The Land of Strong Men

Angus swung his arm against it, and it roared in his ear.

Turkey was a strong, active young fellow, but against his brother's thews and bulk he was helpless. Angus did not strike him; he poured his strength in a flood upon the body in his grasp, shaking and worrying it as a great dog might worry a fox. But as the tremendous handling shook away the last of Turkey's power of resistance, the door opened, there were voices, a rush of feet, a hard fist came against Angus' ear, and an arm shot around his neck.

With this assault sanity came to him. He caught the wrist of the arm and twisted it, and he heard a yell of pain. He thrashed himself free, leaping back against the wall.

The newcomers were Garland, Blake French, Gerald, Larry and two young men strangers to Angus. Blake French, nursing a twisted wrist, cursed him.

"By ——, he was trying to murder Turkey!" he declared.

The younger Mackay swayed forward, his face white in the lamplight.

"Shut up!" he said. "Don't talk damned foolishness!"

"He was choking you," Garland cried. "Somebody used a gun. The room's full of powder smoke."

"If you don't like smoke the air's good outside," Turkey told him.

Angus stared at his young brother in amazement. He had expected denunciation.

"This isn't your put in—any of you," Turkey declared.

"But—"

"But—nothing!" Turkey snapped. "Mind your own business, can't you! Who asked you to horn in?"

Gerald grinned, a certain admiration in his lazy eyes.

"All right, Turkey, I get you completely. See you later. Come on, boys."

When the door closed behind them Turkey dropped into a chair, shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at his brother.

"You're a husky devil!" he said after an interval of silence. "What were you trying to do—kill me?"

"I don't know," Angus admitted.

"If you had been just a shade slower," said Turkey, "I would have blown your head off. So I can't blame you much. Well—what happens now?"

"Nothing," Angus replied. "I'll be going." Getting up he walked to the door, his anger replaced by shame and disgust. At the door he turned. "I am sorry," he said, "and ashamed of myself. To prove it I will say what I never thought to say, meaning it: Will you come back to the ranch? Jean wants you. Maybe we can make a fresh start."

Turkey stared at him in amazement for a moment.

"You didn't come here to say that, did you?"

"No," Angus admitted. "But Jean wanted me to."

"Oh, Jean!" said the younger man. "I get on with Jean all right. But you're doing it not because Jean wants you to, but to square yourself with yourself. You always were a sour, proud devil, so I know what it costs you. I won't crowd you, though. I'm getting along all right this way, and so are you. No, I won't go back."

"Suit yourself," said Angus. Turkey nodded.

"I wouldn't go back on a bet. Some day you can buy out my share of the ranch cheap—that is if I have any share. That's up to you."

"When I can afford it, I will pay you what your share is worth," Angus told him. "Father left me all he had, because I was the eldest and he knew I would deal fairly. I think it would be fair if we took a third each. That is what I have always intended."

"More than fair," Turkey admitted. "You have done most of the work. I'll hand you that much. So when the time comes, split my third two ways. I'll take one, and you and Jean can take the other."

"You can do what you like with your share," Angus told him, "but of course I will not touch one cent of it. Meanwhile the ranch is increasing in value."

"I know all that," Turkey replied. "Don't tell me you're working for me."

"I will tell you this," said Angus, "anything that injures the ranch injures you."

Turkey eyed him for a moment.

"Well?"

"Well—remember it."

"I'll try," said Turkey. "We don't get along well together. Best way is not to be together. So after this you keep plumb away from me, and I'll keep away from you. Does that go?"

"Yes," said Angus. "And mind you keep to that, you and your friends. Let me alone, and let the ranch alone!"

Turkey stared at him, frowning, and half opened his mouth in question, but let it go unuttered. Without another word Angus left him and rode home through an overcast night. As he turned in at the ranch gate a drop struck his hand. As he stabled Chief it began to rain softly and steadily. Angus Mackay turned his face to the sky, and out of the bitterness of his heart cursed it and the rain that had come too late.

FAITH'S FARM

Angus was riding fast for Faith Winton's ranch. Rain had fallen steadily for two days, and was still falling. The hills were veiled to their bases in low clouds. Mists hung everywhere, rising from little lakes, hanging low over the bottoms, clinging to the tree-tops of the benchlands. The rain would do good, undoubtedly, but it could not repair the damage of the drouth.

Angus had not seen Faith for a fortnight. As he rode, head down against the rain, half unconsciously he began to picture unimportant details. Of course, on such a beastly day, she would be at home. There would be an open fire, and perhaps music. Music and an open fire! The combination suited him. Perhaps—

A live bomb landed beneath Chief's feet with an explosion of barking. The big horse, taken by surprise, bounded and kicked. And as Angus caught him hard with the rein and a word picked at random from a vocabulary suited to the comprehension of western horses, he saw Faith Winton.

She was cased against the rain in a long slicker, and a tarpaulin hat protected her fair head. Beneath the broad brim of it her face, rosy and clear-skinned, laughed up at him as he brought Chief up with a suddenness which made his hoofs cut slithering grooves in the slop.

"Jehu, the son of Nimshi, rideth furiously. Also he useth vain words to his steed."

Angus reddened, for a man's remarks to his horse are in the nature of confidential communications.

"I didn't see you," he said, dismounting beside her.

"Melord of many acres honors the poor ranch maiden. Methought he had forgotten her existence."

"You know better than that."

"Well, perhaps I do. I hope your flume is all right now. But of course this rain—"

He did not undeceive her.

"I never expected to see you out on a day like this."

"Like this? Why, I never could stay in, on a rainy day. I must get out. Good for the complexion."

"I can see the complexion part of it. I wonder if you know how becoming that slicker hat is?"

She laughed up at him. "Of course I know. Do you think I'd wear it if I didn't?"

"I never saw one on a girl before."

"No? They're supposed to be purely masculine, I know." She cocked the hat on one side and sang:

Her rich contralto rang down the misty aisles beneath the dripping firs.

"Fine!" Angus applauded. "That's a great old song." She nodded and swung into the old, original refrain, her voice taking on the North Country burr:

"I like those old songs," Angus approved.

"So do I. Modern songs seem to me cheap things, written just to sell. But the old ones—the real, old songs that were the songs of generations before us—weren't really written at all. Somehow, when I sing them I feel that I am almost touching the spirits of those who sang them many years ago." She stopped abruptly. "And now you'll think I'm silly!"

"Not a bit. Spirits! Old Murdoch McGillivray—"

"Who was he?"

"A friend of my father's. He had the gift."

