The grewsome cavalcade wended its way townward. Moll Hawk sat between the sheriff and Cyrus Allen on the springless board that served as a seat atop the lofty sideboards of the wagon. The crude wooden wheels rumbled and creaked and jarred along the deep-rutted road, jouncing the occupants of the vehicle from side to side with unseemly playfulness. Back in the bed of the wagon, under a gaily coloured Indian blanket, lay the outstretched body of Jasper Suggs, seemingly alive and responsive to the jolts and twists and turns of the road. The rear end gate had been removed and three men sat with their heels dangling outside, their backs to the sinister, unnoticed traveller who shared accommodations with them. The central figure was Martin Hawk, grim, saturnine, silent, his feet and hands secured with leather thongs. Trotting along under his heels, so to speak, were his three dogs,—their tongues hanging out, their tails drooping, their eyes turning neither to right nor left. They were his only friends.

Some distance behind rode three horsemen, leading as many riderless steeds. On ahead was another group of riders. Rachel Carter rode alongside the wagon.

Moll had firmly refused to wear the older woman's cape. She had on a coat belonging to one of the men and wore a flimsy, deep-hooded bonnet that once had been azure blue. Her shoulders sagged wearily, her back was bent, her arms lay limply upon her knees. She was staring bleakly before her over the horses' ears, at the road ahead. The reaction had come. She had told the story of the night, haltingly but with a graphic integrity that left nothing to be desired.

Martin Hawk had spent a black and unhappy hour. He was obliged to listen to his daughter's story and, much to his discontent, was not permitted to contradict her in any particular. Two or three mournful attempts to reproach her for lying about her own,—and, he always added, her ONLY—father, met with increasingly violent adjurations to "shut up," the last one being so emphatic that he gave vent to a sharp howl of pain and began feeling with his tongue to see if all his teeth were there.

Luckily for him, he was impervious to the scorn of his fellow-man, else he would have shrivelled under the looks he received from time to time. Especially distressing to him was that part of her recital touching upon his unholy greed; he could not help feeling, with deep parental bitterness, that no man alive ever had a more heartless, undutiful daughter than he,—a conviction that for the time being at least caused him to lament the countless opportunities he had had to beat her to death instead of merely raising a few perishable welts on her back. If he had done that, say a month ago, how different everything would be now!

This part of her story may suffice:

"Pap never wanted anything so bad in all his life as that powder horn an' shot flask. They wuz all fixed up with gold an' silver trimmin's an' I guess there wuz rubies an' di'monds too. Fer three days Pap dickered with him, tryin' to make some kind of a swap. Jasper he wouldn't trade 'em er sell 'em nuther. He said they wuz wuth more'n a thousand dollars. Some big Injun Chief made him a present of 'em, years ago,—fer savin' his life, he said. First Pap tried to swap his hounds fer 'em, 'nen said he'd throw in one of the hosses. Jasper he jest laughed at him. Yesterday I heerd Pap tell him he would swap him both hosses, seven hogs, the wagon an' two boats, but Jasper he jest laughed. They wuz still talkin' about it when they got home from town last night, jest ahead of the storm. I could hear 'em arguin' out in the room. They wuz drinkin' an' talkin' so loud I couldn't sleep.

"Purty soon Pap said he'd trade him our cabin an' ever'thing else fer that pouch an' flask. It wuz rainin' so hard by this time I couldn't hear all they said but when it slacked up a little I cotch my own name. They wuz talkin' about me. I heerd Jasper tell Pap he'd give him the things ef he'd promise to go away an' leave him an' me alone in the cabin. That kind o' surprised me. But all Pap sez wuz that he hated to go out in the rain. So Jasper he said fer him to wait till hit stopped rainin'. Pap said all right, he would, an' fer Jasper to hand over the pouch and flask. Jasper cussed an' said he'd give 'em to him three hours after sunrise the nex' morning' an' not a minute sooner, an' he wuz to stay away from the house all that time or he wouldn't give 'em to him at all. Well, they argued fer some time about that an' finally Pap said he'd go out to the hoss shed an' sleep if Jasper would hand over the shot pouch then an' there an' hold back the powder flask till mornin'. Jasper he said all right, he would. I never guess what wuz back of all this. So when Pap went out an' shut the door behind him, I wuz kind o' thankful, ca'se all the arguin' an' jawin' would stop an' I could go to sleep ag'in. Jasper he let down the bolt inside the door."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

It was after eight o'clock when the wagon and its escort entered the outskirts of the town. Grim, imperturbable old dames sitting on their porches smoking their clay or corncob pipes regarded the strange procession with mild curiosity; toilers in gardens and barnyards merely remarked to themselves that "some'pin must'a happened some'eres" and called out to housewife or offspring not to let them forget to "mosey up to the square" later in the day for particulars, if any. The presence of the sheriff was more or less informing; it was obvious even to the least sprightly intelligence that somebody had been arrested. But the appearance of Mrs. Gwyn on horseback, riding slowly beside the wagon, was not so easily accounted for. That circumstance alone made it absolutely worth while to "mosey up to the square" a little later on.

