"Jim, I savvied your feelin's was hurt--by thet talk about Texas--an'

when she up an' asked you."

Wilson had no rejoinder for this remark.

"Wal, Lord knows, I ain't wonderin'. You wasn't a hunted outlaw all your life. An' neither was I.... Wilson, I never was keen on this girl deal--now, was I?"

"I reckon it's honest to say no to thet," replied Wilson. "But it's done. Beasley 'll get plugged sooner or later. Thet won't help us any.

Chasin' sheep-herders out of the country an' stealin' sheep--thet ain't stealin' gurls by a long sight. Beasley 'll blame that on us, an' be greaser enough to send some of his men out to hunt us. For Pine an' Show Down won't stand thet long. There's them Mormons. They'll be h.e.l.l when they wake up. Suppose Carmichael got thet hunter Dale an' them hawk-eyed Beemans on our trail?"

"Wal, we'd cash in--quick," replied Anson, gruffly.

"Then why didn't you let me take the gurl back home?"

"Wal, come to think of thet, Jim, I'm sore, an' I need money--an' I knowed you'd never take a dollar from her sister. An' I've made up my mind to git somethin' out of her."

"Snake, you're no fool. How 'll you do thet same an' do it quick?"

"'Ain't reckoned it out yet."

"Wal, you got aboot to-morrer an' thet's all," returned Wilson, gloomily.

"Jim, what's ailin' you?"

"I'll let you figger thet out."

"Wal, somethin' ails the whole gang," declared Anson, savagely.

"With them it's nothin' to eat--no whisky--no money to bet with--no tobacco!... But thet's not what's ailin' you, Jim Wilson, nor me!"

"Wal, what is, then?" queried Wilson.

"With me it's a strange feelin' thet my day's over on these ranges. I can't explain, but it jest feels so. Somethin' in the air. I don't like them dark shadows out there under the spruces. Savvy?... An' as fer you, Jim--wal, you allus was half decent, an' my gang's got too lowdown fer you."

"Snake, did I ever fail you?"

"No, you never did. You're the best pard I ever knowed. In the years we've rustled together we never had a contrary word till I let Beasley fill my ears with his promises. Thet's my fault. But, Jim, it's too late."

"It mightn't have been too late yesterday."

"Mebbe not. But it is now, an' I'll hang on to the girl or git her worth in gold," declared the outlaw, grimly.

"Snake, I've seen stronger gangs than yours come an' go. Them Big Bend gangs in my country--them rustlers--they were all bad men. You have no likes of them gangs out heah. If they didn't get wiped out by Rangers or cowboys, why they jest naturally wiped out themselves. Thet's a law I recognize in relation to gangs like them. An' as for yours--why, Anson, it wouldn't hold water against one real gun-slinger."

"A-huh' Then if we ran up ag'in' Carmichael or some such fellar--would you be suckin' your finger like a baby?"

"Wal, I wasn't takin' count of myself. I was takin' generalities."

"Aw, what 'n h.e.l.l are them?" asked Anson, disgustedly. "Jim, I know as well as you thet this hyar gang is hard put. We're goin' to be trailed an' chased. We've got to hide--be on the go all the time--here an'

there--all over, in the roughest woods. An' wait our chance to work south."

"Sh.o.r.e. But, Snake, you ain't takin' no count of the feelin's of the men--an' of mine an' yours.... I'll bet you my hoss thet in a day or so this gang will go to pieces."

"I'm feared you spoke what's been crowdin' to git in my mind," replied Anson. Then he threw up his hands in a strange gesture of resignation.

The outlaw was brave, but all men of the wilds recognized a force stronger than themselves. He sat there resembling a brooding snake with basilisk eyes upon the fire. At length he arose, and without another word to his comrade he walked wearily to where lay the dark, quiet forms of the sleepers.

Jim Wilson remained beside the flickering fire. He was reading something in the red embers, perhaps the past. Shadows were on his face, not all from the fading flames or the towering spruces. Ever and anon he raised his head to listen, not apparently that he expected any unusual sound, but as if involuntarily. Indeed, as Anson had said, there was something nameless in the air. The black forest breathed heavily, in fitful moans of wind. It had its secrets. The glances Wilson threw on all sides betrayed that any hunted man did not love the dark night, though it hid him. Wilson seemed fascinated by the life inclosed there by the black circle of spruce. He might have been reflecting on the strange reaction happening to every man in that group, since a girl had been brought among them. Nothing was clear, however; the forest kept its secret, as did the melancholy wind; the outlaws were sleeping like tired beasts, with their dark secrets locked in their hearts.