"The gift?"

"I mean the second sight."

"You believe in that?"

"Well, he foretold his own death."

"Not really?"

"It comes to the same thing. The last night he was at our house he was playing the pipes, and suddenly he stopped and would play no more. Before he left he told my father he had seen himself lying dead beside running water. A week after that they found him dead beside the creek. What would you think?"

"I don't know," Faith admitted. "It's a thin veil, and some may see beyond." She shivered. "I wish you had the second sight yourself. Then you might tell me what to do."

"About what?" he asked.

"Uncle Godfrey has made me an offer for my land, and I don't know whether to accept it or not."

"Will he give you a fair price?"

"He offers the price paid for the land and the cost of the improvements I have made."

It seemed to Angus that Godfrey French had some conscience left. But it might be less conscience than fear that the girl would find out how he had cheated her father. Restitution was practically forced on him if he had the money to make good, and apparently, in spite of what Judge Riley had said, he had.

"I would take his offer," Angus advised reluctantly, for it meant that he would lose his neighbor.

"Why?"

"Why? Why, I've always told you you can't make a success of ranching."

"And I've never admitted it. I'm gaining experience. And land is going up."

"Some land."

"Then why not this? What is the matter with my land?"

Angus evaded the direct challenge. "The place is too big for you. There's a lot of it, like that little, round mountain, that's no good at all."

"Which is directly against your contention that the place is too big for me. But if this land is worth what was paid for it, it should be worth more to-day."

Suddenly Angus began to wonder what had spurred French's conscience.

"Why does he want to buy?"

"Partly, he says, to take a white elephant off my hands; and partly for Blake."

"For Blake?" Angus exclaimed in amazement.

"Blake wants a ranch of his own. You don't believe it?"

"Not a word of it."

"Perhaps Uncle Godfrey is merely inventing that reason. He may have no other than a desire to take the property off my hands, if he thinks I can't work it profitably."

"It seems funny," Angus said, thoughtfully. "If he wants to buy for Blake he may offer more. I don't think, after all, I'd be in a hurry to decide."

"I'll take that advice, and wait. But here we are at the house. Put Chief in the stable. You'll stay for supper, of course."

Angus stayed. But all evening he was preoccupied. Again and again he went over the puzzle. Why did Godfrey French want to buy that dry ranch? Why had he given a reason which was not a reason? Why had he lied about Blake? He could find no satisfactory answers to these questions.

His reflections were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Blake himself, and Blake was obviously half-drunk. He acknowledged Angus' presence with a nod and a growl, and thereafter ignored him, devoting himself to Faith. His attitude toward her was familiar, and when at his request she went to the piano glad to escape his conversation, he leaned over her, placing a hand on her shoulder, an action which made Angus long to break his neck. But she rose from the piano.

"No, I won't play any more. You must have some refreshments. Tea, coffee or cocoa?"

"Not strong on any of 'em," said Blake. "But all right if you make 'em. Drink anything you make, li'l girl!"

Without reply Faith left the room, and without invitation Angus followed her. In the hall she turned fury blazing in her eyes.

"He's disgusting!"

"Shall I send him home?"

"He wouldn't go. I wish he would."

"I can make him go," Angus said hopefully. "I'd like to."

"No, no, that wouldn't do. I'll just have to put up with him. Perhaps he'll be better. Why, there's somebody in the kitchen. I didn't know Mrs. Foley had a visitor. Why, it's your man, Gus!"

Gus was established in a chair which he had balanced on its hind legs against the wall. Around its front legs his huge feet were hooked. A pipe was clenched in his teeth, and on his face was placid content.

"Yaas," he announced, "Ay ban purty gude man on a rench. Ay roon dat rench for Engus, yoost like Ay roon him for hes fader."

"Ye run th' ranch f'r th' ould man, did ye?" Mrs. Foley commented.

"Sure," Gus affirmed. "Me and him we roon him. Engus, he don't know much about a rench. If it ent for me, Ay tank he mek dam' fule out of the whole t'ing."

"Gawd, but ye hate yerself!" said his auditor. "If ye know so much, why ain't ye got a half section or bether of yer own, instid of dhrillin' along a hired man?"

"Vell, Ay don't see yoost vat Ay like," Gus explained. "Ay mek gude money."

"Who gets it?" asked Mrs. Foley. "Th' barkeep?"

Big Gus grinned. "Mebbe he gat some. But Ay got a stake saved up. Ven Ay see a gude rench mebbe Ay buy him. But a faller alone on a rench haf purty hard time. He needs a woman to cook and vash by him."

"Is that so?" snorted Mrs. Foley. "But, be me sowl, I b'lieve ye're tellin' the stark, naked trut' as ye see ut. That's all the loikes iv yez sees in a woman."

"Soome time," said Gus reflectively, "mebbe Ay gat me a voman."

"Hiven help her!" said Mrs. Foley piously. Gus surveyed her calmly.

"If Ay gat a voman," he announced, "Ay skall gat one dat ent no fule."

"Any woman ye get will be," Mrs. Foley retorted with a meaning which got past Gus entirely.

"Vell, Ay don't know," he returned. "Some vomans is gat soome sense ven dey gat old enough. Ay don't vant no good-lookin' young dancin' girl dat don't know how to cook. Ay gat me soome day a rench, and a gude strong voman like you, and settle down."

Faith smothered her mirth with difficulty. "There's a pointer for you, Angus!" she whispered.

"Mrs. Foley will murder him now," he returned.

"Ye have ut down fine," Mrs. Foley snorted, "an' all I hope is that ye get a woman that'll lay ye out wid a rowlin' pin in life, an' wid a cleaner shirt nor ye have on now, when yer time comes. An' ut's me that's lit candles, head an' feet, for foour men already. Though belike ut's no candles ye'll have to light yer way up or down. Phwat belief are ye, ye big Swede?"

Gus scratched his head and pondered.

"Ay vote democrat in Meenneesota," he replied, "but Ay tank Ay ban socialist now."

"Agh-r-r!" snarled Mrs. Foley. "I mean phwat religion are ye, or ain't ye?"

Gus scratched his head again.

"Ay tank mebbe Ay ban Christian," he said doubtfully.

"Ay tank mebbe ye're a Scandahoovian haythen," Mrs. Foley mimicked.

But the entrance of Faith and Angus cut short her further theological research. Faith explained her wants.

"It's for Blake French, Mary," she said. "He's—well, we thought he might feel better if—"

"Is he dhrunk, bad scran till him?"

