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Hame Bozzam was aflame with rage and desire. During the scene in Haskell’s office he had not failed to note the fire in Gawne’s eyes when he had been looking at Kathleen; and the expression in the girl’s eyes had convinced him that she still loved Gawne. He had not been misled by Kathleen’s wrathful accusation to Gawne: “You are a fool!” He had detected the tremor in her voice, and he knew she had meant that Gawne was a fool for being jealous of her—for doubting her. Nor could he fail to appreciate the significance of Kathleen’s bitter denunciation of himself, on the trail after leaving town. The veil of hypocrisy had been rent—further pretense would be futile.

When Bozzam reached the H-B, the men were at supper in the bunkhouse. Bozzam had made plans for a night raid on a distant cattle ranch, but that prospect had dwindled in importance since sundown. Sticking his head in the bunkhouse door, he called Nigger Paisley out. Later, he sent back word to the outfit, by Nigger, to postpone the raid until he returned. Then, accompanied by Nigger, he rode away.

Again he avoided going through Bozzam City. He and Paisley cut through the timber grove, made a detour through a valley, following the river; emerging from the valley far on the other side of Bozzam City, and striking the big basin long after the Diamond Bar men had ridden through it on their way to town.

Kathleen and the Colonel had ridden slowly. The Colonel, knowing Hame Bozzam’s plans for the night raid, had delayed much. He did not want to reach Bozzam City until after the Bozzam outfit departed for the night ride, for, knowing Hame Bozzam, he was certain that punishment, sure and swift, would overtake him. He had given Bozzam his word, and Bozzam’s wrath would be cruel and bitter.

Slipping, like shadows, into the luminous mist that swathed the big basin, the two fugitives rode, far off the trail, screening themselves as much as possible behind the nondescript clumps of brush that dotted the floor of the valley. They had not taken the plains’ trail—which would have led them close to the Diamond Bar ranch—veering off, instead, toward the river, at Kathleen’s request, to take advantage of the shadows of the trees and brush that grew thick near the stream.

The girl was pale and anxious. She had seen the passion for possession in Hame Bozzam’s eyes when he had threatened to ride to the Harkless ranch that night, and she knew he would come.

She had come into the country, confident, full of joy over the prospect of seeing her father, riding through the sunlight and peace of a section of world that she had loved at first sight; she was leaving it, miserable, terror-stricken, cringing with fear, flitting out of it through somber shadows, to escape a danger that, she had no doubt, she had invited. Disillusioned, crushed, dispirited, she was stealing away from two men—one whom she had trusted—and who had violated that trust; and another with whom she had tried to play, confident of her power to discourage him, when the time came.

She did not blame her father entirely. Nor did she blame herself—too much. Everybody had tried to victimize her, and she had only defended herself as best she might, allowing always for the unwise and compelling impulses for revenge, that she had yielded to.

She kept seeing Gawne as she rode—as he had appeared in Bozzam City; as she had seen him standing in the doorway with the Le Claire woman’s arms around him; and as he had stood in Haskell’s office, with the passions of murder and jealousy in his eyes.

Of course she had seen the jealousy—any woman who has been in love with a man can analyze that bitter, soul-racking glare—but it had served him right, and she wasn’t a bit remorseful for that, for he had no right to permit the Le Claire woman to follow him to the Diamond Bar—or to stand brazenly in a doorway, making love to him. And yet, as she rode, the tears of regret over her departure came into her eyes.

They reached a narrowing neck of the basin presently, a slope that led between flanking buttes, upward toward a level, slight but high enough to throw their bodies into bold relief on the sky line. There was no verdure here behind which to conceal themselves; the slope was nothing more than a barren sand ridge dividing one section of the big basin from the other.

They raced their horses up the slope, and across it—it was a full half-mile to the descending slope—and clattered down the other side into the sheltering shadows of the far basin, trembling and apprehensive.

Their rapid, furtive glances into the luminous mists of the basin ahead of them had told them nothing. But, knowing that Bozzam must come this way if he came at all—unless he chose to take the desert trail, which would lead him through Sunshine Gap, and which was a hazardous trail at night, they swung off the trail again, into the shadows of some tall sage and willow and aspen, and rode cautiously, keeping a keen lookout.

They were half-way through the basin when they saw two riders approaching. Kathleen caught a glimpse of them as they swooped over a slight rise; then they disappeared into a depression, only to reappear instantly on the crest of another rise.

She and the Colonel were riding behind the sheltering screen of some sage. It was the only concealment the place afforded; and beyond it was a barren stretch which swept, clear and level, to the point where she had seen the two riders.

