NE morning, three days later, Pole Baker slouched down the street from the wagon-yard and went into Garner & Dwight's office, finding Garner at his desk. The mountaineer looked cautiously about the room and asked, in a guarded tone: “Is Carson anywhars about?”

“Not down yet,” Garner said. “His mother was not so well last night, and it may be that he had to sit up with her and has overslept himself.”

“Well, I'm glad he ain't here,” Baker said, “for I want to speak to you about him sorter in private.”

“Anything gone wrong?” Garner asked, looking up curiously.

“Well, not yet, Bill, but I believe in takin' the bull by the horns before he takes you in the stomach. I've been powerful afeared for some time that Carson and Dan Willis would run together, and I dread it now more than ever. In the first place, I don't like the look in Carson's eye. He knows that devil has been on his track, and it has worked him up powerful; besides, Willis is more rampant than ever.”

“What's gone wrong with him?” Garner inquired, uneasily.

“Well, for a while, you know, he was full of hope that Wiggin was goin' to beat Carson, and that sorter satisfied him, but now that Wiggin is losin' ground, Dan don't see revenge that way. Besides, since old Sister Parsons made that rip-roarin' speech respectable folks are turnin' the'r backs on Wiggin and all his backers. The gal Willis was to marry has throwed 'im clean over, an' the preacher at Hill Crest just as good as called his name out in meetin' in talkin' of the open lawlessness that is spreadin' over the land. Oh, Willis is mad—he's got all hell in 'im, an' he's makin' more threats agin Dwight. Now, to-morrow is Friday, an' the next day is Saturday, an' on Saturday Dan Willis is comin' in town. I got that straight. Wiggin is a snake in the grass, and he's constantly naggin' Dan about his row with Carson, and it will take slick work on our part to prevent serious trouble. Wiggin wouldn't care. If the two met he'd profit either way, for if Carson was killed he'd have the field to himself, an' if Carson killed Willis the boy'd have to stand trial for his life, an' a man wouldn't run much of a political race with a charge of bloody murder hangin' over 'im.”

“True—true as Gospel!” Garner frowned; “but what plan had you in mind, Pole—I mean what plan to obviate trouble?”

“Why, you see,” the mountaineer replied, “I 'lowed you might be able to trump up some business excuse for gittin' Carson out o' town next Saturday.”

“Well, I think I can,” Garner cried, his eyes brightening. “The truth is, I was to go myself over to see old man Purdy, the other side of Springtown> to take his deposition in an important matter, but I can pretend to be tied here and foist it onto Carson.”

“Good; that's the stuff!” Pole said, with a smile of satisfaction. “But for the love of mercy don't let Dwight dream what's in the wind or he'd die rather than budge an inch.”

So it was that Carson the following Friday afternoon made his preparations for a ride on horseback through the country, his plan being to spend the night at the little hotel at Springtown and ride on to Purdy's farm the next morning after breakfast, and return to Darley Saturday evening shortly after dark. His horse stood at the hitching-rack in front of the office, and, ready for his journey, he was going out when Garner called him back.

“Are you armed, my boy?” Garner questioned.

“Not now, old man,” Dwight said. “I've carried that two pounds of cold metal on my hip till I got tired of it and left it in my room. If I can't live in a community without being a walking arsenal I'll leave the country.”

“You'd better make an exception of to-day, anyhow,” Garner said, reaching down into the drawer of his desk. “Here, take my gun.”

“Well, I might accidentally need it,” Dwight said, thoughtfully, as he took the weapon and put it into his pocket.

As he was unfastening his horse, Dr. Stone crossed the street from the opposite sidewalk and approached him.

“Where are you off to this time?” the old man asked.

Carson explained as he tightened the girth of his saddle and pulled the blanket into place.

“Well, I'd get back as soon as I could well manage it,” the physician said, his eyes on the ground. Carson started and looked grave.

“Why, doctor, you are not afraid—”

“Oh, she's doing very well, my boy, but—well, there is no use keeping back anything from anybody as much concerned as you are. The truth is, she's very low. I think we can pull her through all right, with care and attention, but I feel that I ought to warn you and lecture you a little, too. You see, as I've often said, she is a woman who suffers mightily from worry and excitement of any kind, and your adventures of late have not had the best effect on her health. I hope it's all over and that you will settle down to something more steady. Her life really is in your hands more than mine, for if you should have any more trouble of a serious nature it would simply kill her. I only mention this,” the doctor continued, laying his hand on the young man's arm half apologetically, “because there is some little talk going round that you and Dan Willis haven't quite settled your differences yet. If I were in your place, Carson, I'd take a good deal from that man before I'd have trouble with him right now, considering the critical condition your mother is in. A shooting-scrape on top of all the rest, even if you got-the best of it, would simply send that good woman to her grave.”