"Half," Angus nodded.

"Then, instid of feedin' him why don't ye t'run him out?"

"I'd be glad to, but—"

"No, no," Faith broke in, "he may be better—"

"A bad actor an' a raw wan is that same lad," Mrs. Foley announced with conviction, "an' comin' around here too much. I am not yer mother, but if I was—"

"Please, Mary!" Faith cried, her cheeks scarlet.

"Well, well," Mrs. Foley observed, "coffee an' pickles is th' best thing f'r him, barrin' p'ison. Go yer ways, an' I'll bring ut in whin ready."

They returned to the living room and the society of Blake. He met them with a scowl. He chose to interpret the fact that he had been left alone in the light of an insult. He was surly, glaring at Angus. The coffee, cold meat and pickles which presently appeared did not change his mood. The liquor dying in him left a full-sized grouch as a legacy.

Angus ignored his attitude. Faith tried to make conversation, but it was a failure. Time passed and it grew late. Apparently Blake was waiting out Angus. The latter did not know what to do, but he had no intention of leaving Blake behind him. Finally, however, he was forced to make a move. He bade Faith good night. She turned to Blake.

"Good night, Blake."

"Oh, I'm not going yet," he announced.

"It's late, Blake, and I'm tired."

"I want to talk to you."

"Not to-night, please. Come to-morrow."

"No, I'll talk to you to-night."

"Not to-night, Blake."

"Well, you will," Blake declared with an oath. "Trying to get rid of me, are you? And I suppose this Mackay—"

"That will do now," Angus interrupted. "Be careful what you say."

"Say!" Blake roared, his temper getting the better of his prudence, "I'll say what I like. What business have you hanging around here? It's time—"

"It's time you went," Angus told him, "and you're going, do you savvy? Come along, or I'll take you."

"You—" Blake began, but got no further, for Angus slapped the words back against his teeth and caught him by wrist and collar.

The struggle was short and sharp. A couple of chairs went over. And then Angus got his grip.

"Give him th' bummer's run!" shrieked Mrs. Foley from the door.

"Open the front door!" Angus commanded Gus.

When it was open he shot Blake through with a rush and outside released him.

"Now, Blake French, I want to tell you something," he said. "You have a dirty tongue in your head. See that you keep it between your teeth, and mind that never again do you come here drunk. For as sure as you do and I hear of it, I will break half the bones in your body. Is that plain enough for you?"

Blake swore deeply. "I'll get you for this," he threatened.

"Then get me right," said Angus, "for the next time I lay my hands on you I will break you. Remember that."

Riding homeward beside Gus he thought over the events of the evening. It seemed fated that he should lock horns with Blake. He regretted that he had not thrown him out sooner. For the latter's threat he did not care at all. As he looked at it Blake had not enough sand to make his words good.

"Ay tank," said Gus, "dat faller, Blake, he'd do purty dirty trick."

"Maybe."

Gus was silent for a mile.

"Dat's purty fine voman," he announced.

"Yes," Angus agreed absently, "Miss Winton is a fine girl."

"Ay ent mean her," said Gus; "Ay mean dae Irish voman."

Angus grinned in the darkness. "Sure," he said, "she's a fine, strong woman."

Gus sighed.

A DEMAND AND AN ANSWER

A few days after the episode with Blake, Angus busy in his workshop ironing a set of whiffletrees, had a visit from Godfrey French. French made the reason of it plain at once.

"You know," he said, "that I have offered to buy my niece's land. She doesn't want to sell, and in that I am under the impression that she is acting on your advice? Is that so?"

"At first I advised her to sell," Angus told him, "but when I thought it over it seemed to me she shouldn't be in a hurry."

French studied him for a moment. "What made you alter your advice?"

"It doesn't pay to be in too much of a hurry to sell."

"And sometimes it doesn't pay to refuse a fair offer. Now I was always opposed to this foolish idea of hers that she could ranch, but I couldn't prevent her doing it. I made up my mind, however, that she should not lose by her play; that is that I would take the place off her hands at cost, plus whatever she had spent on improvements, providing these were not too expensive. I can do that now, but I can't pay for more improvements, because I am not a rich man, and I can't keep the offer open indefinitely. She must make her choice now. And so, as she seems to rely on your opinion, I come to you. I hope you will persuade her to take my offer and give up the absurd idea of ranching."

Angus thought as rapidly as he could.

"She told me you wanted to buy the place for Blake."

French gave him a swift, keen glance of scrutiny.

"And you didn't believe it?"

"No," Angus admitted, "I didn't."

French laughed. "And not believing it you drew the natural conclusion that I had some other motive. Well, I will be quite frank with you: If I had said I wanted to buy merely to take the property off her hands she would not have allowed me to do it. But what I said about Blake is partly true. I don't know that he himself wants to ranch—but I want him to settle down. So that is the situation."

Once more Angus did some swift thinking.

"I don't know what to say about it," he admitted frankly.

French's eyes narrowed a trifle in suspicion.

"Do you think she can succeed—make the ranch pay eventually?"

"No."

"Do you think the land is worth more than I have offered?"

"I don't know why it should be."

"Then why not advise her to get rid of it?"

"Because," Angus told him, "there are some things I don't understand at all."

"For instance?"

"Well, in the first place the price her father paid was much more than the land was worth at the time."

"Doesn't that make my offer all the fairer?"

"I don't understand how it was paid at all. The land wasn't worth half of it then."

"That is a matter of opinion."

"There is no opinion about it. It's a matter of fact. Just as good land could have been bought for two or three dollars an acre. And yet you invested Winton's money in this at ten dollars."

"Excuse me, but I did nothing of the sort. Winton had seen the land, wanted it, and was looking for something to hold for years. As a matter of fact, I advised him not to buy, because I considered the land too far back to be readily salable if he ever wished to dispose of it. But he instructed me to buy at the price at which it was held. I can show you his letter to that effect."

As this was entirely different from Faith's version, Angus was taken aback. "But," he said, "last fall Braden tried to sell part of it to Chetwood. How could he do that when it wasn't his?"

"I told Braden to try to sell it, because the sale, if it had gone through, would have given her in cash a large part of her father's investment, and no doubt she would have ratified it. I thought and still think it was the best thing that could be done. I understand that you were responsible for that sale falling through."

"It's a dry ranch, except for the spring."

"Nonsense! There's a water record."

"That record is more nonsense. You ought to know that if you are thinking of buying the place for Blake."

"I take that risk when I offer to purchase."

