Toward five o'clock, her bread being baked, Faith put in the oven a pan containing two young mallards and a blue grouse, all overlaid with strips of bacon. She made her vegetables ready and set the table. Now and then she glanced from the window expectantly, but saw nothing of Angus. When dusk came she lighted the lamps.

Finally she ate her own supper alone, slightly annoyed. Angus had promised to be back in time. Something must have detained him. She put his meal in the warming oven, sat down and tried to read. But somehow the book failed to interest. She had recourse to the banjo, but that little sister of the lonesome failed of charm. The wind rose until it was blowing a gale. Once she went to the door and looked out. The darkness seemed intense.

Ten o'clock came. What on earth was keeping Angus? She began to worry, which she told herself was absurd. Resolutely she sat down and picked up a book. She would not allow herself to be stampeded by nerves. She made up her mind to sit on that couch before the fire until her husband returned.

She found it hard to keep this resolution. She craved movement. She wanted a drink, an apple, a different book—anything, to get up and move around. But she resisted these assaults on her will.

Her thoughts reverted to the foolery of the preceding night. She had pretended to be a cave woman with her man. Now she was alone. What happened to those ancient women whose men went out never to return? How long did they feed the fire o' nights, and listen alone to the noises of the dark? The fancy proved more attractive than the book. She leaned back comfortably, enjoying the play of her imagination, constructing the life story of an unknown sister in the dawn of the world and presently, in proof that there was nothing seriously wrong with her nerves, she fell asleep before the fire.

She woke with a start. There were footsteps in the house. Angus, then, had come back. She smiled, contented. She would scold him—in fun. But as she listened the footsteps seemed to differ from his firm, light tread. The handle of the door turned and a man who was not Angus stood framed in the opening—a man who wore a handkerchief across his face, whose eyes, invisible beneath the shadow of a broad hatbrim, peered at her through holes cut in the fabric.

Though a horrible, sinking feeling of nervousness assailed her, she did not cry out. She regarded the intruder in silence. As he came into the room she stared at him—at his leather chaps, at the gun in its holster, at his hands, taking in every little detail. He spoke.

"Don't be scared," he said in deep tones which she judged were unnatural. "You won't be hurt."

"I'm not afraid," she replied, and was surprised to find her voice quite steady. "What do you want?"

"I want those deeds."

He could mean only the deeds Turkey had given her. Then he must be an emissary of Braden. Obviously it was not Braden himself. But how could he know who had the deeds?

"Now, listen," the masked man added as she did not reply: "I know you have them. I know they are here in this house. You'll save trouble by handing them over."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," Faith told him; "and you had better go before my husband comes home."

The masked man laughed. "Your husband won't be home for a while. If you won't give them to me I'll find them myself."

"Very well," Faith replied. "But don't break anything, please."

"You've got nerve, all right," the man conceded. As he spoke another man similarly masked entered, standing by the door. The first turned to him and they held a whispered conversation. "Well, we'll look for 'em," the first man announced. "If you're sensible you'll just sit quiet."

Faith sat quietly while they took a leisurely survey of the room. Her writing desk in the corner was their first objective point. Suddenly it came to her that their manner of procedure was too leisurely. They did not fear interruption. She remembered the first man's words when she had spoken of her husband. Was his continued absence in some way due to them? She felt a sickening apprehension, a feeling of desertion, of helplessness.

She began to study the intruders, to find if she could note something by which to identify them. There was nothing recognizable about the first. The second was a big man. His face was quite invisible. A riding slicker concealed most of his figure. She had not heard his voice. And yet she found something elusively familiar in his presence.

From her bedroom she heard the sounds of drawers pulled out and closed and the slam of a trunk lid. She would have been amused at the hopelessness of their search but for her growing anxiety for her husband. Even if he did come, they were armed and he was not. The search progressed from one room to another, and as it did so it became more impatient. At last they gave it up, and the first man advanced to her.

"You have those papers pretty well cached," he admitted. "Where are they?"

"I thought you were going to find them."

