After fifteen minutes' walk they come to the hill on which the Zion's Co-operative deserted mine is located. At the foot of this is Travenion's light express wagon, drawn by a strange team of broncos, two men standing by it. Then Ralph says easily: "This is Patsey Bolivar, and this, Pioche George. Gentlemen, this is my daughter whom you have promised to take care of."

"We'll see the young lady through," remarks Patsey, taking off his hat.

And noting Erma has started back, for she has recognized her selected escorts as two of the most ferocious fighters in the camp, Pioche George, as he doffs his sombrero, remarks: "We look a leetle rough, miss, but you'll find us very tender of you, and very tough to your enemies--eh, Patsey?"

To which Bolivar cries cheerily: "No coppers on us!"

"Oh, papa's selection proves that," says Miss Travenion, who has looked into these gentlemen's eyes and feels confident of them as she gives these two fighting men her hand, so affably and trustfully that she binds them to her--even to life and death.

Then Ralph remarks: "I wish to take my daughter with me up to my mine; would one of you come with us to take her down? I shall bid her good-bye, there."

"With pleasure, bishop," replies one desperado.

But the other laughs, "Quit calling him bishop. He's repented and become a Christian like us!"

For Travenion has been compelled to take these men partially into his trust, which he has done quite confidently, knowing he has paid them well, and after having taken his money they can be bought by no one else, the code of morals of the Western mine fighter being very definite on this point.

So, followed by Pioche George, Patsey Bolivar remaining to look after the team, Ralph a.s.sists Erma up the hill.

In a few minutes father and daughter are standing in the ore house on the dump pile of the now deserted Zion's Co-operative Mine, their accompanying fighting man remaining outside, "to give 'em a chance to be confidential."

Ralph whispers, "I'll go down and get the stock."

But Erma says suddenly, "Let me go with you. I must see that you are comfortable during your retreat from the world."

"I rather think I've looked out for myself pretty thoroughly," laughs Travenion, who seems in very good spirits, the strain of waiting having pa.s.sed from his mind. Then he goes on earnestly, "G.o.d bless you, Erma, for thinking of me. Come down and see what I've done for myself. I can give you the stock there just as well as here."

So, lighting a candle for her, and guiding her steps very carefully, Ralph a.s.sists his daughter down the incline, and the two shortly come to the station, and turning along the level that runs away from the Mineral Hill Mine, Ralph pauses at the fourth set of timbers and laughs, "What do you say to this for a bachelor's apartment?"

To this his daughter cries, "Oh, sybarite!--you've even got champagne and dried buffalo tongues."

As he has, a dozen pints of Veuve Clicquot, likewise Chateau Margaux, as well as a couple of boxes of rare Havanas, and canned provisions; a soft mattress and warm blankets; a chair to sit upon, half a dozen novels and some current literature to kill time with, lots of candles to illuminate his retreat, and plenty of water in a small barrel.

"I'll be pretty comfortable here, I imagine," he says, contemplatively.

"No, you'll be cold," answers the young lady.

"Cold?--a hundred feet under the ground? This depth is the perfection of climate. It is neither too warm in summer nor too frigid in winter. I shall be very snug down here," he remarks; then chuckles, "while my friend Kruger is hunting for me through snow-storms and blizzards on the outer earth."

"Still it seems horrible," mutters the girl with a shudder, "for you to be buried under the ground. The air----"

"Is excellent!" interrupts Ralph, tapping the tin air-pipe with his hand. "This is a natural draught--not enough for twenty or thirty men working down here unless the fan is in operation, but lots for two or three. See how brightly my candles burn!" Then he says sharply, "We've no time to lose. Pioche George will be getting impatient up-stairs. Hold a candle for me, my darling!"

With a pick-axe he has brought down with him, he exhumes from underneath the fourth set of timbers a small iron box, strongly secured by padlock, and giving it with its key to Erma, says: "Do as I have directed with this. It is the Utah Central stock."

Then, for the parting is coming, she falters: "Father, when will you join me?"

"As soon as you are surely safe and out of this accursed Territory, and Kruger has disappeared, pursuing me with his Mormon bloodhounds."

A second after, he bursts out, as if a great relief has come upon him, from throwing off the bonds that have held him so long: "Oh, how I have scoffed them in my heart, as I have preached their religious bosh at Conference and ward meeting, all these years. Won't this be a great story to tell in the Unity Club, New York, to my old chums, De Punster and Van Beekman, Travis and Larry Jerry, and the rest of the boys? How they will shriek at Ralph Travenion, the swell, having been a Mormon!