“Then we won't have any shooting-scrape!” Carson said, his voice quivering. “You can depend on that, doctor.”

The road Dwight took as the most direct way to his destination really passed within two miles of the home of Dan Willis, and yet the likelihood of his meeting the desperado never once crossed Carson's mind. In this, however, he was to meet with surprise. He had got well into the mountains, and, full of hope as to his campaign, was heartily enjoying a slow ride on his ambling horse through a narrow, shaded road, after leaving the heat of the open thoroughfare, when far ahead of him he saw a horseman at the side of the way pinning with his pocket-knife to the smooth bark of a sycamore-tree a white envelope. The distance was at first too great for Dwight to recognize the rider, though his object and occupation were soon evident, for suddenly wheeling on his rather skittish mount the man drew back about twenty paces from the tree, drew a revolver and began to fire at the target, sending one shot after the other, as rapidly as he could rein and spur his frightened animal to an approved distance and steadiness, until his weapon was empty. The marksman, evidently a mountaineer, as indicated by his wide-brimmed soft hat and easy gray shirt, thrust his hand into his trousers-pocket and took out sufficient cartridges for another round, and was thumbing them dexterously into their places when Carson drew near enough to recognize him.

A thrill, a sort of shock, certainly not due even to subconscious fear, passed over Dwight, and he almost drew upon his rein. Then a hot flush of shame rose in him and tingled through every nerve in his body, as he wondered if for one instant he could have feared the presence of any living man, armed or unarmed, and running his hand behind him to be sure that his own revolver was in place, and with his head well up he rode even more briskly forward. He had no thought of caution. The sharp warning Dr. Stone had given him so recently never entered his brain. That was the man who, on several occasions, had threatened to kill him, and who, Carson firmly believed, had once tried it. That there was to be grim trouble he did not doubt. Averting it after the manner of a coward was not thought of.

When the two riders were about a hundred yards apart, Dan Willis, hearing the fall of horses' hoofs, looked up suddenly. There was no mistaking the evolution of his facial expression from startled bewilderment to that of angry, bestial satisfaction. Uttering an unctuous grunt of delight, and with his revolver swinging easily against his brawny thigh, by the aid of his tense left hand the mountaineer drew his horse squarely into the very middle of the narrow road and there essayed to check him. The animal, quivering with excitement from the shots just fired over his head, was still restive and swerved tremblingly from side to side, but with prodding spur and fierce command Willis managed to keep him in the attitude of open opposition to Carson's passage, which was, as things go in the mountains, a threat not to be misunderstood.

Carson Dwight read the action well, and his blood boiled.

“Halt thar!” Dan Willis suddenly called out, in a sharp, fierce tone, and as he spoke he raised his revolver till the hand holding it rested on the high pommel of his saddle.

“Why should I halt?” almost to his surprise rang clearly from Dwight's lips. “This is a public road!”

“Not for yore sort,” was hurled back. “It's entirely too narrow for a gentleman an' a dog to pass on. I'm goin' to pass, but I'll walk my hoss over yore body. I've been praying for this chance, an' God or Hell, one or t'other, sent it to me. Some folks say you've got grit. I've my doubts about it, for you are the hardest man to meet I ever wanted to settle with, but if you've got any sand in yore gizzard you've got a chance to spill some of it now.”

“I don't want to have trouble with you,” Dwight controlled himself enough to say. “Bloodshed is not in my line.”

“But you've got to fight!” Willis roared. “If you don't I'll ride up to you an' spit in yore damned, sneakin' face.”

“Well, I hardly think you'll do that,” said Carson, his rage overwhelming him. “But before we go into this thing tell me, for my own satisfaction if you are the one who tried to kill me the night Pete Warren was jailed.”

“You bet I was, and damned sorry I missed.” Willis's revolver was raised. The sharp click of the hammer sounded like the snapping of a metallic twig. Then alive but to one thought, and that of alert and instantaneous self-preservation, Dwight quickly drew his weapon. With his teeth ground together, his breath coming fast, he took as careful aim as was possible at the shifting horseman, conscious of the advantage his antagonist had over him in the calmness of his own mount. He saw a puff of smoke before Willis's eyes, heard the sharp report of the mountaineer's revolver, and wondered if the ball had lodged in his body.