"You can cut that out. Now you're going to tell us where they are."

"Am I?"

"That's what I said. Now see here; I'm going to give it to you straight: Your husband isn't going to come home till we turn him loose. He told us you had those deeds. When you give 'em up you'll see him, and not before."

"My husband never told you anything of the sort," Faith said. "You're merely bluffing."

"Bluffing or not, we're going to get what we came for. You're alone. There isn't a living soul in miles. We don't want to hurt you or your husband, but if you've got any sense you'll give up, and save trouble for everybody."

"What you want isn't here," Faith told him.

"Where are those deeds? Who has them?"

"I won't tell you."

"We know they are here. Riley hasn't got them, because we've gone through his office. And your husband hasn't got them, because we've gone through him. So you have them. You can't bluff us. No more nonsense, now!" He caught her wrist with one hand, while with the other he thrust the muzzle of his gun in her face. "Hand them over," he snarled ferociously, "or say your prayers!"

But in spite of the fact that the ring of steel almost touched her forehead Faith was not convinced. It was melodrama, tawdry, poor. The man was a poor actor. She laughed in his face.

"Take care!" she said, "you are hurting my wrist."

For a moment the muzzle touched her forehead and the grip tightened. Then he flung her wrist aside.

"What the hell can you do with a woman, anyway?" he demanded in disgust. But his companion sprang forward. "You let her bluff you," he growled hoarsely, "but she won't bluff me!" He caught Faith by the throat. "Where are they?" he demanded. "Talk quick, or I'll choke you!" His fingers compressed her throat till she gasped. The strong taint of alcohol met her nostrils.

"No, damn it!" the first man cried, in protest; but his companion cursed him, swinging Faith between them.

"You keep out of this!" he cried savagely. "I'll make her talk inside a minute!" And his grip shut down.

This time there was no bluff. Faith realized the primitive savagery of the hands that were laid on her. With the knowledge she fought wildly, like a cornered animal. For a moment the other man was forgotten. Anger and fear lent her strength. She caught at the handkerchief which hid her assailant's face, and as he loosed one hand to catch her wrist, she broke away, tearing the cloth with her. She reeled back, gasping, disheveled, her dress torn at the throat, her hair bursting from confining pins falling on her shoulders.

"Blake!" she cried hoarsely. "Blake French!"

Stripped of his disguise, Blake French faced her, lowering, ferocious—but suddenly afraid.

"I wasn't going to hurt you," he said.

Her hands went to her throat.

"To hurt me? You liar! You utter brute! Is that what you will tell my husband?"

Blake's face contorted. He took a step forward.

"You'll tell him, will you?"

"Of course I will!" Faith cried.

Blake French knew that her recognition was disastrous. The whole plan, including the blackmail of Braden, had depended upon recovering the deeds without recognition. But now the matter of the deeds faded into nothingness. His innate brutality had swept him away, carried him too far. Apart from the law he knew the penalty that Angus Mackay would exact from the man who laid hands on his wife. But Angus was lying roped, helpless, a mile away. He was afraid, desperate. There must be silence; at all costs, silence.

He advanced. Faith sprang back, putting the table between them. But Garland suddenly interposed. Like Blake, he saw the collapse of their plans, but he accepted the failure.

"No more of that!" he said. "Let her alone!"

Blake turned on him in fury.

"You damned fool!" he snarled. "We've got to fix her, and Mackay, too, now!"

"You're crazy!" Garland cried. "Do you want to hang?"

"And do you want Mackay to kill you?" Blake retorted. He sprang forward, caught the table and thrust it aside. But Garland caught his arm.

"Let her alone, I tell you!" he repeated. "Come on; it's all off. Let's get out of here!"

Blake with a swift jerk ripped the concealing handkerchief from Garland's face. "Let her take a look at you, too!" he cried and flinging him aside drew his gun and turned on Faith.

Faith, facing him helpless, found herself looking into the eyes of Murder. It was useless to run. She stood and waited, white to the lips, but looking him in the face. The gun rose. Garland, recovering, sprang at Blake. But at that instant the door went wide with the crash of a shattered catch, and into the room bounded Angus Mackay.