"Yes," Angus admitted, "and that's another thing I don't understand."

French's gray brows drew together for an instant.

"If it is in my interest not to buy isn't it in my niece's interest to sell?"

"It looks like it," Angus admitted, "but still I don't understand—"

"What?" Godfrey French demanded as Angus paused. "I have explained as well as I can. Do you mean that my explanations are not satisfactory?"

"Perhaps."

"In what particular?"

"They don't seem to explain."

"What do you mean by that?" Godfrey French rasped. "Do you mean that you question the truth of my words?" He frowned at Angus angrily.

"You are putting words into my mouth," Angus replied. "But I mean just this: The land was worth only about a quarter of what was paid for it. You and Braden both knew it. If you had told Winton that, he wouldn't have paid what he did unless he was crazy. I wonder why you let him pay it. Now you want to buy back worthless land, and I wonder why."

Their eyes met and held each other. In those of each was suspicion, hostility. French moistened dry lips.

"I admire your frankness," he said. "Have you told my niece that in your opinion the land is worthless?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I would rather not say."

"I insist on an answer."

"Very well," Angus returned. "I did not tell her, because she would have wondered what sort of a man you were to let her father load himself up with stuff like that, and I was not trying to make trouble."

Godfrey French's fists clenched. "Thirty years ago," he said, "for that you should have proved to me what sort of a man you were."

"Well, I can't help your age," Angus retorted. "I would not have told you, but you would have it."

"There are some things," said Godfrey French, "which it seems you do not understand. But understand this very clearly. Hereafter you will keep your nose out of things that don't concern you. You will keep away from me and mine, which includes my niece. Do you understand that?"

"I hear what you say," Angus returned. "But nobody but herself is going to forbid me to go to your niece's ranch."

"I forbid you," said Godfrey French. "I won't have you hanging around there. I won't have her name coupled with yours."

"I did not know it was being coupled," Angus said, "and I do not think it is. But if it is—what then?"

"What then!" Godfrey French exclaimed. "Have you the consummate impudence to imagine that my niece would think twice of an ignorant young hawbuck without birth or education? Bah! You're a young fool!"

At the words, entirely insolent, vibrant with contempt, a hot fire of anger began to blow within Angus. With all his heart he wished that Godfrey French had been minus the thirty years he had regretted.

"Those are hard words," he said, and it was characteristic of him that as his anger rose his voice was very quiet.

"True words," Godfrey French returned.

"At any rate," Angus told him, "I make a clean living by hard work."

"And I suppose you think 'A man's a man for a' that,'" Godfrey French sneered. "Don't give me any rotten nonsense about democracy and equality."

"I am not going to," Angus replied. "I think myself that every tub should stand on its own bottom. But if, as you seem to think, there is something in a man's blood, then perhaps mine is as good as your own."

"Fine blood!" Godfrey French commented with bitter irony. "Wild, hairy Highlanders, caterans and reivers for five hundred years!"

"Ay," Angus Mackay agreed with a grim smile, "and maybe for five hundred years back of that. But always pretty men of their hands, good friends and bad enemies, and ill to frighten or drive." Then, following the custom of his blood, he returned insult for insult. He launched it deliberately, coldly. "And it is not claiming much for the blood of a Mackay to say it is as good as that which comes from any shockheaded kernes spawned by a Galway bog."

White to his twitching lips, Godfrey French struck him in the face. Angus caught his hand, but made no attempt to return the blow.

"I think you had better go," he said. "You have too many years on your head for me."

Godfrey French stepped back.

"That is my misfortune," he said. "Well—I have sons. Remember what I told you, young man."

"I will remember," Angus said, "and I will do as I please. If your sons try to make your words good they will find a rough piece of road."

He watched Godfrey French drive away, and turned back to his work. But presently he gave it up, sat down and stared at vacancy. For an hour he sat, and was aroused from his brown study by Jean.

"I've called and called you," she told him.

"For what?"

"For supper, of course. Heavens, Angus, what's wrong that you forget your meals?"

He did not answer for a moment.

"I have been making up my mind about something."

"About what?"

"Just something I am going to do. I will tell you later."

He ate supper, and immediately saddled Chief and rode away in the direction of Faith Winton's ranch.

Faith listened in amazement as he told her of the high price her father had paid; of the abortive sale and his discovery that the land was non-irrigable; and finally of French's request that he should advise her to sell.

"But why didn't you tell me these things before?"

"I could not very well tell you while you were under his roof."

"No, I suppose not. You are sure of what you say—that the land could have been bought for so much less then, and that I can't get water on it now?"

"Absolutely."

"Then why does he want to buy the ranch now?"

"I wish I knew."

"I am going to find out before I sell it. He lied about Blake, and I don't believe he just wants to take it off my hands. There is some other reason."

"I think so myself, but I don't know what it is. There is something else though. We had a few hard words, and the upshot of the whole thing was that he forbade me to have anything to do with him or his. I suppose he has that right. But also he forbade me to come here."

The girl stared at him, amazed.

"Is he crazy? He has no right—"

"So I told him."

"And you will always be welcome, while the ranch is mine, or beneath any roof that is mine."

"Thank you," he said simply.

"But this is beyond everything!" she flamed indignantly. "I am not a child. I make my own friends. I will tell him—"

"He is an old man. Pay no attention to it. I am sorry, now, that I said to him what I did."

"What did you quarrel about? Tell me!"

"About the whole thing, I think."

"Then it was all on my account. From first to last, I've made trouble for you. I am sorry."

"You needn't be. All the trouble you have made me is a joy."

"Why—Angus!" The color rose in the girl's cheeks.

"Didn't you know it?"

"I know you have been very—good—to me."

"You have known more than that," he said.

"No, good heavens, no! Angus—"

"I have only known it myself since that day in the rain," he interrupted. "Before that, I thought I was only helping you, as I would have helped any woman—or man, either. But then I knew it was something else. And to-day when Godfrey French said he would not have our names coupled together—"

"Oh!" the girl cried sharply.

"And that you would not think twice of a rough, uneducated man like myself," he pursued. "I decided to find out to-night whether he was right or wrong."

"He was wrong!" she cried. "That is—I mean—that you are not rough and uneducated, and—"

"I am both," Angus admitted gravely. "I have worked hard since I was a boy, and what education I have I have got for myself. In that he was right. And so I find it very hard to tell you what I want to, as a woman should be told, because words do not come to my tongue easily, and never did. The thoughts I have had I have always kept to myself, for that, and because there was no one who would understand even if I could have put them into words. And this is all I can say, that I love you as a man loves one woman in his lifetime, and I want you for my wife. Is it yes or no, Faith?"