Martin Hawk was lodged in the recently completed brick jail adjoining the courthouse. He complained bitterly of the injustice that permitted his daughter, a confessed murderess, to enjoy the hospitality of the sheriff's home whilst he, accused of nothing more heinous than sheep-stealing, was flung into jail and subjected to the further indignity of being audibly described as a fit subject for the whipping post, an institution that still prevailed despite a general movement to abolish it throughout the state.

It galled him to hear the fuss that was being made over Moll. Everybody seemed to be taking her part. Why, that Gwyn woman not only went so far as to say she would be responsible for Moll's appearance in court, but actually arranged to buy her a lot of new clothes. And the sheriff patted her on the shoulder and loudly declared that the only thing any judge or jury could possibly find her guilty of was criminal negligence in only half-doing the job. This was supplemented by a look that left no doubt in Martin's mind as to just what he considered to be the neglected part of the job. He bethought himself of the one powerful friend he had in town,—Barry Lapelle. So he sent this message by word of mouth to the suspected dandy:

"I'm in jail. I want you to come and see me right off. I mean business."

Needless to say, this message,—conveying a far from subtle threat,—was a long time in reaching Mr. Lapelle, who had gone into temporary retirement at Jack Trentman's shanty, having arrived at that unsavoury retreat by a roundabout, circuitous route which allowed him to spend some time on the bank of a sequestered brook.

Meanwhile Rachel Carter approached her own home, afoot and weary. As she turned the bend she was surprised and not a little disturbed by the sight of Kenneth Gwynne standing at her front gate. He hurried up the road to meet her.

"The worst has come to pass," he announced, stopping in front of her. "Before you go in I must tell you just what happened here this morning. Come in here among the trees where we can't be seen from the house."

She listened impassively to his story. Only the expression in her steady, unswerving eyes betrayed her inward concern and agitation. Not once did she interrupt him. Her shoulders, he observed, drooped a little and her arms hung limply at her side, mute evidence of a sinking heart and the resignation that comes with defeat.

"I am ready and willing," he assured her at the end, "to do anything, to say anything you wish. It is possible for us to convince her that there is no truth in what he said. We can lie—"

She held up her hand, shaking her head almost angrily. "No! Not that, Kenneth. I cannot permit you to lie for ME. That would be unspeakable. I am not wholly without honour. There is nothing you can do for her,—for either of us at present. Thank you for preparing me,—and for your offer, Kenneth. Stay away from us until you have had time to think it all over. Then you will realize that this generous impulse of yours would do more harm than good. Let her think what she will of me, she must not lose her faith in you, my boy."

"But—what of her?" he expostulated. "What are you going to say to her when she asks you—"

"I don't know," she interrupted, lifelessly. "I am not a good liar, Kenneth Gwynne. Whatever else you may say or think of me, I—I have never wilfully lied."

She started away, but after a few steps turned back to him. "Jasper Suggs is dead. Moll Hawk killed him last night. She has been arrested. There is nothing you can do for Viola at present, but you may be able to help that poor, unfortunate girl. Suggs told her about me. She will keep the secret. Go and see the sheriff at once. He will tell you all that has happened."

Then she strode off without another word. He watched the tall, black figure until it turned in at the gate and was lost to view, a sort of stupefaction gripping him. Presently he aroused himself and walked slowly homeward. As he passed through his own gate he looked over at the window of the room in which Viola had sought seclusion. The curtains hung limp and motionless. He wondered what was taking place inside the four walls of that room.

Out of the maze into which his thoughts had been plunged by the swift procession of events groped the new and disturbing turn in the affairs of Rachel Carter. What was back of the untold story of the slaying of Jasper Suggs? What were the circumstances? Why had Moll Hawk killed the man? Had Rachel Carter figured directly or indirectly in the tragedy? He recalled her significant allusion to Isaac Stain the night before and his own rather startling inference,—and now she was asking him to help Moll Hawk in her hour of tribulation. A cold perspiration started out all over him. The question persisted: What was back of the slaying of Jasper Suggs?

