Terrill," he muttered.

d.i.c.k walked on entirely unconscious of how close he had been to death, with his friend as his murderer.

So interested had the two men been in their conversation, that neither had noticed Buck McKee hiding behind the hedge, listening to their talk, and covering Jack Payson, when he was following d.i.c.k with his hand on his revolver. McKee heard Payson's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, and smiled grimly.

Jack's absence had aroused Jim Allen, who hurried out on the porch, storming. "Say, Jack, what do you mean by putting the brakes on this yere weddin'?"

"Jim--say, Jim! I--want you to do something for me," cried Jack, as he rushed toward his future father-in-law, greatly excited.

"Sure," answered Allen heartily.

"Stand here at this door during the ceremony, and no matter what happens don't let any one in."

"But--" interrupted Allen.

"Don't ask me to explain," blurted Jack. "Echo's happiness is at stake."

"That settles it--I've not let any one spile her happiness yet, an' I won't in the few minutes that are left while I'm still her main protector. n.o.body gets in."

"Remember--no one--no matter who it is," emphasized Jack, as he darted into the house.

Jim Allen lighted his pipe. "Now, what's eatin' him?" he muttered to himself. Then, "They're off!" he cried, looking through the window.

The Reverend Samuel Price began to drone the marriage-service.

It is the little things in life that count, after all. Men will work themselves into hysteria over the buzzing of a fly, and yet plan a battle-ship in a boiler-shop. A city full of people will at one time become panic-stricken over the burning of a rubbish-heap, and at another camp out in the ruins of fire-swept homes, treating their miseries as a huge joke.

Philosophers write learnedly of cause and effect. In chemistry certain combinations give certain results. But no man can say: "I will do thus and so, this and that will follow." All things are possible, but few things are probable.

d.i.c.k Lane had planned to shield Echo by writing to Jack Payson, letting him break the news of his return. Fate would have it that she would not know until too late of his escape. A letter sent directly to her might have prevented much unhappiness and many heartaches. Not till months later, when happiness had returned, did Jack realize that his one great mistake was made by not telling Echo of d.i.c.k's rescue.

Both d.i.c.k and Echo might have had a change of heart when they met again. Echo was young. d.i.c.k had wandered far. Both had lost touch with common interests. Jack Payson had entered her life as a factor.

He was eager and impetuous; d.i.c.k was settled and world-worn by hardship and much physical suffering. Now Jack was at the altar racked with mental torture, while d.i.c.k waited in the garden for his traitorous friend. The innocent cause of the tragedy was sweetly and calmly replying to the questions of the marriage-ritual, while Jack was looking, as Allen said to himself, "darned squeamish."

"According to these words, it is the will of G.o.d that nothing shall sever the marriage-bond," were the words that fell upon Allen's ears as he stooped to look in the window at the wedding-party.

"The Sky Pilot's taking a long time to make the hitch. Darned if I couldn't hitch up a twenty-mule team in the time that he's takin' to get them two to the pole," said Allen, speaking to himself.

d.i.c.k had grown impatient at Jack's absence, and wandered back from the garden to the front of the house. Spying Allen, he greeted him with "h.e.l.lo, Uncle Jim."

"That's my name," answered Allen suspiciously. "But I ain't uncle to every stranger that comes along."

"I'm no stranger," laughed d.i.c.k. "You know me."

"Do I?" replied Allen, unconvinced. "Who are you?"

"The poor orphan you took from an asylum and made a man of--d.i.c.k Lane."

"d.i.c.k Lane!" repeated the astonished ranchman. "Come back from the dead!"

"No, I ain't dead yet," answered d.i.c.k, holding out his hand, which Allen gingerly grasped, as if he expected to find it thin air. "I wasn't killed. I have been in the hospital for a long time. I wrote Jack--he knows."

"My G.o.d!" Allen cried. "Jack knows--you wrote to him--he knows." Over and over he repeated the astonishing news which had been broken to him so suddenly. Here was a man, as if back from the dead, standing in his own dooryard, telling him that Jack knew he was alive. No word had been told him. What could Echo say? This, then, explained Jack's strange request, and his distress.

"And Echo?" d.i.c.k questioned, glancing toward the house.

"Echo." The name aroused Allen. He saw at once that he must act definitely and quickly. Echo must not see d.i.c.k now. It was too late.

The secret of his return on the wedding-day must be known only to the three men.

"Look here, d.i.c.k," he commanded. "You mustn't let her see you--she mustn't know you are alive."

d.i.c.k was growing confused over the mystery which was being thrown about Echo Allen. First Jack had told him he must wait to see her, and now her father tells him he must never see her again, or let her know that he is alive. His strength was being overtaxed by all this evasion and delay.

"d.i.c.k," said Allen, with deep sympathy, laying his hand upon the man's shoulder. "She's my daughter an' I want her life to be happy. Can't you see? Do you understand? She thinks you're dead."

"What are you saying?" cried d.i.c.k, trying to fathom the riddle.

"You've come back too late, d.i.c.k," sadly explained Allen.

"Too late," echoed d.i.c.k. "There's something back of all this. I'll see her now."

He started to enter the door, but Allen restrained him. "You can't go in," he shouted to the excited man, and pushed him down the steps. It was an easy task for him for d.i.c.k was too weak to offer much resistance. "No, you won't," he gently told him. His heart bled for the poor fellow, whom he loved almost as a son, but Echo's happiness was at stake, and explanations could come later. More to emphasize his earnestness than to indicate intention to shoot, he laid his hand on the b.u.t.t of his revolver, saying: "Not if I have to kill you."

d.i.c.k began to realize that whatever was wrong was of the greatest consequence. It was a shock to him to have his oldest, his best friend in the West treat him in this fashion.

"Jim!" he cried in his anguish.

"You've got to go back where you came from, d.i.c.k," sternly answered the ranchman. "If ever you loved my daughter, now's your chance to prove it--she must never know you're livin--"

"But--"

"It's a whole lot I'm askin' of you, d.i.c.k," continued Allen. "But if you love her, as I think you do, it may be a drop of comfort in your heart to know that by doin' this great thing for her, you'll be makin'

her life better and happier."

"I do love her," cried d.i.c.k pa.s.sionately; "but there must be some reason--tell me."

Allen held up his hand to warn d.i.c.k to be silent. He beckoned him to follow him. Slowly he led him to the door, and, partly opening it, motioned him to listen.

"Forasmuch as John Payson and Echo Allen have consented together in holy wedlock" were the words that fell upon his ears.

As the doomed man stands, motionless, before his judges, and hears his death-sentence read without a tremor, ofttimes thinking of some trifle, so d.i.c.k stood for a moment. At first he did not fully realize what it all meant. Then the full depth of his betrayal flooded him. "What?"

he cried. "Payson!" Allen held him back.

Again the minister's voice fell upon their ears repeating the solemn words. "And have declared the same before G.o.d and in the presence of these witnesses, I p.r.o.nounce them husband and wife. What G.o.d hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

d.i.c.k, shaken and hurt, slowly sank to his knees, covering his face with his hands. A dry sob shook his frame. Here was the end of all his hopes. Here was the sad reward for years of toil and waiting.

"Now you know why you can't stay here," said Allen, his tones full of pity.