He was hatless, wet, plastered with mud. His eyes blazed in his swarthy face. At a glance they took in the disorder, the overturned table; Faith standing at bay, Blake French with drawn gun, Garland suddenly arrested in his spring. Then in grim, deadly silence he launched himself at Blake.

Faith saw the gun shift and swing. Its report in the confines of the room was shattering. Garland struck Blake's arm as the weapon blazed a second time; but Angus staggered and pitched forward at Blake's feet.

Forgetful of all else Faith sprang forward and knelt beside him, lifting his head. Blood oozed horribly from his dark hair. She turned her face, white, anguished, to his slayer. Above her, Garland in panic cursed Blake.

"Now you've done it!" he said between oaths. "You've killed him."

"She—she'll tell!" Blake chattered with quivering lips. "We've got to—" He raised his gun with twitching hand. Garland caught it. He thrust his own weapon in Blake's face.

"If you try that I'll blow your head off!" he declared. With a quick wrench he twisted the weapon from Blake, and menacing him with his gun shoved him toward the door. "We've got to make a get-away. Get the horses, quick!" At the door he hesitated. Returning he knelt beside Faith.

"Let me see a minute," he said. Her senses were too dulled to shrink from him. Suddenly he drew a quick breath, almost a gasp of relief. "He isn't dead."

"Not dead?" Faith cried.

"Not by a long ways. Just creased along the scalp. I guess I hit the gun just in time, and I'm mighty near as glad as you are. He'll be all right. I just want to say, before I pull out, that I never meant to do more than scare you. Maybe you think I'm lying, and I don't blame you. But I'm not."

"I believe you," Faith said. In her sudden relief lesser things did not matter. "I don't know what to do. Stay and help me, please."

"I guess you don't understand," he returned, shaking his head. "This would mean about twenty years apiece for me and Blake if we're caught. And then"—he nodded at Angus—"when he comes around there won't be room enough in this country for him and us."

"But I'll tell him you helped me—how you struck Blake's arm—and afterward!"

"You're one white girl," Garland said with emphasis, "but I'm in too deep. You can tell him if you like, and you can tell him I'm pulling out. I never meant to do more than bluff you. Good-by."

He was gone. Faith got water, towels, and bathed Angus' head. Touching the wound with tender fingers she found that as Garland had said it was apparently in the scalp merely. Presently Angus sighed, stirred, muttered and opened his eyes.

"Hello!" he said, and as recollection came to him he sat up suddenly, staring around. "Where are they?" he demanded.

"They are gone, dear. It's all right. Don't try to get up."

But he shook his head impatiently and rose to his feet.

"What happened? Blake French and Garland! What were they doing? What's the matter with your hair? Your dress is torn." A tremendous expletive burst from him. "What are those marks on your throat?"

Her hand fluttered upward involuntarily. "Nothing. Never mind now. Please——"

"They laid hands on you!" he cried. "On you! And I wasn't here! Tell me. No, no, I'm all right. Tell me!"

She told him, seeing his face set and grow rigid. He groaned.

"They stretched a rope between two trees, and I rode into it. The fall almost knocked me out, and they finished the job. They roped me up. It took me a long time to get loose." He held out his wrists, stripped of skin to the raw flesh. "I was afraid of some devil's work, but——" He broke off, shaking his head, and put his hand to his left side. When he removed it his finger tips were stained.

"Oh, you are hurt—twice!" Faith cried.

"I don't think this is much." He stripped himself to the waist. The lamplight revealed a red furrow lying along his ribs, but though it bled freely the skin was little more than broken. To Faith's pleading to lie down he shook his head. On his instructions she brought an old sheet which he ripped into a long bandage. "That was Blake's first shot," he said as he replaced his garments. "He'll have to do better shooting than that—next time."

"Next time?" she exclaimed.

He did not reply, but going into the hall came back with a rifle in one hand and his gun belt in the other.

