The

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inside of twenty-four hours. This bit of the hills takes a heap of knowing. But we don't want you running away. You're too tired. So I lock the door and lie down on the porch under your window. _Adios, seorita._"

      Melissy heard the key turn in the lock, and was grateful for the respite given her by the night. She was glad, too, that Boone was here. She knew him for a villain, but she hoped he would stand between her and MacQueen if the latter proved unruly in his attentions. Her guess was that Boone was jealous of the other--of his authority with the gang to which they both belonged, and now of his relationship to her. Out of this division might come hope for her.

      So tired was she that, in spite of her alarms, sleep took her almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. When she awakened the sun was shining in at her window above the curtain strung across its lower half.

      Some one was knocking at the door. When she asked who was there, in a voice which could not conceal its tremors, the answer came in feminine tones:

      "'Tis I--Rosario Chaves."

      The Mexican woman was not communicative, nor did she appear to be sympathetic. The plight of this girl might have moved even an unresponsive heart, but Rosario showed a stolid face to her distress. What had to be said, she said. For the rest, she declined conversation absolutely.

      Breakfast was served Melissy in her room, after which Rosario led her outdoors. The woman gave her to understand that she might walk about the cleared space, but must not pass into the woods beyond. To point the need of obedience, Rosario seated herself on the porch, and began doing some drawn work upon which she was engaged.

      Melissy walked toward the corral, but did not reach it. An old hag was seated in a chair beside one of the log cabins. From the color of her skin the girl judged her to be an Indian squaw. She wore moccasins, a dirty and shapeless one-piece dress, and a big sunbonnet, in which her head was buried.

      Sitting on the floor of the porch, about fifteen feet from her, was a hard-faced customer, with stony eyes like those of a snake. He was sewing on a bridle that had given way. Melissy noticed that from the pocket of his chaps the butt of a revolver peeped. She judged it to be the custom in Dead Man's Cache to go garnished with weapons.

      Her curiosity led her to deflect toward the old woman. But she had not taken three steps toward the cabin before the man with the jade eyes stopped her.

      "That'll be near enough, ma'am," he said, civilly enough. "This old crone has a crazy spell whenever a stranger comes nigh. She's nutty. It ain't safe to come nearer--is it, old Sit-in-the-Sun?"

      The squaw grunted. Simultaneously, she looked up, and Miss Lee thought that she had never seen more piercing eyes.

      "Is Sit-in-the-Sun her name?" asked the girl curiously.

      "That's the English of it. The Navajo word is a jawbreaker."

      "Doesn't she understand English?"

      "No more'n you do Choctaw, miss."

      A quick step crunched the gravel behind Melissy. She did not need to look around to know that here was Black MacQueen.

      "What's this--what's this, Hank?" he demanded sharply.

      "The young lady started to come up and speak to old Sit-in-the-Sun. I was just explaining to her how crazy the old squaw is," Jeff answered with a grin.

      "Oh! Is that all?" MacQueen turned to Melissy.

      "She's plumb loony--dangerous, too. I don't want you to go near her."

      The girl's eyes flashed. "Very considerate of you. But if you want to protect me from the really dangerous people here, you had better send me home."

      "I tell you they do as I say, every man jack of them. I'd flay one alive if he insulted you."

      "It's a privilege you don't sublet then," she retorted swiftly.

      Admiration gleamed through his amusement. "Gad, you've got a sharp tongue. I'd pity the man you marry--unless he drove with a tight rein."

      "That's not what we're discussing, Mr. MacQueen. Are you going to send me home?"

      "Not till you've made us a nice long visit, my dear. You're quite safe here. My men are plumb gentle. They'll eat out of your hand. They don't insult ladies. I've taught 'em----"

      "Pity you couldn't teach their leader, too."

      He acknowledged the hit. "Come again, dearie. But what's your complaint? Haven't I treated you white so far?"

      "No. You insulted me grossly when you brought me here by force."

      "Did I lay a hand on you?"

      "If it had been necessary you would have."

      "You're right, I would," he nodded. "I've taken a fancy to you. You're a good-looking and a plucky little devil. I've a notion to fall in love with you."

      "Don't!"

      "Why not? Say I'm a villain and a bad lot. Wouldn't it be a good thing for me to tie up with a fine, straight-up young lady like you? Me, I like the way your eyes flash. You've got a devil of a temper, haven't you?"

      They had been walking toward a pile of rocks some little way from the cluster of cabins. Now he sat down and smiled impudently across at her.

      "That's my business," she flung back stormily.

      Genially he nodded. "So it is. Mine, too, when we trot in double harness."

      Her scornful eyes swept up and down him. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth."

      "No. Well, I'm not partial to that game myself. I didn't mention matrimony, did I?"

      The meaning she read in his mocking, half-closed eyes startled the girl. Seeing this, he added with a shrug:

      "Just as you say about that. We'll make you Mrs. MacQueen on the level if you like."

      The passion in her surged up. "I'd rather lie dead at your feet--I'd rather starve in these hills--I'd rather put a knife in my heart!"

      He clapped his hands. "Fine! Fine! That Bernhardt woman hasn't got a thing on you when it comes to acting, my dear. You put that across bully. Never saw it done better."

      "You--coward!" Her voice broke and she turned to leave him.

      "Stop!" The ring of the word brought her feet to a halt. MacQueen padded across till he faced her. "Don't make any mistake, girl. You're mine. I don't care how. If it suits you to have a priest mumble words over us, good enough. But I'm the man you've got to get ready to love."

      "I hate you."

      "That's a good start, you little catamount."

      "I'd rather die--a thousand times rather."

      "Not you, my dear. You think you would right now, but inside of a week you'll be hunting for pet names to give me."

      She ran blindly toward the house where her room was. On the way she passed at a little distance Dunc Boone and did not see him. His hungry eyes followed her--a slender creature of white and russet and gold, vivid as a hillside poppy, compact of life and fire and grace. He, too, was a miscreant and a villain, lost to honor and truth, but just now she held his heart in the hollow of her tightly clenched little fist. Good men and bad, at bottom we are all made of the same stuff, once we are down to the primal emotions that go deeper than civilization's veneer.

      CHAPTER VII

      "TRAPPED!"

      Black MacQueen rolled a cigarette and sauntered toward the other outlaw.

      "I reckon you better saddle up and take a look over the Flattops, Dunc. The way I figure it Lee's posse must be somewhere over there. Swing around toward the Elkhorns and get back to report by to-morrow evening, say."

      Boone looked at him in an ugly manner. "Nothin' doing, MacQueen."

      "What's that?"

      "I'm no greaser, my friend. Orders don't go with me."

      "They

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