He gave explicit and peremptory directions to Zachariah in case Mrs. Gwyn asked for him, and then set out briskly for the courthouse.

By this time the news of the murder had spread over the town. A crowd had gathered in front of Scudder's undertaking establishment. Knots of men and women, disregarding traffic, stood in the streets adjoining the public square, listening to some qualified narrator's account of the night's expedition and the tragedy at Martin Hawk's.

Kenneth hurried past these crowds and made his way straight to the office of the sheriff. Farther down the street a group of people stood in front of the sheriff's house, while in the vicinity of the little jail an ever-increasing mob was collecting.

"Judge" Billings espied him. Disengaging himself from a group of men at the corner of the square, the defendant in the case of Kenwright vs. Billings made a bee-line for his young attorney.

"I've been over to your office twice, young man," he announced as he came up. "Where the devil have you been keepin' yourself? Mrs. Gwyn left word for you to come right up to her house. She wants you to take charge of the Hawk girl's case. Maybe you don't know it, but you've been engaged to defend her. You better make tracks up to Mrs. Gwyn's and—"

"I have seen Mrs. Gwyn," interrupted Kenneth. "She sent me to the sheriff. Where is he?"

"Over yonder talkin' to that crowd in front of the tavern. He's sort o' pickin' out a jury in advance,—makin' sure that the right men get on it. He got me for one. He don't make any bones about it. Just tells you how it all happened an' then asks you whether you'd be such a skunk as to even think of convictin' the girl for what she did. Then you up an' blaspheme considerable about what you'd like to do to her dodgasted father, an' before you git anywhere's near through, he holds up his hand an' says, 'Now, I've only got to git three more (or whatever it is), an' then the jury's complete!' We're figgerin' on havin' the trial to-morrow mornin' between nine an' ten o'clock. The judge says it's all right, far as he's concerned. We'd have it to-day, only Moll's got to have a new dress an' bonnet an' such-like before she can appear in court. All you'll have to do, Kenny, is jest to set back,—look wise an' let her tell her story. 'Cordin' to law, she's got to stand trial fer murder an' she's got to have counsel. Nobody's goin' to object to you makin' a speech to the jury,—bringin' tears to our eyes, as the sayin' is,—only don't make it too long. I've got to meet a man at half-past ten in regards to a hoss trade, an' I happen to know that Tom Rank's clerk is sick an' he don't want to keep his store locked up fer more than an hour. I'm jest tellin' you this so's you won't have to waste time to-morrow askin' the jurymen whether they have formed an opinion or not, or whether they feel they can give the prisoner a fair an' impartial trial or not. The sheriff's already asked us that an' we've all said yes,—so don't delay matters by askin' ridiculous questions."

The "Judge" interrupted himself to look at his watch.

"Well, I've got to be movin' along. I'm on the coroner's jury too, and we're goin' up to Matt's right away to view the remains. The verdict will probable be: 'Come to his death on account of Moll Hawk's self-defense,' or somethin' like that. 'Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' as the sayin' goes. Wouldn't surprise me a bit if he was buried before three o'clock to-day. Then we won't have him on our minds to-morrow. Well, see you later—if not sooner."

An hour later Kenneth accompanied the sheriff to the latter's home for an interview with his client. He had promptly consented to act as her counsel after hearing the story of the crime from the sheriff.

"Mrs. Gwyn told my wife to go out and get some new clothes for the girl," said the sheriff as they strode down the street, "and she'd step into the store some time to-day and settle for them. By thunder, you could have knocked me over with a feather, Kenneth. If your stepmother was a man we'd describe her as a skinflint. She's as stingy and unfeeling as they make 'em. Hard as nails and about as kind-hearted as a tombstone. What other woman on this here earth would have gone out to Martin Hawk's last night just for the satisfaction of seein' him arrested? We didn't want her,—not by a long shot,—but she made up her mind to go, and, by gosh, she went. I guess maybe she thought we'd make a botch of it, and so she took that long ride just to make sure she'd git her money's worth. 'Cause, you see, I had to pay each of the men a dollar and a half and mileage before they'd run the risk of bein' shot by Hawk and his crowd. Hard as nails, I said, but doggone it, the minute she saw that girl out there she turned as soft as butter and there is nothin' she won't do for her. It beats me, by gosh,—it certainly beats me."

"Women are very strange creatures," observed Kenneth.