"But—Angus—I never thought of such a thing—not really, I mean. You were always kind, helpful, but never like—like—"

"Never like a lover?"

"Well—no."

Angus laid his great hands on her shoulders. The ordinary grimness of his face was lacking. It was replaced by something ineffably tender. Slowly he drew her to him until they stood breast to breast.

"I can be like a lover, Faith," he said, "if you will have it so."

For a long moment Faith Winton's clear eyes looked into his, and then went blank as she searched her own heart for an answer and found it.

"I will have it so—dear!" she said.

CROSS CURRENTS

Jean Mackay, rustling through the house with broom and duster after breakfast, came on her brother reading what at first glance she took to be a magazine. This gave her what was destined to be the first of a string of surprises, for Angus never loafed around the house.

"Shoo! Get out of here!" she said. "You'll get all choked with dust. I declare I don't know where all the dirt comes from."

In proof of her words she raised a cloud which made him cough. "Told you so," she said. "Do go somewhere else, Angus. You're only in my way."

"In a minute," he replied, frowning at his reading.

"Where did you go last night—to Faith's?"

"Uh-huh!"

"You might have asked me to go along."

"Huh!"

"You're extra polite this morning!" his sister observed with irony. "Whatever are you reading? Well, of all things! A jeweler's catalogue! What on earth—"

Angus held it out to her.

"Here," he said, "I know nothing about such things. Pick out a ring."

"A ring!" Miss Jean exclaimed, astounded. "I don't want a ring, I mean I can get along without one."

"That's lucky," said her brother, "because the ring I want you to pick out is for Faith."

"Good Lord!" cried Miss Jean, and fell limply upon a couch. Recovering herself she rushed upon him, threw her arms around his neck, and punctuated her words with emphatic hugs. "You big, old fraud. But I'm glad, really I am. When—where—"

"Last night," Angus told her. "That was what I was making up my mind about. I didn't know whether I should ask her just now."

"Why shouldn't you? If she cares—"

"It wasn't that. You see I owe a good deal of money."

"How much?" asked Jean, who knew little about the finances of the ranch.

"Nearly ten thousand dollars."

"What?" gasped Jean. "Impossible."

"Nothing impossible about it. That includes the principal of the mortgage father gave Braden when he bought that timber that was burnt out afterwards. When I had to run the ranch I couldn't pay much interest, and Braden carried it along. Then of course there was the hail last year, and the drouth this. And I had to borrow money from him on my note, to pay something that wasn't my fault, but couldn't be helped. Now I have just had a letter from Braden saying that the mortgage and note are past due. I suppose that's a matter of form, and I can make arrangements with him."

"And with all that you sent me off to get an education," said Jean bitterly. "Oh, I wish—"

"That was a mere drop in the bucket. Nobody can take that away from you, no matter what happens. Now about this ring—"

"Do you think you should buy one—now?"

"I would buy a ring and a good one now if it took my share of the ranch," Angus declared frowning. "You will pick out one that she can wear in any company at all. Find out what she prefers, and get one like it but a good deal better, and never mind the cost. And to save trouble, you had better order a wedding ring at the same time."

"Quick work!" beamed Miss Jean. "When is the wedding?"

"Wedding? I don't know," Angus admitted. "We didn't talk about that."

"You're going to buy a wedding ring and you don't know when you'll be married?" Miss Jean cried scandalized.

"Well, we'll be married some time. I always order more repair parts of machinery than I want, and they always come in handy. So will the ring."

"Repairs! Machinery! Oh, my grief!" ejaculated Miss Jean. "I suppose you have a soul, but—Oh, well never mind!" She threw her broom recklessly at a corner, and her dust cap after it. "Go and saddle Pincher for me, will you? And you men will have to get your own dinner. I'm going over to spend the day with my sister!"

When she had gone, burning up the trail toward Faith's ranch, Angus saddled Chief and rode to town, taking with him the notice he had received from Mr. Braden. He looked upon it as a matter of form, and attached little importance to it. With the undoubted security of the ranch he anticipated no difficulty in securing an extension.

"Of course," he said to his creditor, "I don't suppose this means just what it says."

"It means exactly what it says," Mr. Braden informed him. "The loan is very badly in arrears, and I have made up my mind to call it in."

"But the security is good for double the money."

"Security isn't money. You are away behind. Then there is that note, past due. I can't let these things run on indefinitely."

"You always told me not to worry about interest payments."

"It doesn't look as if you did worry about them. I carried you along because you were a mere boy, and under the circumstances I couldn't press for money. But you have increased your debt instead of decreasing it. I have been easy, that's what I've been—too easy. I can look back at my dealings with you," Mr. Braden continued with virtuous satisfaction, "and I can truly say that I have dealt tenderly with the—er—fatherless. But of course there's a limit."

"Well, if you feel that way about it, the only way I can pay up is to get a loan elsewhere."

"There's another way," Mr. Braden told him. "I make the suggestion to help you out, principally. If you will sell the place I will take it over at a fair price, and pay you the difference in cash."

"I don't want to sell."

"Think it over. The ranch is saddled with a heavy debt. You are saddled with more than a young man should be called on to carry. You are the one who will have to pay, if you keep the ranch, by your own hard work. You will be handicapped for years, deprived of many things you would otherwise have. On the other hand," Mr. Braden continued, warming to his subject, "if you sold this place all debt would be wiped out, you would have a nice lump sum in cash, and you would be as free as—er—birds. You could take a year's holiday, travel, or," he added, seeing no signs of enthusiasm in Angus' face, "you could go into one of the new districts just opening up, buy virgin land, full of—of—er—"

"Full of alkali?" Angus suggested gravely.

"Alkali! Not at all," said Mr. Braden frowning. "'Potentialities' was the word I had in mind. Yes, full of potentialities. In a new district you would become prosperous, free from the ball and chain of debt. That is the sensible course. Now what do you think of it?"

"Not much," said Angus.

"Huh! Why not?" Mr. Braden inquired, plainly disappointed at this reception of his disinterested advice.

"Because I have a good ranching proposition here. And you wouldn't pay what the land will be worth some day if I hang on."

"What will it be worth?"

"About a hundred dollars an acre."

"You're right, I wouldn't pay it," Mr. Braden concurred. "Ridiculous. I would give you say twenty dollars, all around, and that's more than it's worth."

"Just as it stands—stock, implements and all?"

