"Reckon he beefed Dave?" he said at last.

"Shouldn't be surprised," said De Launay. "I searched for him but couldn't find him. He wouldn't get lost or hurt. But Jim Banker's done enough, in any case."

"He sure has," said Sucatash.

De Launay helped the cow-puncher up in front of him and turned back to the crater. He rode past Banker's camp without stopping, but keeping along the slope to avoid the deeper snow he came upon a stake set in a pile of small rocks. This was evidently newly placed. He showed it to Sucatash.

"The fellow's staked ground here. What could he have found?"

"Maybe the old lunatic thinks he's run onto French Pete's strike,"

grinned Sucatash. "This don't look very likely to me."

"Gone to Maryville to register it, I suppose. That accounts for his leaving the burros and part of his stuff. He'd travel light."

"He better come back heavy though. If he aims to winter in here he'll need bookoo rations. It'd take some mine to make me do it."

Sucatash was in bad shape, and De Launay was not particularly interested in old Jim's vagaries at the present time, so he made all speed back to the crater. Sucatash, who knew of the windfall, would not believe that the soldier had found an entrance into the place until he had actually treaded the game trail.

He looked backward from the heights above the tangle after they had come through it.

"Some stronghold," he commented. "It'd take an army to dig you outa here."

They found Solange as De Launay had left her. She was overjoyed to see Sucatash and at the same time distressed to observe his condition. She heard with indignation his account of his mishap and, like De Launay, suspected Banker of being responsible for it. Indeed, unless they a.s.sumed that some mysterious presence was abroad at this unseasonable time in the mountains, there was no one else to suspect.

She would have risen and a.s.sumed the duties of nursing the cow-puncher, but De Launay forbade it. She was still very weak and her head was painful. The soldier therefore took upon himself the task of caring for both of them.

He made a bed for Sucatash in the kitchen of the cabin and went about the work of getting them both on their feet with quiet efficiency.

This bade fair to be a task of some days' duration though both were strong and healthy and yielded readily to rest and treatment.

It was night again before he had them comfortably settled and sleeping. Once more, with camp lantern lit, he sat before the slab table and examined his bullets and the sh.e.l.l he had picked up at Banker's camp.

He found that both bullets fitted it tightly. Then he turned the rim to the light and looked at it.

Stamped in the bra.s.s were the cabalistic figures:

U. M. C. SAV. .303.

For some time he sat there, his mouth set in straight, hard lines, his memory playing backward over nineteen years. He recalled the men he had known on the range, a scattered company, every one of whom could be numbered, every one of whom had possessions, weapons, accouterment, known to nearly all the others. In that primitive community of few individuals the tools of their trades were as a part of them. Men were marked by their saddles, their chaparajos, their weapons. A pair of silver-mounted spurs owned by one was remarked by all the others.

Louisiana had known the weapons of the range riders even as they knew his. The six-shooter with which he had often performed his feats would have been as readily recognized as he, himself. When a new rifle appeared in the West its advent was a matter of note.

In Maryville, then a small cow town and outfitting place for the men of the range, there had been one store in which weapons could be bought. In that store, the proprietor had stocked just one rifle of the new make. The Savage, shooting an odd caliber cartridge, had been distrusted because of that fact, the men of the country fearing that they would have difficulty in procuring sh.e.l.ls of such an unusual caliber. Unable to sell it, he had finally parted with it for a mere fraction of its value to one who would chance its inconvenience. The man who possessed it had been known far and wide and, at that time, he was the sole owner of such a rifle in all that region.

Yet, with this infallible clew to the ident.i.ty of French Pete's murderer at hand, it had been a.s.sumed that the bullet was 30-30.

De Launay envisioned that worn and battered rifle b.u.t.t projecting from the scabbard slung to the burro in Sulphur Falls. Nineteen years, and the man still carried and used the weapon which was to prove his guilt.

Once more he got up and went in to look at the sleeping girl. Should he tell her that the murderer of her father was discovered? What good would it do? He doubted that, if confronted with the knowledge, she could find the fort.i.tude to exact the vengeance which she had vowed.

And if, faced with the facts, she drew back, what reproach would she always visit upon herself for her weakness? Torn between a barbaric code and her own gentle instincts, she would be unhappy whatever eventuated.

