"Oh, how can we ever thank you!" cried the sheriff's eldest sister, choking back a nervous sob. "How can we ever thank you for what you have done! You saved our lives!" she cried, shuddering at the danger now past. "You saved our lives! You saved our lives!" she repeated excitedly, clasping and unclasping her hands in her agitation.

"How can we ever thank you, how can we!" cried the girl who had fainted when the chase had begun. "It was splendid, splendid!" she cried, swaying in her weakness. She was so white and bruised and frail that The Orphan felt pity for her and started to say something, but had no chance. The three women monopolized the conversation even to the exclusion of Bill, who suddenly felt that his talking ability was only commonplace after all.

Blood trickled slowly down the outlaw's face as he smiled at them and tried to calm them, and the younger sister, suddenly realizing the meaning of what she had vaguely seen, turned to Bill with an imperative gesture.

"Bring me some water, driver, immediately," she commanded impatiently, and Bill hurried around to the rear axle from which swung a small keg of three gallons' capacity. Quickly unsnapping the chain from it he returned and pried out the wooden plug, slowly turning the keg until water began to flow through the hole and trickle down to the sand. Miss Shields took a small handkerchief from her waist and unfolded it, to be stopped by Bill.

"Don't spoil that, miss!" he hastily exclaimed. "Take one of mine. They ain't worth much, and besides, they're a whole lot bigger."

"Thank you, but this is better," she replied, smiling as she regarded the dusty neck-kerchief which he eagerly held out to her. She wet the bit of clean linen and Bill followed her as she stepped to the side of the outlaw, holding the keg for her and thinking that the sheriff was not the only thoroughbred to bear the name of Shields. He turned the keg for her as she needed water, and she bathed the wound carefully, pushing back the long hair which persisted in getting in her way, all the time vehemently declining the eager offers of a.s.sistance from her companions. The Orphan had involuntarily raised his hand to stop her, feeling foolish at so much attention given to so trivial a wound and not at all accustomed to such things, especially from women with wonderful deep, black eyes.

"Please do not bother me," she commanded, pushing his hand aside. "You can at least let me do this little thing, when you have done so much, or I shall think you selfish."

He stood as a bad boy stands when unexpectedly rewarded for some good deed, uncomfortable because of the ridiculous seriousness given to his gash, and ashamed because he was glad of the attention. He tried not to look at her, but somehow his eyes would not stray from her face, her heavy ma.s.s of black hair and her wonderful eyes.

"You make me think that I'm really hurt," he feebly expostulated as he capitulated to her deft hands. "Now, if it was a real wound, why it might be all right. But, pshaw, all this fuss and feathers about a scratch!"

"Indeed!" she cried, dropping the stained handkerchief to the ground as she took another from her dress, plastering his hair back with her free hand. "I suppose you would rather have what you call a real wound!

You should be thankful that it is no worse! Why, just the tiniest bit more, and you would have--" she shuddered as she thought of it and turned quickly away and tore a strip of linen from her skirt. Straightening up and facing him again she ripped off the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and carefully plucked the loose threads from it. Folding it into a neat bandage she placed the handkerchief over the wound after pushing back the rebellious hair and bound it into place with the strip, deftly patting it here and pushing it there until it suited her. Then, drawing it tight, she unfastened the gold breast-pin which she wore at her throat and pinned the bandage into place, stepping back to regard her work with satisfaction.

"There!" she cried laughing delightedly. "You look real well in a bandage!

But I am sorry there is need for one," she said, sobering instantly.

"But, then, it could have been much worse, very much worse, couldn't it?" she asked, smiling brightly.

Before The Orphan could reply, Bill saw a break in the conversation, or thought he did, and hastened to say something, for he felt unnatural.

"I got yore smokin', Orphant!" he cried, clambering up to his seat.

"Leastawise, I had before them war-whoops--yep! Here she is, right side up and fine and dandy!"

Could he have seen the look which the outlaw flashed at him he would have quailed with sudden fear. Three gasps arose in chorus, and the women drew back from the outlaw, fearful and shocked and severe. But with the sheriff's younger sister it was only momentarily, for she quickly recovered herself and the look of fear left her eyes. So this, then, was the dreaded Orphan, the outlaw of whom her brother had written! This young, sinewy, good-looking man, who had swayed so unsteadily on his feet, was the man the stories of whose outrages had filled the pages of Eastern newspapers and magazines! Could he possibly be guilty of the murders ascribed to him? Was he capable of the inhumanity which had made his name a synonym of terror? As she wondered, torn by conflicting thoughts, he looked at her unflinchingly, and his thin lips wore a peculiar smile, cynical and yet humorous.

Bill leaped to the ground with the smoking tobacco and, blissfully unconscious of what he had done, continued unruffled.

"That was d----n fine--begging the ladies' pardon," he cried. "Yes sir, it was plumb sumptious, it sh.o.r.e was! And when I tell the sheriff how you saved his sisters, he'll be some tickled! You just bet he will! And I'll tell it right, too! Just leave the telling of it to me. Lord, when I looked back to see how far them war-whoops were from my back hair, and saw you tearing along like you was a sh.o.r.e enough express train, I just had to yell, I was so tickled. It was just like I held a pair of deuces in a big jack-pot and drew two more! My, but didn't I feel good! And, say--whenever you run out of smoking again, you just flag Bill Howland's chariot: you can have all he's got. That's straight, you bet! Bill Howland don't forget a turn like that, never."