"Old girl, please rustle me some grub—cold meat and bread—and put it in an old sugar sack."

"But Angus, what are you going to do?"

"To do? I am going after Blake French and Garland, of course."

"But you are hurt. You are not fit—"

"I am not hurt at all—to speak of. I have a long account to settle with Blake French and Garland—yes, and with the whole bunch of those Frenches and Braden as well—and now I am going to clean it up."

"But if I forgive—"

"Forgive!" he interrupted bitterly. "It doesn't matter to me what you forgive. You are a woman. But I am a man and you are my wife, and I can see the marks of Blake French's fingers on your flesh. As surely as God lives I will kill him, or he will kill me. About Garland I don't know—yet."

His will was set, hardened; his mood black, deadly. Immediately he set about his simple preparations. He knew that Blake and Garland would not wait his coming. In all probability they would break for the hills, where he must be prepared to follow them. He had found Chief, who had come home of his own accord, waiting by the gate. A pack pony would hamper his movements. He shoved his food in a sack, rolled a single blanket in a tarp, got out a heavy sweater and changed his boots for shoe-packs. Then he held out his arms to Faith. She clung to him.

"Don't go!" she pleaded. "If anything should happen—now—"

"I must go," he said. "If I didn't I should be less than a man. Nothing will happen—to me. To-morrow—or it's to-day now, I guess—go to the ranch and stay there till I get back."

He kissed her gently and put her from him. She followed him to the door and saw him mount. He waved his hand and vanished in the blackness of the night.

Faith returned to the living-room and sank into a chair. She was shaken, bone-tired, sick at heart. A lifetime seemed to have passed since she and Angus had sat there the night before, indulging in make-believe playing at tragedy. Now tragedy had invaded their lives. It was like an evil dream.

How long she sat there she never knew. Nor did she know how she became aware that she was not alone. She turned her head to see a figure standing behind her. Her shaken nerves forced a cry from her lips.

It was the old Indian, Paul Sam. There was a rifle under his arm, and around his middle was a belt from which in a beaded scabbard hung a long, broad-bladed knife. He was hatless, and his long, gray hair hung in two braids in front of his shoulders.

"All right," he said. "You not be scared. Where him Angus?"

"He isn't here."

The old Indian's eyes roved around the room, resting on the signs of disorder. "Iktah mamook?" he queried.

"I don't understand."

"What you mamook? What you do?" He threw up his head, his nostrils twitching like a dog's. "Smell um smoke," he said. "Somebody shoot. You see um Blake French?"

"He was here, but he has gone," Faith told him.

The old Indian's dark eyes peered at her, noting her agitation. "Me ol' man," he said. "Angus, him my tillikum. You him klootchman, him wife, all same my tillikum. Goo'-by."

Faith, left alone, knew she could not sleep. She dreaded the darkness, the lying waiting for slumber which would not come. She decided to stay before the fire till daylight. Then she would go to the Mackay ranch.

The wind had ceased, and in the comparative stillness she heard a low, distant drumming which she recognized as the sound of horses' hoofs. They approached, halted, and she started up in apprehension. What would happen next? Was everybody abroad that night? Footsteps tramped on the veranda; somebody knocked.

"Who is there?" she demanded.

"Me—Turkey."

She opened the door. There stood Turkey. Shadowy in the background was Rennie with the horses. She saw that Turkey was armed.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "You look sick. Where's Angus?"

She told him, finding relief in the confidence. Turkey might bring Angus back, or see that no harm befell him. As he listened a hard light came into Turkey's eyes.

"If Angus don't get Blake and Nick Garland, I will," he declared. "But I didn't know they were here. I thought they were with the bunch that did up Braden."

"Did up Braden?"

Turkey nodded. "The French boys—I thought sure Blake was in it, but I guess he couldn't have been—blew open Braden's safe and got away with the whole works. Braden was shot. Dave and I are part of a posse raised to round them up, and I wanted Angus. Braden, before he died, said that Gavin French is the man that shot father."