But he was free from gentleness--at least toward every one but her. He had killed. He was callous. Five years in the _Legion des Etrangers_ and fourteen more of war and preparation for war had rendered him proof against squeamishness. The man was a loathly thing who had slain in cold blood, cowardly, evil, and unclean. Possibly he had murdered within the past few days, and, at any rate he had attempted murder and torture.

Why tell her about it? He had no ties; no aims; nothing to regret leaving. He had nothing but wealth which was useless to him, but which would lift her above all unhappiness after he was gone. And he could kill the desert rat as he would snuff out a candle.

Yet--the thought of it gave him a qualm. The man was so contemptible; so unutterably low and vile and cowardly. To kill him would be like crushing vermin. He would not fight; he would cower and cringe and shriek. There might be a battle when they took De Launay for the "murder," of course, but even his pa.s.sing, desperate as he might make it, would not entirely wipe out the disgrace of such a butchery. He was a soldier; a commander with a glorious record, and it went against the grain to go out of life in an obscure brawl brought on by the slaughter of this rat.

Still, he had dedicated himself to the service of this girl, half in jest, perhaps, but it was the only service left to him to perform. He had lived his life; had his little day of glory. It was time to go.

She was his wife and to her he would make his last gesture and depart, serving her.

Then, as he looked at her, her eyes opened and flashed upon him. In their depths something gleamed, a new light more baffling than any he had seen there before. There was fire and softness, warmth and sweetness in it. He dropped on his knees beside the bunk.

"What is it, _mon ami_?" Solange was smiling at him, a smile that drew him like a magnet.

"Nothing," he said, and rose to his feet. Her hand had strayed lightly over his hair in that instant of forgetfulness. "I looked to see that you were comfortable."

"You are changed," she said, uncertainly. "It is better so."

He smiled at her. "Yes. I am changed again. I am the legionnaire.

Nameless, hopeless, careless! You must sleep, _mon enfant_! Good night!"

He brushed the hand she held out to him with his lips and turned to the door. As he went out she heard him singing softly:

"_Soldats de la Legion, De la Legion Etrangere, N'ayant pas de Nation, La France est votre Mere._"

He did not see that the light in her marvelous eyes had grown very tender. Nor did she dream that he had made a mat of his glory for her to walk upon.

CHAPTER XX

LOUISIANA!

On the following morning, De Launay, finding his patients doing well, once more left the camp after seeing that everything was in order and food for the invalids prepared and set to their hands. Among Solange's effects he had found a pair of prism binoculars, which he slung over his shoulder. Then he made his way on foot to the lower end of the valley, up the encircling cliffs and out on the ridge which surrounded the crater.

Here he hunted until he came upon a narrow, out-jutting ledge which overlooked the country below and the main backbone of the range to the southward and eastward. From here he could see over the bench at the base of the cliff, with its maze of tangled, down timber, and on to the edge of Shoestring Canyon, though he could not see down into that gulch. Above Shoestring, however, he could see the rough trail which wound out of the canyon on the opposite side and up toward the crest of the range, where it was lost among the timber-clad gorges and peaks of the divide. Over this trail came such folk as crossed the range from the direction of Maryville. All who came from the Idaho side would head in by way of Shoestring and come up the canyon.

That day, although he swept the hills a.s.siduously with his gla.s.ses, he saw nothing. The dark smears and timber, startlingly black against the snow, remained silent, brooding and inviolate, as though the presence of man had never stirred their depths.

He did not remain long. Fearing that he would be needed at the cabin, he returned before noon. Solange was progressing bravely, though she was still weak. Sucatash, however, was in worse shape and evidently would not be fit to move for several days.

The next day he did not go to his post, but on the third morning, finding Sucatash improving, he again took up his vigil. On that day banked clouds hovered over the high peaks and nearly hid them from view. A chill and biting wind almost drove him from his post.

Seeing nothing, he was about to return, but, just as a heavy flurry of snow descended upon him, he turned to give one last look toward the divide and found it lost in mist which hung down into the timber.

Under this fleecy blanket, the canyon and the lower part of the trail stood forth clearly.

Just as De Launay was about to lower his gla.s.ses, a man rode out of the timber, driving before him a half dozen pack horses. The soldier watched him as he dropped below the rim of the canyon and, although distant, thought he detected signs of haste in his going.