SHORTLY after nightfall a rider cantered along the stage route, fording the Limping Water and rode toward the town, whose few lights were bunched together as if for protection against the spirits of the night. He soon passed the scattered corrals on the outskirts of Ford’s Station and, slowing to a walk, went carelessly past the row of saloons and the general store and approached a neat, small house some two hundred yards west of the stage office. He appeared careless as to being seen; in fact a casual observer would have thought him to be some cowboy who was familiar with the town and who feared the recognition of no man. But while he had no fear, he was alert; under his affected nonchalance nerves were set for instant action. He was in the heart of the enemy’s country, in the crude stronghold of the Law, and if anything hostile to him occurred it would happen quickly. And he was familiar with the town, because he had on more than one occasion ridden through and explored it, but never before at such an early hour.

Arriving at his destination he dismounted and, leaving his horse unrestrained by rope or strap, walked boldly up to the door of the sheriff’s house and knocked. Soon he heard footsteps within and the door opened wide, revealing him standing hat in hand and smiling.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said uneasily.

The sheriff’s wife stepped aside and the light fell full on his face. For an instant she was at a loss, and then the fresh scar on his forehead and her husband’s good description came to her aid. She gasped and stepped back involuntarily, astonished at his daring. Her act allowed her companions to see him and the effect was marked. Miss Ritchie sat upright in expectation, her face beaming, for this was as romantic and unexpected as she could wish. Mary gasped and dropped her hands to her side, not knowing what to do or say, while Helen slowly laid her work aside and leaned forward slightly, regarding him intently, a curious expression on her face.“I only called to ask how the ladies were,” he continued slowly, turning his hat in his hands, apparently not noticing Mrs. Shields’ surprise. “I was afraid they might have–that their recent experience might have bothered them some.”

Evidently it was to be only a social call, and Mrs. Shields owed something to this fair-minded and chivalrous man. She smiled kindly, remembering that the caller was rather well thought of by her husband–he was not a man for women to fear, whatever else he might be.

“It is very kind of you,” she replied. “Won’t you come in?” she asked from the habit of politeness, hardly expecting that he would do so.

“Thank you, I will be glad to for a minute,” he responded, slowly stepping into the room, where he suddenly felt awkward and not at all comfortable.

Helen picked up her work to fasten a thread, and he found himself marveling at the cleverness of her fingers. Again laying the work aside, she arose to meet him, a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes. It was so unusual to have been saved by an outlaw whom her brother had tried to capture, and still more unusual to have him dare to call on her in her brother’s own house, especially after her sister’s direct cut at the coach.

“Won’t you be seated?” she asked, indicating her own chair by the light and taking his hat. When the hat left him he suffered a loss, for he had nothing to twist and grip. He replied by dropping into the chair, not even seeing that it was out of range of the door as a compliment to his hostess. There was no sign of a weapon on him, his holster being empty; but his blue flannel shirt was unbuttoned, the opening hidden by his neck-kerchief. He had, however, only put his Colt there to have it out of sight, and not because he feared trouble. Habitual caution was responsible for the shirt being open, for he was not even sure that he would fight if trouble should come upon him, unless the women gave him a clear field.

Helen drew a chair from the wall and seated herself in the semi-circle which faced him.

“I am very glad that your wound has healed so nicely,” she said with a smile. “We are very sorry that you were hurt in our defense.”

“Oh, it wasn’t anything,” he quickly replied, smiling deprecatingly. “You fixed it up so nice that it didn’t bother me at all–didn’t hurt a bit.”“I am glad it was no worse,” she replied, looking around the circle. “Grace, Mary, you surely remember Mr.–Mr.––”

“Please call me by the name you know me by–The Orphan,” smiling broadly. “I’ve almost forgotten that I ever had any other name.”

“Mr. Orphan–how funny it sounds,” she laughed. “It’s most original. Margaret, this is the gentleman to whom we certainly owe our lives. Oh! I know you don’t like to be reminded of it,” she went on, answering his deprecatory gesture, “no doubt you are accustomed to that sort of thing out here, but in the East such an experience does not often occur.”

“I am glad indeed to know and thank you,” said Mrs. Shields, impulsively extending her hand. “Your bravery has put me still deeper in your debt. My husband–” her feelings overcame her as she realized that this was the man who had spared to her that husband, her laughing, burly, broad-shouldered, big-hearted king of men. Was it possible that this handsome, confident stripling was his peer?

Helen relieved the tension: “Mr. Orphan, this is Miss Ritchie, the same Miss Ritchie who was so badly frightened when she first met you. Perhaps you’ll remember it. And this––”

“I wasn’t! I wasn’t one bit frightened!” declared Miss Ritchie hotly, to The Orphan’s great enjoyment.

“Now, Grace, don’t fib–you can’t deny it. And this is my sister who was mean enough to keep her senses when I didn’t. We thought highly of you then, but even more so now. You see, my brother has been talking about you, he takes a keen interest in you, Mr. Orphan–I declare I can’t help laughing at that name, it sounds so funny; but you will forgive me, won’t you? I knew you would. Well, James has been saying nice things about you, and so you see we know you better now. He likes you real well, as well as you will let him, and I’m awful sorry that he is not at home,” she dared, her eyes flashing with delight. “I am sure he would like to meet you very much; in fact he has said as much. Oh, he speaks of you quite often.”

The caller flushed, but he was determined to let them think him perfectly at ease.

“I am glad that he remembers me,” he responded gravely. “I have only met him once, but I thought he was rather glad to see me. We had a very enjoyable time together and I found him very pleasant.” He was forced to smile as he recalled the six Apaches in the sheriff’s rear.