Won't the champagne flow to my plural marriages? Egad! it's worth while to take these risks, to have such a royal story to tell!"

"Hush!" cries his daughter, sternly. "Remember the poor women you are deserting." A moment after she says more slowly, "They must be provided for as soon as you are safe."

"Oh, they will have plenty," answers Ralph. Then he bursts out again, "I leave too much behind. When I think of what I have paid, year by year, as t.i.thing to the infernal Mormon Church, I curse it. But they are tricked at the last. I'll sell the control of their pet railroad out of their hands. Hang them, I could dance for joy!"

With these words, the old beau skips with a waltz step to the bottom of the incline. Then they ascend, the rope aiding their steps, and the pitch not being very steep, to the outer air, and the time has come to say farewell.

Pointing to a white-topped wagon at the bottom of the hill, Travenion says: "Quick! Give your father a kiss, and pray for his safety."

The girl answers: "One hundred!" and throws herself into his arms, and murmuring: "You are the only man who ever loved me--the only one! Mormon that you have been--polygamist that you are--you are the only one who's left to me!"

For she has been looking at the shaft of the Mineral Hill Mine, upon which the English company are now commencing to work, and her thoughts are on the man who she feels has deserted her.

Then, as Ralph embraces her, a shudder runs through her; but it is not of cold, though snow is falling, but it is the chill of her heart as she thinks: "But for this man, whose lips are now pressed to mine, Harry Lawrence would not despise me!"

But Travenion mutters in her ear: "It is late now--you must leave at once, for the days are quite short!" and beckons Pioche George to approach.

"You can trust us, bishop, to take her through," George remarks, noticing the old man's agitation as he gives the daughter of his heart his last kiss.

Then Erma hurries down the hill, and he, sitting on the deserted dump pile of his mine, watches her until Pioche George lifts her into the wagon and it drives away over the snow-white road, making across the West Tintic Valley, and so towards Ophir and Tooele, for Travenion has directed them to go by this somewhat roundabout road, to avoid any chance of meeting Kruger, perhaps even now returning from his errand to the heads of the Mormon theocracy in Salt Lake.

Looking on this he says: "She is safe!" and laughs: "I will be safe myself, shortly! Now for my bachelor quarters!" and goes slowly again into the mine.

About half way down the incline he starts, pauses, and listens, muttering: "I thought I heard a noise." Then sneers at himself, "Some stone touched by your foot--you're weak-kneed, Ralph."

Continuing his descent and holding his candle in front of him, he comes to his quarters, where he says, looking about: "This is a pretty comfortable spot to kill time by champagne, a weed, and a novel."

Which he does, lighting one or two more candles, to give him better illumination, then gently sipping the Clicquot, between puffs of a Bouquet Especial, as he turns over the leaves of a new French romance, which seems to amuse him greatly.

And all the while, from the darkness of the level, beyond the incline, two red eyes glare at this sybarite as he chuckles over the jokes of Monsieur Paul de k.o.c.k.

Turning his back to the incline, in order to get a better light upon his novel, Ralph sits chuckling over the queer conceits of the gifted Frenchman--the red eyes all the while coming nearer to him.

As Travenion laughs again, a heavy step sounds behind him, and the great red eyes are at his shoulder, looking over the volume with him, and he springs up with a shriek, for Kruger's voice is in his ears crying, "Doomed by the Church!"

Then this Mormon fanatic is upon him, seizing his arms, and bruising his more tender flesh, chuckling: "What's champagne muscle to gra.s.s-fed muscle, you dainty cur of New York!"

And though Travenion fights as men only fight who are fighting for their lives, he pinions him and makes him helpless, and dashes him brutally down.

Looking at him, the old club man, who was once a Mormon bishop, tries his last diplomacy. He gasps between white lips and chattering teeth: "This--to a man who has been your chum--your companion--who is your brother in the Church."

"Who _was_ my brother in the Church!" cries Lot. "But we'll discuss the affair a leetle. With ye're permission, I'll liquor."

Knocking the head off a bottle of Clicquot, he quaffs it greedily; the one Ralph was drinking from having been thrown down in the struggle.

Throwing the bottle away; as it crashes to the other end of the level, he remarks with a hideous leer: "Now we'll come to biz once more!"