LITMIR.BIZ

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heard a great deal about them, but had never seen any. If he would go with her she would like to look at them.

      The outlaw was instantly at her service, and they sauntered across. In her hand the girl carried a closed umbrella she had been using to keep off the sun.

      They stood at the gate of the corral looking at the long-legged, shaggy creatures, as wild and as active almost as hill deer. On horseback one could pass to and fro among them without danger, but in a closed corral a man on foot would have taken a chance. Nobody knew this better than Leroy. But the liquor was still in his head, and even when sober he was reckless beyond other men.

      “They need water,” he said, and with that opened the gate and started for the windmill.

      He sauntered carelessly across, with never a glance at the dangerous animals among which he was venturing. A great bull pawed the ground lowered its head, and made a rush at the unconscious man. Alice called to him to look out, then whipped open the gate and ran after him. Leroy turned, and, in a flash, saw that which for an instant filled him with a deadly paralysis. Between him and the bull, directly in the path of its rush, stood this slender girl, defenseless.

      Even as his revolver flashed out from the scabbard the outlaw knew he was too late to save her, for she stood in such a position that he could not hit a vital spot. Suddenly her umbrella opened in the face of the animal. Frightened, it set its feet wide and slithered to a halt so close to her that its chorus pierced the silk of the umbrella. With one hand Leroy swept the girl behind him; with the other he pumped three bullets into the forehead of the bull. Without a groan it keeled over, dead before it reached the ground.

      Alice leaned against the iron support of the windmill. She was so white that the man expected her to sink down. One glance showed him other cattle pawing the ground angrily.

      “Come!” he ordered, and, putting an arm round her waist, he ran with her to the gate. Yet a moment, and they were through in safety.

      She leaned against him helpless for an instant before she had strength to disengage herself. “Thank you. I'm all right now.”

      “I thought you were going to faint,” he explained.

      She nodded. “I nearly did.”

      His face was colorless. “You saved my life.”

      “Then we're quits, for you saved mine,” she answered, with a shaken attempt at a smile.

      He shook his head. “That's not the same at all. I had to do that, and there was no risk to it. But you chose to save me, to risk your life for mine.”

      She saw that he was greatly moved, and that his emotion had swept away the effects of the liquid as a fresh breeze does a fog.

      “I didn't know I was risking my life. I saw you didn't see.”

      “I didn't think there was a woman alive had the pluck to do it—and for me, your enemy. That what you count me, isn't it—an enemy?”

      “I don't know. I can't quite think of you as friend, can I?”

      “And yet I would have protected you from any danger at any cost.”

      “Except the danger of yourself,” she said, in low voice, meeting him eye to eye.

      He accepted her correction with a groan, an wheeled away, leaning his arms on the corral fence and looking away to that saddle between the peak which still glowed with sunset light.

      “I haven't met a woman of your kind before in ten years,” he said presently. “I've lived on you looks, your motions, the inflections of your voice. I suppose I've been starved for that sort of thing and didn't know it till you came. It's been like a glimpse of heaven to me.” He laughed bitterly: and went on: “Of course, I had to take to drinking and let you see the devil I am. When I'm sober you would be as safe with me as with York. But the excitement of meeting you—I have to ride my emotions to death so as to drain them to the uttermost. Drink stimulates the imagination, and I drank.”

      “I'm sorry.”

      Her voice said more than the words. He looked at her curiously. “You're only a girl. What do you know about men of my sort? You have been wrappered and sheltered all your life. And yet you understand me better than any of the people I meet. All my life I have fought with myself. I might have been a gentleman and I'm only a wolf. My appetites and passions, stronger than myself dragged me down. It was Kismet, the destiny ordained for me from my birth.”

      “Isn't there always hope for a man who knows his weaknesses and fights against them?” she asked timidly.

      “No, there is not,” came the harsh answer. “Besides, I don't fight. I yield to mine. Enough of that. It is you we have to consider, not me. You have saved my life, and I have got to pay the debt.”

      “I didn't think who you were,” her honesty compelled her to say.

      “That doesn't matter. You did it. I'm going to take you back to your father and straight as I can.”

      Her eyes lit. “Without a ransom?”

      “Yes.”

      “You pay your debts like a gentleman, sir.”

      “I'm not coyote all through.”

      She could only ignore the hunger that stared out of his eyes for her. “What about your friends? Will they let me go?”

      “They'll do as I say. What kicking they do will be done mostly in private, and when they're away from me.”

      “I don't want to make trouble for you.”

      “You won't make trouble for me. If there's any trouble it will be for them,” he said grimly.

      Neither of them made any motion toward the house. The girl felt a strange impulse of tenderness toward this man who had traveled so fast the road to destruction. She had seen before that deep hunger of the eyes, for she was of the type of woman that holds a strong attraction for men. It told her that he had looked in the face of his happiness too late—too late by the many years of a misspent life that had decreed inexorably the character he could no longer change.

      “I am sorry,” she said again. “I didn't see that in you at first. I misjudged you. One can't label men just good or bad, as the novelists used to. You have taught me that—you and Mr. Neil.”

      His low, sardonic laughter rippled out. “I'm bad enough. Don't make any mistake about that, Miss Mackenzie. York's different. He's just a good man gone wrong. But I'm plain miscreant.”

      “Oh, no,” she protested.

      “As bad as they make them, but not wolf clear through,” he said again. “Something's happened to me to-day. It won't change me. I've gone too far for that. But some morning when you read in the papers that Wolf Leroy died with his boots on and everybody in sight registers his opinion of the deceased you'll remember one thing. He wasn't a wolf to you—not at the last.”

      “I'll not forget,” she said, and the quick tears were in her eyes.

      York Neil came toward them from the house. It was plain from his manner he had a joke up his sleeve.

      “You're wanted, Phil,” he announced.

      “Wanted where?”

      “You got a visitor in there,” Neil said, with a grin and a jerk of his thumb toward the house. “Came blundering into the draw sorter accidental-like, but some curious. So I asked him if he wouldn't light and stay a while. He thought it over, and figured he would.”

      “Who is it?” asked Leroy.

      “You go and see. I ain't giving away what your Christmas presents are. I aim to let Santa surprise you a few.”

      Miss Mackenzie followed the outlaw chief into the house, and over his shoulder glimpsed two men. One of them was the Irishman, Cork Reilly, and he sat with a Winchester across his knees. The other had his back toward them, but he turned as they entered, and nodded casually

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