LITMIR.BIZ

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love any land but this. The East never helped you. It only hurt you."

      He ran a hand across his face, and she noticed how the brown skin wrinkled about his eyes, how dogged and unyielding his features could turn. It was so now; she wanted to go over and touch his arm—anything to sweep aside for the time the troubles he carried.

      "But this," he went on, indicating the room, "isn't fit for you, Lorena. It makes me cold all over to think of you here alone. You shouldn't do it."

      "Nothing can hurt me, Tom."

      "What's to become of you?" said he, still on the same thought. "Here you are all alone. You can't live like this—you can't travel the trail by yourself. And there's nobody fit for you in this part of the world. You're wasting the best part of your life. I'm saying it again—you don't belong here."

      "I've fought that out—don't bring it back to me. I said I'd never ask another favour of anybody and I never will. I won't ever give anybody the power to hurt me again. Here I came and here I stay until—?"

      "Until what?"

      She turned her head away, hands moving. "Oh, I don't know, Tom. This is as good a place as anywhere. Until I'm old, I guess."

      "You were not meant to live alone. It's unnatural."

      That brought the rose tint to her cheeks again. And still with her head averted she asked a muffled question. "Who would want me, Tom?"

      He sprang up, he crossed the small space at a single stride.

      "I want you, Lorena! Can't you see that all over me, as plain as daylight? I want you!"

      She rose, and for the moment he thought she meant to run out of the place. Such was the passing fright on her white face. It lasted only a moment, and then she was looking at him in the manner he knew so well. It took all the fight out of him, it made him humble. "That's what I've been trying to say," he went on quietly. "It's been with me ever since you ran off. What did you do that for? There's nothing behind me I'm ashamed of or afraid of. I waited a week to tell you that. There's no claims on me. Whatever you think of Kit Ballard and myself is wrong. It's wrong."

      "I would never have asked you that, Tom. I wanted to hear you say it, but I'd never have asked. I'll never mention her name. That's your own affair—I've got no part in it."

      "Well, you know now. I want you, Lorena."

      "Tom, it's only pity you feel. And I won't have pity! I'm not the girl you'd want. I can't be. What am I—what do I know or what can I do? I can't help your name any. I see it clearer every day."

      "That's wrong. Look at me and you'll know it's wrong."

      She began to tremble. Gillette touched her gently, and then he was holding her, murmuring something he had no memory of. All that passed in the succeeding moments was blurred. He knew he kissed her; he heard her speak once and grow still, and the silence of that small room was like the pressure of a vise. Her small hand was pushing him away.

      "If it only were true, Tom! What do you suppose I ran away for? Because I couldn't stand being around you any longer! I never wanted to see anybody I ever knew. I wanted to be alone. And now you come and remind me of it again. Haven't I been hurt badly enough?"

      He was helpless. He had no words at his command strong enough to convince her, he had no way of breaking through that doubt. So he stepped back, groping for a hat he didn't have. "Time's got to take care of it," he muttered. "I'm not leaving again till it's settled. And I'm not going to let you stay here without protection. I'm sleeping out under those trees."

      "That's foolish."

      "Let it be. You'll see me till you either get tired of me or take me."

      She was a queer girl. A moment ago she had cried; now the familiar smile returned. "Well, if you must do it, there's an old shed beside the cabin with some straw in it. But you only have your saddle blanket. Take one of mine."

      He refused the offer and opened the door. "I'll go into Deadwood and stable my horse. Be back right off. It sure makes my blood cold to think of you up in this desolation."

      She stood by the table, and as he watched her she threw back her head and laughed. He knew he would never forget the picture she made, nor the expression of her eyes. "Tom, I've had my first party. Whatever happens, I've got that to remember."

      "I wish," said he, "you'd be certain of me."

      "I've been hurt, Tom."

      He said nothing more. Getting into the saddle he rode to Deadwood and left his horse, immediately turning back. The town still blazed, men moved restlessly along the street, in and out of the lanes of light; and as he passed through all this glitter and empty sound he saw a face bent his way. Thirty seconds later it struck him he knew that face, and he stopped dead and turned for a second glance. But the man, whoever it was, had gone. The glimpse he had of it was blurred and indistinct, yet as he wound up the slope it worried him greatly and he tried to reconstruct the features. Coming to the cabin he found the lamplight still glowing in the window. He called to the girl by way of reasurance and went around to the shed.

      Lorena's voice carried through the cabin walls softly. "Good- night, Tom." The light winked out. Out of the hills came the night breeze and the distant cry of the coyotes.

      XIII. DEATH AMONG THE PINES

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      San Saba came into Deadwood that night for the first time, though he and Lispenard had been camped just outside the town more than a week, watching its lights by night and edging around the hills by day. That was the ex-foreman's wary way. He didn't believe anybody in Deadwood knew him, but he had no desire to expose himself for identification. San Saba well understood his was a figure to attract a certain amount of attention. Somebody would be sure to mark and remember him.

      In the back of that little nutshell head was a crafty scheme; a scheme that amounted to nothing less than a guerrilla warfare on the roving miners. There were many such men already in operation around the hills—in fact, San Saba had established a kind of informal partnership with the group led by Hazel. Yet nearly all of these renegades operated with a certain degree of openness; most of them were known and suspected, and San Saba's plan was never to reveal himself. He knew the temper a mining camp could reach, he had experienced mob justice before, and from this experience he drew his profits. So he would never have entered Deadwood if the supply of grub hadn't been exhausted and if Lispenard, an apt pupil but an unruly and sullen one, hadn't grown restless for whisky. That was the extent of his mission.

      He had bought his supplies and his whisky and was on the point of leaving when he saw Tom Gillette coming out of the stable. It was only a fraction of a glance; Gillette's head swept his way and then turned about. San Saba moved like a cat, a single retreating lunge carried him out of the light; thus, when Gillette looked a second time, the ex-foreman was concealed in the shadows along the building fronts. San Saba's narrow-set red eyes watched Gillette move off. For a considerable length of time he stood absolutely still, the thoughts flashing across his brain. Had Gillette recognized him? Well, it didn't seem likely, for Gillette would have stopped and closed in. San Saba was under no illusions as to Tom Gillette's courage or to his state of mind. Only one thing could have brought the Circle G owner to this place.

      "On my trail, by Judas," muttered San Saba. A party of miners filed past him, and he retreated farther into the darkness. "He's caught wind o' me somehow."

      His impulse was to follow. Caution stayed him. Gillette was already out of sight, and there was a remote possibility of a trap. Time enough to handle this—to-morrow was another day. So he turned and quickly put Deadwood behind him. Up the slope and on foot—a rare thing for San Saba—he carried the gunnysack of provisions; on through the trees and to the edge of a small clearing where a fire pricked the darkness. Lispenard crouched by the blaze, a slovenly figure from all this riding and camping out. The Easterner's hair had grown down over his shoulders, and there was a thick stubble of

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