Mr. Braden looked at Angus, but failed to read his face.

"That's what I had in mind. But if you were making a start elsewhere and needed some of the implements and stock—why I wouldn't insist. Say for the land alone."

Angus laughed.

"All right, laugh!" said Mr. Braden frowning. "Go and get a new loan, then. And don't lose any time about it, either."

"You seem to be in a hurry."

"I never delay business matters," Mr. Braden replied. "Get your loan, and get it at once. Otherwise I shall exercise the rights which the mortgage gives me."

"That is plain enough," said Angus.

"It's intended to be," said Mr. Braden.

Thence Angus went to Judge Riley's office and told him the situation. The Judge jotted figures on a pad.

"To clean up you will want nearly eleven thousand dollars," he said. "That's a large sum for this country."

"The property is worth three or four times that."

"Yes, on a basis of land at so much per acre. But uncultivated land isn't productive. You have to pay interest out of what you grow. Few concerns will lend money on raw land. Then you are borrowing to pay off accumulated debts, and not to improve property, buy stock or the like. These things have an important bearing. You may have trouble in getting money. And I think Braden will try to see that you have."

"What will he have to do with it?"

"Bless your innocence, he knows the loan companies operating here, and their appraisers. They'll ask him what sort of a borrower you have been and are apt to be, and why he is calling his loan in, and he'll knock you as hard as he can. He doesn't want the loan paid off. He wants to sell you out, and buy the place in. He is still at the old game. He'll try to work it now by a mortgage sale."

"But that would be a public sale. He'd have to bid against others."

"Nobody in this country has money enough to pay a fair price for the ranch as a whole. That would practically knock out competition. That's what he is counting on."

"He hasn't got me yet," said Angus. "It's funny, but old French is trying to buy out Miss Winton, too." He told the lawyer of French's offer.

"Then Braden is putting up the money for French," the lawyer deduced. "I don't understand it any more than you do, but I do know that neither of these men would knowingly buy anything valueless. So far as your place is concerned, the value is there. As to the other it doesn't seem to be. But I think you did right in advising her not to sell."

Angus rode homeward thoughtfully. His thoughts affected his pace, and so when under ordinary circumstances he would have been home, he was little more than halfway. Chief suddenly pricked his ears, and Angus became aware of Kathleen French upon her favorite horse, Finn. She seemed to have been riding hard, for his coat was wet and his flanks drawn and working.

"What's the hurry?" he asked. She brushed her loosened hair away from her forehead.

"He wanted to run and I let him. I'll ride along with you now."

"I suppose you know that your father wouldn't like it?"

"This isn't the Middle Ages," she replied scornfully. "These family feuds make me tired. I have no quarrel with you."

"I don't want to make trouble for you."

"You won't," she told him. "I can look after myself."

They descended a steep grade, which at the bottom made a sharp turn opening upon a flat through which ran a little creek. As they made the turn they came face to face with Blake French, Gerald and Larry. At sight of Kathleen their faces expressed astonishment. Blake uttered an oath.

"What the devil are you doing with him?" he demanded.

"Riding with Angus Mackay!" said his sister. "I'll ride with any one I like, when I like. Do you get that, Blake? Pull out. You're blocking the trail."

Gerald French laughed. "I thought you were up to something, Kit."

"That's what I thought about you," she retorted.

As Angus rode past the French boys, who had not addressed him at all, he met their eyes. Their stares were level, hard, insolent. He rode on, half angry and much puzzled. Kathleen lifted her horse into a lope and he followed. Then she pulled to a walk.

"The boys didn't like you being with me," he said.

"Never mind what they like. I'm glad I was in time—" She broke off, but a sudden light dawned on Angus.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Is that what you were running your horse for? You mean they were waiting for me?"

He wheeled Chief abruptly, but more quickly she spun Finn on his heels, blocking the back trail.

"I won't let you go back!" she cried.

"That was a nice trick to play on a man!" he told her indignantly.

"And that's a man gratitude!" she retorted bitterly.

"Gratitude! I know you meant well, and I thank you. But it looks as if I had hidden behind your skirts, and I am not that kind of a man. I am going back."

"You are not. I won't have any trouble between you and the boys to-day. You said you didn't want to make trouble. Well, then, don't."

"I don't want to make trouble, but I am not going to run away from it. If your brothers want to take up their father's quarrel—and I am not saying they haven't the right to, mind you—I will meet them half way. I am not going to be hunted by them in a pack. I don't have to be rounded up. If there is going to be trouble I am going to have some say about the time of it."

"And so am I," Kathleen declared. "I will put a stop to this."

"Men's affairs must be settled by men," he told her.

"I believe you are all savages at heart," she said. "This will blow over if you will let it. Whether you like it or not, I am going to interfere. I blame Blake for this."

"You may be right. I had to put him out of Faith's house the other night. He was drunk."

"Pah!" said Blake's sister in disgust. "I'm glad you told me. He has been going there lately, I knew. Well, I'll see that he stops that."

"You need not bother. I will look after that myself. Faith won't be there long."

"Is she going to sell? I'm glad of it."

"I don't know about selling. But she is coming to my ranch."

"On a visit to Jean?"

"No, she is going to marry me."

The girl stared at him. He saw a flood of color rush to her cheeks and recede, leaving her face white. Her strong hand gripped the saddle horn hard.

"She is—going—to marry you!" she said in a voice little more than a whisper.

"Yes," Angus replied, "why shouldn't she? She is too good for me, I know, but I hope you don't think, like your father, that I am not fit to marry her."

Kathleen French smiled with stiff lips.

"What rot!" she said. "I didn't know my father thought anything of the kind, and certainly I don't. I hope you will be very happy. When did it happen?"

Angus told her, but it was a subject on which he did not care to enlarge. Where the trail forked to the French ranch they parted and he rode on. But if he had turned back and ridden half a mile on the other trail, and two hundred yards to the right behind a thick growth of cottonwoods, he would have seen a girl lying on the ground, her face buried in her arms, while a big, bay horse with a sweat-dried coat stood by flicking the flies and regarding his mistress wonderingly.

CONSPIRACY

On the chance that, after all, water might be got on Faith's ranch, Angus had his own levels checked by a surveyor. The result was to confirm them. Thus most of the level land was undoubtedly worthless for agricultural purposes. As for the rest of the property, it was hill and coulee and included the round mountain. Angus had ridden over it and hunted through it and he thought he had nothing to learn about it. He dismissed it with contempt. The only reasonable explanation of French's desire to purchase seemed to be that he was acting for Braden and that Braden had some purchaser in view. That being so, it would pay to hold out for a better offer.