"Yep," agreed the other. "You can most always tell what a man's goin' to do, but I'm derned if you can even GUESS what a woman's up to. Take my wife, for instance. Why, I've been livin' with that woman for seventeen years and I swear to Guinea she's still got me puzzled. Course I know what she's talking about most of the time, but, by gosh, I never know what she's thinkin' about. Women are like cats. A cat is the thoughtfulest animal there is. It's always thinkin'. It thinks when it's asleep,—and most of the time when you think it's asleep it ain't asleep at all. Well, here we are. I guess Moll's out in the kitchen with my wife. I told Ma to roll that old dress of Moll's up and save it for the jury to see. It's the best bit of evidence she's got. All you'll have to do is to hold it up in front of the jury and start your speech somethin' like this: 'Gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to gaze upon this here dress, all tattered and torn,—' and that's as far as you'll get, 'cause this jury is goin' to be composed of gentlemen and they'll probably stand up right then and there and say 'Not guilty.' Come right in, Mr. Gwynne."

After considerable persuasion on the part of the sheriff and his kindly wife, Moll repeated her story to Gwynne. She was abashed before this elegant young man. A shyness and confusion that had been totally lacking in her manner toward the other and older men took possession of her now, and it was with difficulty that she was induced to give him the complete details of all that took place in her father's cabin.

When he shook hands with her as he was about to take his departure, she suddenly found courage to say:

"Kin I see you alone fer a couple of minutes, Mr. Gwynne?"

"Certainly, Miss Hawk," he replied, gravely courteous. "I am sure Mr. and Mrs.—"

"Come right in the sitting-room, Mr. Gwynne," interrupted the housewife, bustling over to open the door.

Moll stared blankly at her counsel. No one had ever called her Miss Hawk before. She was not quite sure that she had heard aright. Could it be possible that this grand young gentleman had called her Miss Hawk? Still wondering, she followed him out of the kitchen, sublimely unconscious of the ridiculous figure she cut in the garments of the older woman.

"Shut the door," she said, as her keen, wood-wary eyes swept the room. She crossed swiftly to the window and looked out. Her lips curled a little. "Most of them people has been standin' out yonder sence nine o'clock, tryin' to see what sort of lookin' animile I am, Mr. Gwynne. Hain't nohody got any work to do?"

"Vulgar curiosity, nothing more," said he, joining her at the window.

"'Tain't ever' day they get a chance to see a murderer, is it?" she said, lowering her head suddenly and putting a hand to her quivering chin. For the first time she seemed on the point of breaking down.

He made haste to exclaim, "You are not a murderer. You must not think or say such things, Miss Hawk."

She kept her head down. A scarlet wave crept over her face. "I—I wish you wouldn't call me that, Mr. Gwynne. Hit—hit makes me feel kind o'—kind o' lonesome-like. Jest as—ef I didn't have no friends. Call me Moll. That's all I am."

He studied for a moment the half-averted face of this girl of the forest. He could not help contrasting it with the clear-cut, delicate, beautifully modelled face of another girl of the dark frontier,—Viola Gwyn. And out of this swift estimate grew a new pity for poor Moll Hawk, the pity one feels for the vanquished.

"You will be surprised to find how many friends you have, Moll," he said gently.

There was no indication that she was impressed one way or the other by this remark. She drew back from the window and faced him, her eyes keen and searching.

"Do you reckon anybody is listenin'?" she asked.

"I think not,—in fact, I am sure we are quite alone."

"Well, this is somethin' I don't keer to have the shurreff know, or anybody else, Mr. Gwynne. Hit's about Mr. Lapelle."

"Yes?" he said, as she paused warily.

"Mrs. Gwyn she tole me this mornin' that whatever I said to my lawyer would be sacred an' wouldn't ever be let out to anybody, no matter whut it wuz. She said it wuz ag'inst the code er somethin'. Wuz she right?"

"In a sense, yes. Of course, you must understand, Moll, that no honest lawyer will obligate himself to shield a criminal or a fugitive from justice, or—I may as well say to you now that if you expect that of me I must warn you not to tell me anything. You would force me to withdraw as your counsel. For, you see, Moll, I am an honest lawyer."

She looked at him in a sort of mute wonder for a moment, and then muttered: "Why, Pap,—Pap he sez there ain't no setch thing as a honest lawyer." An embarrassed little smile twisted her lips. "I guess that must ha' been one of Pap's lies."

"It is possible he may never have come in contact with one," he observed drily.

