did not understand. She was relieved when, the next moment, she was released, and she hurried off to her favorite nook in the rose-garden, where she might be alone to puzzle over the meaning of it all.

Unlike the child, Dan McGrew understood exactly the wife's ejaculation, and he knew that he had achieved his end. Without invitation, but quite as a matter of course, he walked at Lou's side as she ascended the steps and entered the living-room. She accepted his company without remonstrance, indifferently. It was only after she had sunk down into a low easy chair, where she lay back wearily with closed eyes, while she drew off her gauntlets, that Dan McGrew finally dared to address her explicitly:

"You must leave him, of course," he said gently. His voice was very grave and kindly. It came with something of a shock to the woman's ears—she had forgotten him so completely in the self-absorption of her mood. But, too, there was something soothing to her in the manner of his utterance. She became aware that here was one to aid her in the accomplishment of things to be done. She no longer remembered how, within the hour, she had execrated this man who now stood before her. She had become oblivious of the insult he had so recently put upon her. The revelation of her husband's treachery obsessed her mind to the exclusion of all else. So, she was fully disposed to accept the assistance of Dan McGrew in this emergency. She was ready to acquiesce in his suggestions for her guidance in escaping from this place which her husband had polluted. She sat up in a quick access of energy.

"Yes," she said harshly, "I must leave him—at once." Her animation grew. Her face, which had been pallid a moment before, was flushed with eagerness. Her expression became resolute. "I must take Nell away from him. I don't want him ever to set eyes on her again—he's not fit."

Dan forbore comment. There needed from him no condemnation of the husband. The wife's conviction as to Jim's guilt was complete. So he avoided Lou's reference to her husband's culpability, and spoke to the point:

"You want to get away without seeing him again," he remarked, in a tone of positiveness, as if the matter admitted of no doubt.

"Yes," the wife answered. "It would be too horrible to see him again! And for Nell—"

Dan McGrew nodded sympathetically.

"It would only mean a nasty row," he agreed. "You might as well spare yourself that—and spare the child, too," he concluded, craftily. For he realized that Lou would fly fast and far for the child's sake, if not for her own. He detested the necessity of the child's presence in their flight, but he recognized the fact that it was a necessity, and therefore to be endured—even, as far as possible, to be turned to advantage.

"Yes," Lou continued, "we must hurry as fast as we can, for I suppose there's no telling when Jim might return. And it would be dreadful to run into him in the town, on the way to the train."

Dan McGrew nodded assent.

"It would, indeed!" he declared. "In the condition he's in now there's no telling what he might do."

Lou shuddered at the memory of her husband's sodden face, as she had seen it resting on the breast of the woman in Murphy's saloon.

"We must not meet him!" she declared desperately. "It would be too terrible to have him see Nell." She pressed her hands to her bosom as if to hold back the emotion that surged within her. "More dreadful for Nell to see him. I want her to have a clean memory of her father, whatever he is."

"We can avoid any danger of meeting him," Dan McGrew asserted, with a brisk tone of confidence that reassured his listener. "We'll just ride across country to the main line. Do you know the road? I have only a general idea."

Lou was all eagerness over the suggestion.

"Yes, yes," she exclaimed excitedly; "that is the way to do it. I know the road. We must get ready and start at once. But you don't need to go with us."

Dan McGrew spoke decisively:

"I've got you into this mess, Lou, and it's up to me to see the thing through. I want to help you in any way I can—and just now you need help." His tone was firm, yet tender, with a note of devotion in it that touched the distraught woman. She sprang to her feet and held out both her hands, which were seized in a warm clasp.

"Thank you, Dan," she said gently. "God knows I need help."

Then, forthwith, she became all animation. She summoned her maid, and ordered that two small bags which could be carried on horseback should be packed with necessaries for herself and Nell. At Dan's suggestion, she sent an order to the stables for Nell's pony and two fresh mounts to serve for Dan and herself. These things done, it occurred to her that she must leave some explanation of her departure for her husband on his return. She seated herself at his desk, and wrote hurriedly and briefly, in distaste for even this indirect contact with the man who had wronged her.