“I am fully justified,” something within him seemed to say as he pressed the trigger of his revolver. His hand had never been more steady, his aim never better, and yet the smile and taunting laugh of Willis proved to him that he had missed. The eyes of his assailant gleamed like those of an infuriated beast as he tried to steady his rearing and plunging horse to shoot again. Once more he fired, but the shot went wild, and with a snort of fear his horse broke from the road and plunged madly into the bushes bordering the way. Carson could just see Willis's head and shoulders above a thick growth of wild vines and at these he aimed steadily and fired. Had he won? he asked himself. There was a smothered report from Willis's revolver, as if it were fired by an inert finger. The mountaineer's head sank out of sight. What did it mean? Carson wondered, and with his weapon still cocked and poised he grimly waited. It was only for an instant, for the frightened horse plunged out into the open again. Willis was still in the saddle, but what was it about him that seemed so queer? He was evidently making an effort to guide his horse, but the hand holding his revolver hung helplessly against his thigh; his left shoulder was sinking. Then Carson caught sight of his face, a frightful, blood-packed mask distorted past recognition, that of a dying man—a horrible, never-to-be-forgotten grimace. The horses bore the antagonists closer together; their eyes met in a direct stare. Willis's body was rocking like a mechanical thing on a pivot.

“You forced me to do it!” Carson Dwight said, his great soul rising to heights of pity and dismay never reached before. “God knows I did not want to shoot you. Dan, I never have had anything against you. I would have avoided this if I could.”

The stare of the wounded man flickered. With a moan of pain he bent to the neck of his horse and remained there a moment, and then, dropping his revolver and resting both quivering hands on the pommel of his saddle, he drew himself partially erect. His eyes were rolling upward, his purple lips moved as if to speak, but his vocal organs seemed to have lost their power. Holding to his pommel with his left hand, he raised his right and partially extended it towards Dwight, but he had not the strength to sustain its weight, and with another moan, a frothing at the mouth, Dan Willis toppled from his horse and went to the ground, the animal breaking away in alarm and running down the road.

Quickly dismounting, Carson bent over the dying man. “Dan, were you offering me your hand?” he asked, tenderly. But there was no response. The mountaineer was dead. There he lay, a pint whiskey flask nearly empty of its contents protruding from his shirt.

Carson looked up and about him. The sky had never seemed clearer, the forest never so beautifully lush and green, so full of sylvan recesses and the gladsome songs of birds. Higher and more majestic never had the mountains seemed to tower into God's infinite blue. And yet here at his feet lay the remains of one who had been created in the image of his Maker, as lifeless as the clod from which he had sprung. All this—and Carson's horse nibbling with bitted mouth the short grass which grew about. There were no fires of satisfied revenge at which the spiritually chilled young man could warm himself. Regret steeped in the vat of remorse filled his young soul. Seating himself at the side of the road, he remained there a long time calmly laying his plans. Of course, knowing the law as he knew it, he would give himself up to the sheriff. Then with a start and a shock of horror he thought of his mother. Dr. Stone's warning now loomed up before him as if written in letters of fire. Yes, this—this, of all things, would kill her! Knowing her nature, nothing that could happen to him would be more fatal. Not even his own death by violence would hold such terrors for her sensitive, imaginative temperament, which exaggerated every ill or evil that beset his path. After all, he grimly asked himself, which way did his real duty lie? Obedience to the law he reverenced demanded that he throw himself upon its slow and creaking routine, and yet was there not a higher tribunal? By what right should the legal machinery of his or any other country require the life of a stricken woman that the majesty of its forms might be upheld and the justice or injustice to an outlaw who had persistently hounded him be formally passed upon?

No, he told himself, the right to protect his mother was his—it was even more, as he saw it, it was his first duty. And yet if he kept his own counsel, he asked himself, his legal mind now active, what were the chances of escape from accusation? Noticing the target still pinned to the trunk of the tree with the dead man's pocket-knife, the shots showing on the bark and paper, and the sprawling attitude of the corpse with the wound over the region of the heart, he asked himself, with faintly rising hope, what more natural than to assume that death had resulted from accident? What more reasonable than the theory that on his frightened horse Dan Willis had accidentally directed his shot upon his own body? What better evidence that he was not at himself than the almost empty flask in his shirt? Yes, Carson Dwight decided, it was his duty to wait at least to see further before taking a step which would result in even deeper tragedy. Besides, he knew he was morally guiltless. His conscience was clear; there was consolation in that at all events. But now what must he do? To go on to Springtown by that road was out of the question, for only a mile or so farther on was a store and a few farm-houses, and it would be known there that he had passed the fatal spot. So, remounting, he rode slowly back towards Darley, now earnestly, and even craftily, hoping that he would meet no one. He was successful, for he reached the main road, which was longer, not so well graded, and a more sparsely settled thoroughfare to his destination.

He had lost time, and he now put his horse into a brisk canter and sped onward with a queer blending of emotions. The thought of possibly saving his mother from a terrible shock buoyed him up while the grewsome happening put a weight upon him he had never borne before.