So far as his own affairs were concerned, the outlook was not promising. His loan applications were turned down cold by various loan companies, as Judge Riley had feared. And one day he received a formal demand for payment of mortgage and note, coupled with an intimation that, failing immediate payment, legal proceedings would follow.

"Yes, I thought this was about due," Judge Riley said when Angus showed him the letter of Mr. Braden's lawyers. "There are no grounds for defending the actions, that I know of."

"The money is owing, no doubt about it. And I can't pay it."

"Then it will have to be realized upon the security. I'm sorry, my boy. I don't know where you can raise a loan. If I had the money I'd lend it to you myself, but I haven't. Braden will get his judgments and sell."

Angus himself saw nothing else for it. This, then, was the end of his years of work, of struggle, of self-denial. The land he had promised his father to hold would be sold and bid in by Braden for a fraction of its value. For himself, so far as the financial loss went, he did not care especially. But with it Jean's share would be swallowed up. Without any fault of his own, so far as he could see, he had failed in his duty to her. And the thought was bitter.

As he walked down the street his thoughts went back over the years. He could not attribute his failure to lack of hard work, to lack of planning, to lack of care. All these he had given, without stint. The seasons had been against him, but they had been against others. He had lost cattle mysteriously, but that was merely an incident. There was the fire which had destroyed his hay, but his own brother was responsible for that. Finally there was the ruin of his present crop by the destruction of the ditch. That was the only definite act of hostility on which he could lay his finger. But apart from that he could not have paid Braden.

If he was to lose the ranch it did not matter who had wrecked his ditch. Turkey would be hoist by his own petard. Angus smiled grimly at the thought that his brother had contributed to his own loss. And just then he saw Turkey going through the door of Braden's office. To Angus it was as if a searchlight had been turned upon a dark corner, as if a switch had been closed establishing a connection.

Up to that moment he had seen no object, other than spite, in the wrecking of the ditch. But now, as things were turning out anything which injured him financially would further Braden's carefully laid plans to obtain the ranch. Might he not be responsible? There, at last, was motive, the thing he had sought vainly.

The idea was new and amazing. But once formed it grew in probability. Would Turkey deliberately lend himself to a plan to deprive not only Angus but Jean and himself of the ranch? Likely he had not thought of that. The boy had been a catspaw without knowing Braden's ultimate purpose. There were others besides Braden in the game. Braden himself did not do the work of destruction; but no doubt he had instigated and paid for it. As to these others, Angus made up his mind to settle the score with them if he ever found out their identity. Never again would he lay a hand on Turkey. As for Braden—his mouth twisted scornfully at the thought of the latter's fat body in his grip.

But Turkey's visit to Mr. Braden's office was with quite a different object than Angus' interpretation of it. Between Turkey and Mr. Braden there was little more cordiality than on the day when the latter had patted the boy on the head. When he had left the ranch Mr. Braden had extended sympathy, condemned Angus for harshness; but Turkey had been unresponsive. He looked on family quarrels as the exclusive property of the family.

Turkey knew of the mortgage which Mr. Braden held but nothing of its condition. The burden of financing the ranch had been upon Angus, and he had not shared it. Nor did Turkey know anything of the further sum Angus had borrowed. And so Turkey, if he thought of the mortgage at all, assumed that it was all right. It was Angus' business.

He heard of the action which Mr. Braden was taking quite by accident. On the occasion when Angus had seen him entering the office he had gone there merely with reference to a transaction in cattle in which Garland was interested. But on hearing that Braden had launched a mortgage action, he went there to get first-hand information.

"Do you mean," he queried with a scowl when Mr. Braden had stated the case succinctly, "that the ranch will be sold?"

"I am afraid there is nothing else for it," Mr. Braden replied in regretful tones. "I offered to buy it at a fair price, but your brother wouldn't sell."

"He wouldn't, hey!"

Mr. Braden shook his head sadly. "I am sorry to say that the present condition of affairs is due to his recklessness and mismanagement."

"Huh!" said Turkey.

"It would have been much better," said Mr. Braden, "if I had insisted upon my original view after your father cash—er—was called hence. I felt that your brother was incompetent, and results have proved it. I was weak; yes, I admit that I was weak."

"Then the size of it is, that we lose the ranch?"

"If my claim is satisfied otherwise I shall be very glad. But of course I have to protect myself."

"Who gets it? You?"

"It will be sold publicly to the highest bidder."

"Is that you?"

"I may have to bid it in to protect myself," Mr. Braden explained. "It is forced on me, and I fear others—you and your sister—must suffer for your brother's incompetence."

Turkey, scowling said nothing for a moment.

"I remember the day you came to the ranch after father died," he said at last irrelevantly.

"Um," Mr. Braden returned. "I felt very deeply for you in your bereavement. You were quite a small boy then. I—er—patted you on the head."

"I didn't know you then," said Turkey, "but do you know what I thought?"

"No," smiled Mr. Braden. "I suppose you stood somewhat in awe of me, my boy."

"I thought you were a fat, old crook," Turkey announced.

"Hey!" Mr. Braden ejaculated.

"Of course, I know you better now," Turkey added.

"Yes, yes, just so," said Mr. Braden with comprehension. "Childish impressions. Most amusing. Ha-ha! Huh!"

Turkey looked him in the eye.

"And now you're fatter and older," he said deliberately, "and I believe you're a damned sight crookeder than I thought you were then. You pork-faced old mortgage shark, I'll like to burn your ears off with a gun!"

Mr. Braden gasped. Turkey's voice was as venomous as his words. His hard, young mouth twisted bitterly as he spoke. "You're damned anxious to sell the ranch, aren't you?" he went on. "Angus had the right steer about you. He thought you were trying to put something over. I was a kid, and he wasn't much more, but we both had you sized for a crook. Well, we're not kids now. Since I left the ranch I've been hearing about you. I'll tell you what I've heard."

Mr. Braden expressed no undue anxiety to hear. "I don't know what you have heard and I don't care. If you can't talk decently, get out of here."

"In a minute," said Turkey, "when I've told you what I think of you."

His spoken opinion caused Mr. Braden to change color from time to time, but the prevailing hue was red.

"Get out of my office!" he roared, rearing his impressive bulk against Turkey's slimness. "Get out or I'll throw you out!"