Dear Jim:

I know all. I do not want to be in your path, so am going away. You love another, so will perhaps not miss me.

Good-by, Jim.

I forgive you.

Lou.

Lou, when she had set her name to the short form of words, thrust the sheet into an envelope, which she addressed with the single word, "Jim." For long seconds she sat staring at the lines she had last traced—that name which had been through so many years the symbol of her happiness, which was now become the symbol of vileness and misery. The horror of it smote her anew, essenced in that name which had been her blessing, which was now become her curse.

The sound of the hoofs stamping on the gravel before the door aroused her. The maid came to announce that the horses were in readiness, with the bags strapped to the saddles. With the maid came Nell, who had needed no preparation, since she was already in her riding clothes. Lou took the girl in her arms and kissed the exquisite dark face with a tenderness that was like a benediction.... She had no least hint that this was destined to be the last time her lips should touch the soft roundness of the girlish cheek.

"You are to ride with me this afternoon, Nell," she said. "Don't ask any questions now. I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. It's a surprise." She shivered over the words. A surprise—yes, a surprise that meant the end of all things. So, presently, the three went forth from the living-room, and across the porch, and down the steps, and got into the saddles of the waiting horses. Without any exchange of words among them, they rode away. None of the three looked back—Nell, because she had no guess as to the sinister meaning of this parting; Dan, because even his calloused soul felt a twinge of shame over the ruins that he left behind; Lou, because she could not.

CHAPTER VIII

It was not until late afternoon that Jim slowly struggled back to consciousness. He was first aware of a deadly nausea, which seemed billowing through every atom of his being. Then he felt the torture that stabbed through his brain. In an effort of revolt, he raised his head, though the movement tried his strength to the utmost. His eyes swept dimly over the scene, and a dull wonder filled him. Just at first, he did not recognize the place. Very quickly, however, the acrid odors of spilled liquors and the reek of cheap perfumes from the women quickened memory. Suddenly his eyes opened wide, and he saw clearly, with new consciousness of his surroundings—and of himself. He realized that in some mysterious fashion, altogether inexplicable to him, he had been overcome in the back room of Murphy's saloon. His mind went to the period immediately preceding the blank in memory. He remembered his presence there along with the woman, Jess, and the gambler, and his taking a drink with them. Of whatever had followed, he had no knowledge. Evidently, he had suffered a seizure of some sort. As his faculties were restored, it occurred to him that he might have been drugged by the gambler or the woman, for the purpose of robbery. But a hasty examination showed that his watch and money were untouched. Besides, it seemed to him, on second thought, preposterous that either of the two should have dared anything of the kind against him. No, it was certain that he had been attacked thus without warning by some unexpected physical ailment. He was rather alarmed by the experience, as strong men usually are when unaccustomed weakness assails them. He determined to submit himself to a careful examination at the hands of a competent physician, on his first visit to the county-seat.

The nausea had subsided in some measure, and the pain in his head, too, had lessened. But he felt mouth and throat parched. He got up, moving with difficulty, and, after a few moments of unsteadiness while he held to the back of a chair for support, he was able to stand firmly enough and to walk forward to the bar.

"Give me a glass of water," he said to the bar-keeper.

The fellow obeyed with alacrity, for he knew Jim Maxwell to be a man of importance in the community, and he had been puzzled by the events of the day—even a little frightened lest trouble come of them. Jim gulped the water and demanded more. He drank a number of glasses before his thirst was even partially quenched. The effect was speedy. He felt strength returning to him. His brain was quite clear again.

The bar-tender, watching narrowly, saw that the ranch-owner was himself once more. He ventured to speak ingratiatingly, in the hope of satisfying his curiosity.

"That was quite some snoozle, Mister," he remarked, with a smirk.

"It was nothing of the sort," Jim snapped. "I don't know what it was. But it was bad enough."