"Well, I guess ef you're a honest lawyer," she said, knitting her brows, "I'd better keep my mouth shut. I wuz only thinkin' mebby you could see your way to do somethin' I wuz goin' to ask. I jest wanted to git some word to Mr. Lapelle."

"Mr. Lapelle and I are not friends, Moll."

"Is it beca'se of whut I asked Ike Stain to tell ye?"

"Partly."

"I mean about stealin' Miss Violy Gwyn an' takin' her away with him?"

"I want to thank you, Moll, for sending me the warning. It was splendid of you."

"Oh, I didn't do it beca'se—" she began, somewhat defiantly, and then closed her lips tightly. The sullen look came back into her eyes.

"I understand. You—you like him yourself."

"Well,—whut ef I do?" she burst out. "Hit's my look-out, ain't it?"

"Certainly. I am not blaming you."

"I guess there ain't no use talkin' any more," she said flatly. "You wouldn't do whut I want ye to do anyhow, so what's the sense of askin' you. We better go back to the kitchen."

"It may console you to hear that I have already told Mr. Lapelle that he must get out of this town before to-morrow morning," said he deliberately. "And stay out!"

She leaned forward, her face brightening. "You tole him to git away to-night?" she half-whispered, eagerly. "I thought you said you wuzn't a friend o' his'n."

"That is what I said."

"Then, whut did you warn him to git away fer?"

He was thinking rapidly. "I did it on account of Miss Gwyn, Moll," he replied, evasively.

"Do you think he'll go?" she asked, a fierce note of anxiety in her voice.

"That remains to be seen." Then he hazarded: "I think he will when he finds out that your father has been arrested."

"He's been a good friend to me, Mr. Gwynne, Mr. Lapelle has," said she, a little huskily. She waited a moment and then went on earnestly and with a garrulousness that amazed him: "I don't keer whut he's done that ain't right, er whut people is goin' to say about him, he's allus been nice to me. I guess mebby you air a-wonderin' why I tole Ike Stain about him figgerin' on carryin' Miss Gwyn away. That don't look very friendly, I guess. Hit wuzn't beca'se I thought I might git him fer myself some time,—no, hit wuzn't that, Mr. Gwynne. I ain't setch a fool as to think he could ever want to be sparkin' me. I reckon Ike Stain tole ye I wuz jealous. Well, I wuzn't, I declare to goodness I wuzn't. Hit wuz beca'se I jest couldn't 'low her to git married to him, knowin' whut I do. I wuz tryin' to make up my mind to go an' see her some time an' tell her not to marry him, but I jest couldn't seem to git the spunk to do it. She used to come to see me when I wuz sick last winter an' she wuz mighty nice to me.

"First thing I know, him an' Pap begin to fix up this plan to carry her off. So I started up to town to tell her. I got as fer as Ike's when I figgered I better let him do it, him bein' a man, so I drapped in at his cabin an' tole him. I didn't know whut else to do. I had to stop 'em from doin' it somehow. Hit wouldn't do no good fer me to beg Pap to drap it, er to rare up on my hind-legs an' make threats ag'inst 'em,—ca'se they'd soon put a stop to that. Course I had it all figgered out whut I wuz goin' to do when thet pack o' rascals got caught tryin' to steal her,—some of 'em shot, like as not,—and I didn't much keer whuther my Pap wuz one of 'em er not.

"I knowed where Mr. Lapelle wuz to meet 'em down the river acrosst from Le Grange, so I was figgerin' on findin' him there an' tellin' him whut had happened an' fer him to make his escape down the river while he had setch a good start. I wuzn't goin' to let him be ketched an' at the same time I wuzn't goin' to let anything happen to Miss Violy Gwyn ef I could help it. I—I sort of figgered it out as a good way to help both o' my friends, Mr. Gwynne, an'—an' then this here thing happened. I want Mr. Lapelle to git away safe,—ca'se I know whut Pap's goin' to do. He's goin' to blat out a lot o' things. He says he's sure Mr. Lapelle put Mrs. Gwyn up to havin' him arrested."

"I think you may rest easy, Moll," said he, a trifle grimly. "Mr. Lapelle had an engagement with me for to-morrow morning, but I'll stake my life he will not be here to keep it."

"All right," she said, satisfied. "Ef you say so, Mr. Gwynne, I'll believe it. Whut do you think they'll do to Pap?"

"He will probably get a dose of the whipping-post, for one thing."

She grinned. "Gosh, I wish I could be some'eres about so's I could see it," she cried.