The enthusiasm he looked for did not materialize and he glanced from one to another as he realized that something was up.

"Come, dears, let us go," said Mary Shields, lifting her skirts and abruptly turning her back on the outlaw. "We evidently have far to go, and we have wasted _so_ much time. Come, Grace," she said to her friend, stepping toward the coach.

Bill stared and wondered how much time had been wasted, since never before had he reached that point in so short a time. He had made two miles to every one at his regular speed.

"Come, Helen!" came the command from the elder, and with a trace of surprise and impatience.

"Sister! Why, Mary, how can you be so mean!" retorted the girl with the black eyes, angry and indignant at the unkindness of the cut, her face flushing at its injustice. Her spirit was up in arms immediately and she deliberately walked to The Orphan and impulsively held out her hand, her sister's words deciding the doubts in her mind in the outlaw's favor.

"Forgive her!" she cried. "She doesn't mean to be rude! She is so very nervous, and this afternoon has been too much for her. It was a man's act, a brave man's act! And one which I will always cherish, for I will never forget this day, never, never!" she reiterated earnestly. "I don't care what they say about you, not a bit! I don't believe it, for you could not have done what you have if you are as they paint you. I will not wait for our driver to tell my brother about your splendid act--he, at least, shall know you as you are, and some day he will return it, too."

Then she looked from him to her hand: "Will you not shake hands with me? Show me that you are not angry. Are you fair to me to cla.s.s me as an enemy, just because my brother is the sheriff?"

He looked at her in wonderment and his face softened as he took the hand.

"Thank you," he said simply. "You are kind, and fair. I do not think of you as an enemy."

"Helen! Are you coming?" came from the coach.

He smiled at the words and then laughed bitterly, recklessly, his shoulders unconsciously squaring. There was no malice in his face, only a quizzical, baffling cynicism.

"Oh, it's a shame!" she cried, her eyes growing moist. She made a gesture of helplessness and looked him full in the eyes. "Whatever you have done in the past, you will give them no cause to say such things in the future, will you? You will leave it all behind you and get work, and not be an outlaw any more, won't you? You will prove my faith in you, for I _have_ faith in you, won't you? It will all be forgotten," she added, as if her words made it so. Then she leaned forward to readjust the bandage. "There, now it's all right--you must not touch it again like that."

"You are alone in your faith," he replied bitterly, not daring to look at her.

"Oh, I reckon not," muttered Bill, scowling at the stage as if he would like to unhitch and leave it there. Then seeing The Orphan glance at the horse which was grazing contentedly, he went out to capture the animal.

"D----d old hen, that's what she is!" he muttered fiercely. "I don't care if she is the sheriff's sister, that's just what she is! Just a regular ingrowing disposition!"

"You are kind, as kind as you are beautiful," The Orphan responded simply.

"But you don't know."

She flushed at his words and then decided that he spoke in simple sincerity.

"I know that you are going to do differently," she replied as she extended her hand again. "Good-by."

He bowed his head as he took it and flushed: "Good-by."

She slowly turned and walked toward the coach, where she was received by a chilling silence.

Bill brought the horse to where The Orphan stood lost in thought, unbuckled his cartridge belt and wrapped it around the pommel of the saddle, the heavy Colt still in the holster. Then he clambered up for his rifle and tied it to the saddle skirt by the thongs of leather which dangled therefrom. Looking about him he espied the keg on the sand and, driving home the plug, slung it behind the cantle of the saddle where he fastend it by the straps which held the outlaw's "slicker." Jamming the package of tobacco into the pocket of the garment he stepped back and grinned sheepishly at his generous gifts. He turned abruptly and strode to the outlaw and shoved out his hand.

"There, pardner, shake!" he cried heartily. "Yore the best man in the whole d----d cow country, and I'll tell 'em so, too, by G.o.d!"

The outlaw came out of his reverie and looked him searchingly in the face as he gripped the outstretched hand with a grip which made the driver wince.

"Don't be a fool, Bill," he replied. "You'll get yourself disliked if you enthuse about me." Then he noticed the additions to his equipment and frowned: "You better take those things, I can't. The spirit is enough."

"Oh, you borrow them 'til you see me again," replied Bill. "You may need 'em," he added as he wheeled and walked to the coach. He climbed to his seat and wrapped the lines about his hands, cracking the whip as soon as he could, and the coach lurched on its way to Ford's Station, the driver grunting about fool old maids who didn't know enough to be glad they were alive.

The Orphan hesitated about the gifts and then decided to take them for the time. He mounted and rode past the coach door, keeping near to the flank of the last horse, where he listened to Bill's endless talk.

"How is it that you've got a Cross Bar-8 cayuse?" Bill asked at length, too idiotically happy to realize the significance of his question.

The Orphan's hand leaped suddenly and then stopped and dropped to the pommel, and he looked up at the driver.

"Oh, one of their punchers and I sort of swapped," he laughingly replied, thinking of the man under the debris. "Say, if I don't get as far as the canon with you, just climb up above on the left hand side near the entrance and release a fool puncher that is covered up under a pile of rubbish, will you? I came near forgetting him, and I don't want him to die in that way."

As he spoke he saw a group of hors.e.m.e.n swing over a rise and he knew them instinctively.

"There's the gang now--tell them, I'm off for a ride," he said, dropping back to the coach door, where he raised his hand to his head and bowed.