They drew their horses to a halt behind the sage; the girl’s hand trembled as it rested on the Colonel’s sleeve; her face, in the warm, mellow glow of the moonlight, was ashen with terror.

Breathlessly, they watched the riders. Kathleen recognized them as Hame Bozzam and Nigger Paisley, and her low gasp brought a muttered warning from the Colonel. She saw Bozzam scan the sage-clump as he came abreast, not more than fifty feet distant. Twice he looked at it, and each time he shifted his gaze to some distant spot. Then, a third time, he turned his face toward them, and the girl groaned, for she saw him reining in his horse.

Kathleen heard Paisley laugh lowly as he pulled up, a little distance beyond Bozzam and turned in the saddle to look back.

“What’s up?” he questioned.

“Nothing, I guess,” answered Bozzam. “Only I thought I saw something in that sage—over there.”

“You’re over anxious,” said Paisley, and the sound of his voice made the girl shiver.

Bozzam grunted, and seemed about to urge his horse on—when the Colonel’s horse heaved audibly.

There was a horribly tense and terrifying interval, during which the girl felt the chill of a clammy paralysis stealing over her. And then, just as she was beginning to yield to a hope that the men had not heard, Bozzam drove the spurs into his horse and plunged toward them.

The girl cried aloud in desperate terror and slapped her horse with the quirt, sending it, snorting with surprise and pain, racing out of the concealment of the sagebrush and over the level toward Bozzam City. She heard her father’s horse coming after her; heard Bozzam laugh, deeply, with cold, taunting mirth. It never occurred to her that the men would shoot—or she would have stood. Her thoughts were centered on the possibility of reaching Bozzam City, where she might find help, to keep Bozzam off. Her horse, she felt, was doing nobly; and her hopes were high. Then she heard a shot. Startled, she turned in the saddle, just in time to see her father reel, clutch at his horse’s mane, miss it and plunge heavily down into the grass of the level.

Her wail of concern and horror fell on a flat, dead silence. She saw Nigger Paisley sitting on his horse, bending over a little to look down upon his victim—she knew, then, that it had been Paisley who had done the shooting—a vindictive grin on his face. She saw Bozzam, not more than a dozen feet from her, swing his horse toward her. The man’s face was alight with savage exultation.

She swayed—she knew she was going to fall—for the level around her was dancing and reeling with dizzying, sickening convolutions. But she felt a horse lunge against hers; an arm went around her; she revived and fought frantically to free herself. But Hame Bozzam, seeming a giant in size and strength, held her in a mighty embrace, so that at last she could not move. So she lay, panting, powerless and impotent, in his arms, looking up into his face, breathing bitter imprecations, her soul revolting at the horrible passion swimming in his smiling, triumphant eyes.

CHAPTER XXIV

BOZZAM’S PRISONER

For a long time Kathleen seemed to be subconsciously aware of a smooth, undulating motion—and a monotonous creaking of saddle leather. She knew she must have fainted; for, before she became conscious of the undulating motion she had not been conscious of anything. Then, when a recollection of what had happened began to steal over her, she struggled, to find herself still in Hame Bozzam’s arms. Bozzam was riding—she on the saddle in front of him; they seemed to be going toward Bozzam City. Indeed, while she was still trying to fix the locality in her mind, Bozzam’s horse clambered up a rise, and she saw they were at the edge of the level that reached to the Bozzam ranch-house. Bozzam halted at the edge of the level; Kathleen saw Paisley riding near, and her own horse, led by the man.

There was a dull, red glow in the sky in the direction of the Bozzam ranchhouse, and she heard Bozzam and Paisley exclaim profanely as they saw it.

“It’s the timber!” said Paisley.

“It’s back of the timber,” cursed Bozzam. “It’s the house! The damned fools!”

Kathleen felt his muscles stiffen; he jerked the reins and the horse lunged forward, nearly unseating her—she was snapped back against Bozzam with a force that almost jarred the breath out of her. Just as suddenly, she lunged the other way—forward; for Bozzam had jerked the horse in before he had traveled a dozen feet. She heard Paisley exclaim, and she looked forward, into the red glow. Framed in it—rather, looming out of it—distinct and grotesque, she saw a horseman racing toward them.

She saw Bozzam and Paisley nervously sweep their gun-sheaths as they watched the rider. Plainly, he saw them, for he came tearing over the level, riding an undeviating line, waving his hands.

When he pulled up within a bridle’s length of them, the girl saw that his face was working with excitement. She had never seen him before; but she heard Hame Bozzam grunt, “Baldy!”