After a while Wilson put some sticks on the red embers, then pulled the end of a log over them. A blaze sputtered up, changing the dark circle and showing the sleepers with their set, shadowed faces upturned. Wilson gazed on all of them, a sardonic smile on his lips, and then his look fixed upon the sleeper apart from the others--Riggs. It might have been the false light of flame and shadow that created Wilson's expression of dark and terrible hate. Or it might have been the truth, expressed in that lonely, unguarded hour, from the depths of a man born in the South--a man who by his inheritance of race had reverence for all womanhood--by whose strange, wild, outlawed b.l.o.o.d.y life of a gun-fighter he must hate with the deadliest hate this type that aped and mocked his fame.

It was a long gaze Wilson rested upon Riggs--as strange and secretive as the forest wind moaning down the great aisles--and when that dark gaze was withdrawn Wilson stalked away to make his bed with the stride of one ill whom spirit had liberated force.

He laid his saddle in front of the spruce shelter where the girl had entered, and his tarpaulin and blankets likewise and then wearily stretched his long length to rest.

The camp-fire blazed up, showing the exquisite green and brown-flecked festooning of the spruce branches, symmetrical and perfect, yet so irregular, and then it burned out and died down, leaving all in the dim gray starlight. The horses were not moving around; the moan of night wind had grown fainter; the low hum of insects was dying away; even the tinkle of the brook had diminished. And that growth toward absolute silence continued, yet absolute silence was never attained. Life abided in the forest; only it had changed its form for the dark hours.

Anson's gang did not bestir themselves at the usual early sunrise hour common to all woodsmen, hunters, or outlaws, to whom the break of day was welcome. These companions--Anson and Riggs included--might have hated to see the dawn come. It meant only another meager meal, then the weary packing and the long, long ride to nowhere in particular, and another meager meal--all toiled for without even the necessities of satisfactory living, and a.s.suredly without the thrilling hopes that made their life significant, and certainly with a growing sense of approaching calamity.

The outlaw leader rose surly and cross-grained. He had to boot Burt to drive him out for the horses. Riggs followed him. Shady Jones did nothing except grumble. Wilson, by common consent, always made the sour-dough bread, and he was slow about it this morning. Anson and Moze did the rest of the work, without alacrity. The girl did not appear.

"Is she dead?" growled Anson.

"No, she ain't," replied Wilson, looking up. "She's sleepin'. Let her sleep. She'd sh.o.r.e be a sight better off if she was daid."

"A-huh! So would all of this hyar outfit," was Anson's response.

"Wal, Sna-ake, I sh.o.r.e reckon we'll all be thet there soon," drawled Wilson, in his familiar cool and irritating tone that said so much more than the content of the words.

Anson did not address the Texas member of his party again.

Burt rode bareback into camp, driving half the number of the horses; Riggs followed shortly with several more. But three were missed, one of them being Anson's favorite. He would not have budged without that horse. During breakfast he growled about his lazy men, and after the meal tried to urge them off. Riggs went unwillingly. Burt refused to go at all.

"Nix. I footed them hills all I'm a-goin' to," he said. "An' from now on I rustle my own hoss."

The leader glared his reception of this opposition. Perhaps his sense of fairness actuated him once more, for he ordered Shady and Moze out to do their share.

"Jim, you're the best tracker in this outfit. Suppose you go," suggested Anson. "You allus used to be the first one off."

"Times has changed, Snake," was the imperturbable reply.

"Wal, won't you go?" demanded the leader, impatiently.

"I sh.o.r.e won't."

Wilson did not look or intimate in any way that he would not leave the girl in camp with one or any or all of Anson's gang, but the truth was as significant as if he had shouted it. The slow-thinking Moze gave Wilson a sinister look.

"Boss, ain't it funny how a pretty wench--?" began Shady Jones, sarcastically.

"Shut up, you fool!" broke in Anson. "Come on, I'll help rustle them hosses."