The

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don't, eh? Who's major domo of this outfit?"

      "I'm going to stay right here in this valley to-night. See?"

      "What's eatin' you, man?"

      "And every night so long as Melissy Lee stays."

      MacQueen watched him with steady, hostile eyes. "So it's the girl, is it? Want to cut in, do you? Oh, no, my friend. Two's company; three's a crowd. She's mine."

      "No."

      "Yes. And another thing, Mr. Boone. I don't stand for any interference in my plans. Make a break at it and you'll take a hurry up journey to kingdom come."

      "Or you will."

      "Don't bank on that off chance. The boys are with me. You're alone. If I give the word they'll bump you off. _Don't make a mistake, Boone._"

      The Arkansan hesitated. What MacQueen said was true enough. His overbearing disposition had made him unpopular. He knew the others would side against him and that if it came to a showdown they would snuff out his life as a man does the flame of a candle. The rage died out of his eyes and gave place to a look of cunning.

      "It's your say-so, Black. But there will be a day when it ain't. Don't forget that."

      "And in the meantime you'll ride the Flattops when I give the word?"

      Boone nodded sulkily. "I said you had the call, didn't I?"

      "Then ride 'em now, damn you. And don't show up in the Cache till to-morrow night."

      MacQueen turned on his heel and strutted away. He was elated at his easy victory. If he had seen the look that followed him he might not have been so quiet in his mind.

      But on the surface he had cinched his leadership. Boone saddled and rode out of the Cache without another word to anybody. Sullen and vindictive he might be, but cowed he certainly seemed. MacQueen celebrated by frequent trips to his sleeping quarters, where each time he resorted to a bottle and a glass. No man had ever seen him intoxicated, but there were times when he drank a good deal for a few days at a stretch. His dissipation would be followed by months of total abstinence.

      All day the man persecuted Melissy with his attentions. His passion was veiled under a manner of mock deference, of insolent assurance, but as the hours passed the fears of the girl grew upon her. There were moments when she turned sick with waves of dread. In the sunshine, under the open sky, she could hold her own, but under cover of the night's blackness ghastly horrors would creep toward her to destroy.

      Nor was there anybody to whom she might turn for help. Lane and Jackson were tools of their leader. The Mexican woman could do nothing even if she would. Boone alone might have helped her, and he had ridden away to save his own skin. So MacQueen told her to emphasize his triumph and her helplessness.

      To her fancy dusk fell over the valley like a pall. It brought with it the terrible night, under cover of which unthinkable things might be done. With no appetite, she sat down to supper opposite her captor. To see him gloat over her made her heart sink. Her courage was of no avail against the thing that threatened.

      Supper over, he made her sit with him on the porch for an hour to listen to his boasts of former conquests. And when he let her take her way to her room it was not "Good-night" but a mocking "Au revoir" he murmured as he bent to kiss her hand.

      Melissy found Rosario waiting for her, crouched in the darkness of the room that had been given the young woman. The Mexican spoke in her own language, softly, with many glances of alarm to make sure they were alone.

      "Hist, seorita. Here is a note. Read it. Destroy it. Swear not to betray Rosario."

      By the light of a match Melissy read:

      "Behind the big rocks. In half an hour.

      "A Friend."

      What could it mean? Who could have sent it? Rosario would answer no questions. She snatched the note, tore it into fragments, chewed them into a pulp. Then, still shaking her head obstinately, hurriedly left the room.

      But at least it meant hope. Her mind flew from her father to Jack Flatray, Bellamy, young Yarnell. It might be any of them. Or it might be O'Connor, who, perhaps, had by some miracle escaped.

      The minutes were hours to her. Interminably they dragged. The fear rose in her that MacQueen might come in time to cut off her escape. At last, in her stocking feet, carrying her shoes in her hand, she stole into the hall, out to the porch, and from it to the shadows of the cottonwoods.

      It was a night of both moon and stars. She had to cross a space washed in silvery light, taking the chance that nobody would see her. But first she stooped in the shadows to slip the shoes upon her feet. Her heart beat against her side as she had once seen that of a frightened mouse do. It seemed impossible for her to cover all that moonlit open unseen. Every moment she expected an alarm to ring out in the silent night. But none came.

      Safely she reached the big rocks. A voice called to her softly. She answered, and came face to face with Boone. A drawn revolver was in his hand.

      "You made it," he panted, as a man might who had been running hard.

      "Yes," she whispered. "But they'll soon know. Let us get away."

      "If you hadn't come I was going in to kill him."

      She noticed the hard glitter in his eyes as he spoke, the crouched look of the padding tiger ready for its kill. The man was torn with hatred and jealousy.

      Already they were moving back through the rocks to a dry wash that ran through the valley. The bed of this they followed for nearly a mile. Deflecting from it they pushed across the valley toward what appeared to be a sheer rock wall. With a twist to the left they swung back of a face of rock, turned sharply to the right, and found themselves in a fissure Melissy had not at all expected. Here ran a little caon known only to those few who rode up and down it on the nefarious business of their unwholesome lives.

      Boone spoke harshly, breaking for the first time in half an hour his moody silence.

      "Safe at last. By God, I've evened my score with Black MacQueen."

      And from the cliff above came the answer--a laugh full of mocking deviltry and malice.

      The Arkansan turned upon Melissy a startled face of agony, in which despair and hate stood out of a yellow pallor.

      "Trapped."

      It was his last word to her. He swept the girl back against the shelter of the wall and ran crouching toward the entrance.

      A bullet zipped--a second--a third. He stumbled, but did not fall. Turning, he came back, dodging like a hunted fox. As he passed her, Melissy saw that his face was ghastly. He ran with a limp.

      A second time she heard the cackle of laughter. Guns cracked. Still the doomed man pushed forward. He went down, struck in the body, but dragged himself to his feet and staggered on.

      All this time he had seen nobody at whom he could fire. Not a shot had come from his revolver. He sank behind a rock for shelter. The ping of a bullet on the shale beside him brought the tortured man to his feet. He looked wildly about him, the moon shining on his bare head, and plunged up the caon.

      And now it appeared his unseen tormentors were afraid he might escape them. Half a dozen shots came close together. Boone sank to the ground, writhed like a crushed worm, and twisted over so that his face was to the moonlight.

      Melissy ran forward and knelt beside him.

      "They've got me ... in half a dozen places.... I'm going fast."

      "Oh, no ... no," the girl protested.

      "Yep.... Surest thing you know.... I did you dirt onct, girl. And I've been a bad lot--a wolf, a killer."

      "Never mind that now. You died to save me. Always I'll remember that."

      "Onct you 'most loved me.... But it wouldn't have done. I'm a wolf and you're a little white lamb. Is Flatray the man?"

      "Yes."

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