"Shucks!" said Turkey with contempt, and dug a hard, young thumb into Mr. Braden's forward over-hang. "That's the only thing you can throw out, you old tub of lard. You'll drop dead some day with a rotten heart. And now I'm telling you something: I guess I can't stop you from selling the ranch, but if you do, I'll get you somehow, if you live long enough."

Turkey, as he went down the street from this interview, was in a poisonous temper. His was the impotent rage of youth, which failing expression in physical violence, finds itself at a complete loss. Though he had said a number of highly insulting things, he was not satisfied. He told himself that he did not care a hoot about Angus, nor about his own prospective share in the ranch, which would be wiped out by a forced sale. But he thought it hard luck for Jean. In spite of their quarrel, he recognized that his brother had done most of the work for years. The thought that a pork-faced old mortgage shark should get the ranch that had been his father's was bitter.

However, he did not know what could be done about it. No doubt Angus had consulted old Riley. The law was against him. The darn law, Turkey reflected, was always against the ordinary man, which was not to be wondered at since it was made by darn crooks. Coming such, Turkey unconsciously sighed for the good, old days of stock which had no special respect for the law, as days when dispossession was attended by difficulties other than legal.

Under the circumstances, it seemed to Turkey that he should have a drink. To get it he went around the block to a hostelry immediately behind Mr. Braden's office. There he had a drink with the proprietor, one Tom Hall. Then Tom had one with him. Five minutes later both had two more with two strangers. Hall took his drinks from a private bottle which contained cold tea. But four drinks of the kind he dispensed to customers furnished a very fair foundation. Turkey had nothing particular to do. Thus the end of a decidedly imperfect day found him gently slumbering in an upstairs room of Tom's place.

When he awoke it was dark. He did not know where he was, and did not care. Being young and in perfect health he had not the traditional "splitting head." He was very dry, but that was all. He lay still, and remembered that Tom had helped him to that room, taken off his boots and told him to sleep it off. Apparently he had.

The window was open and the night air blew softly upon his face, bringing with it the sound of voices from the next room. He heard the scraping of chairs, the pop of a safety match, the clink of glass. Then the voices became more audible, as if the occupants of the room had drawn closer to the window. Listening idly, Turkey caught his own surname. In a moment it was repeated.

In spite of the adage concerning what listeners are apt to hear of themselves, and all honorable theories against eavesdropping, the average person hearing his own name will prick up his ears. Turkey rolled softly out of the bed, and in his stockinged feet went to the window.

It was a rear window, looking out upon the roofs of sheds and the backs of other buildings. The night was dark and, save for a soft breeze, quiet. The first words Turkey heard were calculated to destroy any scruples.

"I thought the boys were going to beat Mackay up," said a voice which at first he could not identify. Another voice which he knew for Garland's replied:

"They will, later. Blake has it in for him good and plenty."

"Over that girl on the dry ranch, I s'pose," the other speculated.

"There's a lot of things."

"Blake's a darn fool," said the other, and now Turkey knew the voice. It was Poole's. "He's too fond of women and booze. He's in a mess right now. That klootch wants him to marry her."

"She's got another guess coming."

"Well," said Poole judicially, "if he ain't going to marry her, if I was him I'd pull out for a while. Some of her folks might lay for him."

"She hasn't got any folks but her grandfather."

"At that, some of these old bucks is bad medicine. Well, it's none of our funeral. When will the Mackay ranch be sold?"

"Soon as the old man can work it. I wish we could touch him up for some coin. I'm broke."

"Me, too," said Poole. "Trouble is we ain't got nothing on him. We couldn't give him away without giving ourselves away, and he knows it. We couldn't prove a darn thing, anyway. He didn't rustle them cattle either time, nor he didn't blow out Mackay's ditch in the dry spell. We couldn't prove that he even knew of them things, let alone framed 'em up and paid for 'em. He'd give us the laugh if we tried to hold him up."

Turkey, leaning out into the night, listened in amazement. So the stock had been rustled. The speaker could not refer to anything else. But what was this about the ditch? Turkey made a swift deduction which was fairly accurate. That was what Angus meant when he had demanded the names of men responsible for something unknown to Turkey. Somehow, Angus had connected him with it. It must have been through his knife. That must have been found on the ground, and Angus had naturally assumed that he had been there. At this point obstinacy had prevented an understanding, set him and Angus at cross-purposes, and led to a fresh quarrel.

Turkey ground his teeth softly and cursed beneath his breath. So that was the stuff that was being put over on Angus. The "old man" must be Braden. For the first time, Turkey began to see clearly through the mists of hurt, boyish pride, to perceive realities undistorted by youthful grievances. Angus might not have been tactful—but he had been right. And he, Turkey, instead of helping his own had deserted them.

In Turkey's inner being sounded the rallying call of the blood. It was no time for family feuds. If he had been a young fool, he would make up for it. He would play a lone hand, taking his time, and he would play more than even. But now he must not lose a word.

"The old man's pretty darn smooth," Poole went on. "Take that time he lent Mackay money to make good them bets he was holdin'. That put Mackay further in the hole to him. It's lucky Mackay don't know who rapped him on the head and rolled him that night. You get a feller like him on the prod, and I'd rather take chances on a mad grizzly. You take that kid brother of his, too. There's a bad actor. You can see it in his eye."

"He's just a young fool," Garland said contemptuously. "He hates his brother like poison. I wish he'd blown his head off. There was some sort of a gun play, I know."

"And that's what I'm tellin' you. The big man would kill a man with his hands, but the kid would go for a gun fast and quiet. If he knew he'd been trailed home that night he was full and the stack fired, there'd be trouble."

"If the stable had gone with the hay it would have thrown a crimp into Mackay. I don't savvy why it didn't go. The wind was right."

Suddenly the blackness of the back wall of the building opposite was split by a slot of light, revealing a railed landing on a level with the second story. A bulky figure stepped out and the light disappeared. Came the creak of wooden steps beneath a heavy body. Garland swore softly.

"There he is now!"

"The old man?"

"Sure. There's an outside flight of steps from the back up to his room. I wonder what he's up to. Douse our light for a minute."

The light in the next room went out and Turkey drew back. His neighbors evidently occupied the window. From the darkness beneath came the sound of a badly-hung door rasping on its hinges.

"There's a shed down there he keeps a lot of old plunder in," Garland observed.

A silence of minutes and the door rasped again. Following that came a series of metallic sounds and once more the creak of steps. The slot of light of an open doorway appeared again. The bulky figure showed in it, carrying some heavy object hung in its right hand. Then the door closed, all but a crack through which a light filtered.