Kathleen listened while Baldy told his story; he spoke in short, sharp, breathless accents:

“Hell’s broke loose!” he said. “Riddle Gawne is on the prod, an’ killin’ mad! His damned eyes is like an iceberg with a fire behind it! It’s a clean-up, for fair! Riddle’s run Reb Haskell out of town! He’s got a bunch of vigilantes with him—an’ some of the Diamond Bar outfit! They’re hell-bent for trouble—an’ gittin’ it! Riddle buffaloed Lowery—an’ the rest; they done et out of his hand. Sloped, clean—without makin’ a peep! They’s twenty-five—”

“What’s the fire?” demanded Bozzam; his voice hoarse. He gulped the words.

“They ain’t a stick of any buildin’ standin’!” declared Baldy. “She’s swept as clean as this here level.” And now that he had told his story, Baldy’s excitement began to abate. He drew a deep breath and tugged at his collar. “I reckon we ain’t got no more home than a coyote,” he added, and grinned mirthlessly at Bozzam. “I done tried to plug Riddle, but somehow my hands forgot where my guns was. I knowed you’d come this way, an’ I wanted to put you wise a few. Riddle’s lookin’ for you; you’re a gone coon soon’s he clamps eyes on you! He means business, Bozzam!”

It gave Kathleen a wild, fierce delight to feel Bozzam squirm behind her. She knew, now, that though he hated Gawne, he feared him more than he hated him. She felt him shiver, during the silence that followed Baldy’s words. Looking, with vindictive contempt, at Nigger Paisley, she saw that his face was ghastly. While she watched him he turned his horse, and dropped the reins of the led-animal. She saw his lips working wordlessly. And then she heard Bozzam’s voice—she hardly recognized it. He was almost breathless; she felt the heave and shudder of his lungs. Terror—the kind she had felt while awaiting discovery by him, some time before—had seized him, she knew it.

“Well,” he said, attempting a laugh—that had a horrible, hollow and grating insincerity in it—“I’ve been getting tired of this country, anyway. We’ll slope, and let Gawne run things. We can’t play the vigilantes’ game—with no outfit.”

There was a mad joy in Kathleen’s veins—a leaping, surging riot that made her reel in the saddle. Gawne was jealous! She knew it, now! This sudden avalanche of reform that he had started was not the result of concern for Bozzam City’s welfare. It was too vicious for that! It was a personal expression of his feelings—of his hatred for Hame Bozzam, and of his jealousy!

Her own passions were singing, attuned to his. For she felt a lust to murder—Paisley. And had she been free she would have ridden directly to Bozzam City, to get Gawne, and have him wreak vengeance upon Paisley for the shooting of her father. She had a hope that Bozzam would release her, now; for she felt that he meditated flight, and she would be an incumbrance. Her heart sank, then, when she heard Bozzam speak gruffly to her:

“Get off! You’ll have to ride your own horse, from now on.”

She scrambled down, thrilling with the joy of freedom that swept over her as her feet touched the ground. She climbed into the saddle on the led-horse, pulled the reins over its head, and, leaning forward over its mane, slapped the animal sharply. She had not ridden more than a dozen paces when Bozzam’s big horse flashed alongside, and Bozzam’s hand went out and seized her bridle. There was a pale, sneering grin on the man’s face.

“No you don’t!” he jeered. “You’re going with me!”

He motioned to Paisley. Kathleen fought, but Paisley, grinning maliciously, tied her hands behind her; then lashed her feet to the stirrups, roughly, tightly, leering at her meanwhile.

Bozzam’s manner had changed; she saw a malevolent devil glinting in his eyes when he surveyed her, after Paisley’s work had been done.

“Gawne’s raising hell—is he? Well, we’ll make this night damned interesting for him!” He turned to Baldy. “You and Nigger hit the breeze over to the Diamond Bar and get Jane Carter. We’ll meet you at the Harkless ranch. Get a jump on you!”

Baldy did not move. He cleared his throat.

“Meanin’ to steal the kid—away from Riddle?” he asked.

He laughed shortly in response to Bozzam’s nod. “Nothin’ doin’ in that line—absolutely nothin’! I ain’t rilin’ Riddle no more’n he is riled. Your little Baldy ain’t exactly pinin’ for the mourners!”

Bozzam’s face bloated poisonously. For an instant Kathleen thought he would draw his pistol and shoot Baldy down. Baldy seemed to have the same thought, for his right hand hovered close to his gun sheath. But finally Bozzam laughed, sneeringly.

“Slope, then!” he commanded; “Get back to the gang, and beat it!”

Baldy backed his horse away, watching furtively, a cold grin on his face. When he wheeled the animal he ducked, bending low, and racing, zigzag fashion over the level until he was beyond pistol range. Then he sent back a derisive: “So-long!”