"Then," she said, at last, "it is not likely that this Monsieur Banker would acknowledge my claim to the mine?"

"The mine is his under the law. I am afraid that you have no claim to it. Your father never located it nor worked it. As for Banker----"

He paused until she spoke.

"Well? And what of this Banker?"

"He will not hold it long. But he has heirs, no doubt, who would not acknowledge your claim. Still, I will do my best. Sucatash will back us up when we jump the claim."

"Jump the claim? What is that?"

He explained briefly the etiquette of this form of sport.

"But," objected Solange, "this man will resist, most certainly. That would mean violence."

A faint smile curled the man's mouth under the mustache. "I am supposed to be a violent man," he reminded her. "I'll do the killing, and you and Sucatash will merely have to hold the claim. The sympathy of the miners will be with you, and there should be little difficulty unless it turns out that some one has a grubstake interest."

He had to explain again the intricacies of this phase of mining.

Solange listened intently, sitting now on the edge of the bunk. When he was done, she slid to her feet and took position beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder. Behind her, by the side of the bunk, was a short log, set on end as a little table, on which rested the holstered automatic which De Launay had left with her.

"It appears then," she said, when he had finished, "that, in any event I have no right to this mine. In order to seize it, you would have to fight and perhaps kill some one. But, monsieur, I am not one who would wish you to be a common bravo--a desperado--for me. This mine, it is nothing. We shall think no more of it."

Again De Launay was mildly surprised. He had supposed that the loss of the mine would affect her poignantly and yet she was dismissing it more lightly than he could have done had she not been concerned. And in her expression of consideration for him there was a sweetness that stirred him greatly. He lifted his hand to hers where it rested on his shoulder, and she did not withdraw from his touch.

"And yet," he said, "there is no reason that you should concern yourself lest I act like a desperado. There are those who would say that I merely lived up to my character. The General de Launay you have heard of, I think?"

"I have heard of him as a brave and able man," answered Solange.

"And as a driver of flesh and blood beyond endurance, a butcher of men. It was so of the colonel, the _commandant_, the _capitaine_. And, of the _legionnaire_, you have heard what has always been heard. We of the _Legion_ are not lap dogs, mademoiselle."

"I do not care," said Solange.

"And before the _Legion_, what? There was the cow-puncher, the range bully, the gunman; the swashbuckling flourisher of six-shooters; the notorious Louisiana."

He heard her breath drawn inward in a sharp hiss. Then, with startling suddenness, her hand was jerked from under his but not before he had sensed an instant chilling of the warm flesh. Wondering, he turned to see her stepping backward in slow, measured steps while her eyes, fixed immovably upon him, blazed with a fell light, mingled of grief, horror and rage. Her features were frozen and pale, like a death mask.

The light of the fire struck her hair and seemed to turn it into a wheel of angry flame.

There was much of the roused fury in her and as much of a lost and despairing soul.

"Louisiana!" she gasped. "You! You are Louisiana?"

CHAPTER XXI

GOLD SEEKERS

Puzzled, but watchful and alert, De Launay saw her retreating, sensing the terrible change that had come over her.

"Yes, I am Louisiana," he said. "What is the matter?"

In answer she laughed, while one hand went to the breast of her shirtwaist and the other reached behind her, groping for something as she paced backward. Like a cameo in chalk her features were set and the writhing flames in her hair called up an image of Medusa. There was no change in expression, but through her parted lips broke a low laugh, terrible in its utter lack of feeling.

"And I have for my husband--Louisiana! _Quelle farce!_"

The hand at her breast was withdrawn and in it fluttered the yellow paper that Wilding had brought from Maryville to Wallace's ranch. She flung it toward him, and as he stooped to pick it up, her groping hand fell on the pistol resting on the upturned log at the side of the bunk. She drew it around in front of her, dropped the holster at her side and snapped the safety down. Her thumb rested on the hammer and she stood still, tensely waiting.

De Launay read the notice of reward swiftly and looked up. His face was stern, but otherwise expressionless.

"Well?" he demanded, his eyes barely resting on the pistol before they swept to meet her own blazing gaze. There was no depth to her eyes now. Instead they seemed to be fire surrounded by black rims.

"You have read--murderer!"

"I have read it." De Launay's voice was like his face, and in both appeared a trace of contempt.

"What have you to say before I kill you?"

"That you would have shot before now had you been able to do it,"

answered De Launay, and now the note of contempt was deeper. He turned his back to her and leaned forward over the fire, one outstretched hand upon the stone slab that formed the rude mantel.

The girl stood there immobile. The hand that held the pistol was not raised nor lowered. The thumb did not draw back the hammer. But over her face came, gradually, a change; a desperate sorrow, an abandonment of hope. Even the light in her hair that had made it a flaming wheel seemed in some mysterious way to die down. The terrible fire in her eyes went out as though drowned in rising tears.

A sob burst from her lips and her breast heaved. De Launay gazed down upon the fire, and his face was bitter as though he tasted death.

Solange slowly reached behind her again and dropped the heavy weapon upon the log. Then, in a choked voice she struggled to call out:

"Monsieur Wallace! Will you come?"

In the next room there was a stirring of hasty movements. Sucatash raised a cheery and incongruous voice.

"Just a minute, mad'mo'selle! I'm comin' a-runnin'."

He stamped into his boots and flung the door open, disheveled, shirt open at the neck. Astonished, he took in the strange att.i.tudes of the others.

"What's the answer?" he asked. "What was it you wanted, ma'am?"

Solange turned to him, her grief-ridden face stony in its hopelessness.

"Monsieur, you are my friend?"

"For mayhem, manslaughter or murder," he answered at once. "What's wanted?"

"Then--will you take this pistol, and kill that man for me?"

Sucatash's eyes narrowed and his mottled hair seemed to bristle. He turned on De Launay.