“Helen was just saying what awful risks her brother ran,” Miss Ritchie remarked, intently studying the rugged face before her. “But then, he’s a man. If I was a man, I wouldn’t be afraid of them!”

“My, how brave you are, Grace,” laughed Mrs. Shields. “I heard quite to the contrary about the stage ride.”

“Goodness, Margaret!” retorted Miss Ritchie, up in arms at the remark. “You would have been afraid in that old coach if you had been banged about in it as I was. The noise was terrible, and that awful driver!”

The caller smiled at her spirit and then replied to her, serious at once.

“Well, he does take chances,” he said. “But for that matter every man out in this country has to run risks. Now, I’ve taken some myself,” he added, smiling quizzically. “But, you know, we get used to them after a while–we get used to everything but hunger and thirst–and life. I’ve even gotten used to being lonesome, and I find that it really isn’t so bad after all. And then, you know, lonesomeness does have its advantages at times, for it certainly promotes peace, and the cartridges that it saves are worth considerable. But it took me several years before I could accept it in that light with any degree of ease.”

Helen laughed merrily, for she most of all appreciated this outcast’s humor, and she liked him better the more he talked.

“Yes, in time I suppose one does become accustomed to danger,” she replied, “although I’ll be frank enough to admit that I don’t believe I could,” glancing at her friend. “You risked much by coming here to-night–just suppose that you had called last night!”

“The danger was only from a chance recognition in the street,” he replied, smiling, “and it would have been equally dangerous for the man who recognized me, and perhaps more so, since I was on the lookout–that balances. I would be the last man anyone would expect to be in Ford’s Station at this time, and once free of the town, I could elude the pursuers in the dark. And as for the sheriff, I knew that he was not at home to-night, and, had he been so, I doubt if it would have stayed me, for he is fair and square, and an unarmed man is safe with him in his own house. He understands what a truce means, and we had one before.”

Mrs. Shields smiled at him in such warmth that he thanked his stars that he had played fair out by the bowlder.

“He told us of that!” Helen exclaimed, laughingly. “It was splendid of you, both of you. And, do you know, I liked you much better for it. And I wanted to meet you again and talk with you; I’m dreadfully curious.”

“Helen!” reproved her sister, and, turning from the girl to him, she tried to explain away her sister’s boldness. “You must excuse Helen, Mr.–Mr. Orphan, because she is not a day older than she was five years ago.”

“Why, Mary!” cried Helen, reproachfully, “how can you say that? Just the other day you said that I was quite grown up and dignified. I am sure that Mr.–oh, goodness, there’s that name again!” she bewailed. “Why don’t you get another name–that one sounds so funny!”

The Orphan laughed: “I am not responsible for the name, I had no hand in it. But, let’s see what we can do,” he said, counting on his fingers. “There’s Smith, Brown, Jones–Jones sounds well, why not say it?” he asked gravely. “I am sure that’s easier to say and remember.”

“Yes, that is better!” she cried. “Let’s see,” she said, experimenting. “Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones–oh, pshaw, I like the other much better. I trust that I’ll get accustomed to it in time, and I certainly should, because I hear it enough; only then it hasn’t that formal Mister before it. And it is the Mister that causes all the trouble. Now, I’ll try it again: I’m sure that The Orphan (I said that real nicely, didn’t I?) I’m sure that The Orphan doesn’t think me lacking in dignity, does he?” she asked, regarding him merrily, and with a dare in her eyes.

“Well, now really,” he began, and then, seeing the look of warning in her face, he laughed softly. “Why, really, I think that you must be much more dignified than you were five years ago.”

“That’s such a neat evasion that I hardly know whether to be angry or not,” she retorted, and then turned to Miss Ritchie, who was smiling.

“Grace,” she cried, “for goodness sake, say something! You don’t want me to do all the talking, do you?” and before her friend could say a word she began a new attack, her eyes sparkling at the fun she was having.

“What have you done since I told you to behave yourself?” she asked, assuming a judicial seriousness which was extremely comical.

He laughed heartily, for she was so droll, her eyes flashing so with vivacity, and so rarely beautiful that he breathed deep in unconscious effort to absorb some of the atmosphere she had created. And he was not alone in his mirth, for Helen’s audacity had caused smiles to come to Miss Ritchie and Mrs. Shields, who were content to take no part in the conversation, and even Mary forgot to be serious.

“Well, I haven’t had time to do much,” he replied in humble apology, “although I have been occupied in a desultory way on the Cross Bar-8 for a week, and before that I was quite busily engaged in traveling for my health. You see, this climate occasionally affects me, and I am forced to go south or west for a change of air. I was just starting out on my last trip when I first met you, and I have reason to believe that my promptness in leaving you saved me much annoyance. But I have cooked quite a few meals in the interim–and I’ve learned how mutton should be broiled, too. I’ll have to confess, however, that I have been out late nights. But then, I’ll have a better record to report next time, honest I will.”

Helen leveled an accusing finger at him: “You spoiled all the cooking utensils on that ranch, and you scared that poor cook so bad that he fled in terror of his life and left those poor, tired men to get all their own meals. Now, that was not right, do you see? The poor cook, he was almost frightened to death. I am almost ashamed of you; you will have to promise that you will not do anything like that again.”

“I promise, cross my heart,” he replied eagerly, thinking of the five dead punchers she had been kind enough to overlook. “I solemnly promise never to scare that cook again,” then seeing that she was about to object, he added, “nor any other cook.”

“And you’ll promise not to spoil any more tins, or terrorize that poor outfit, or burn any more corrals, and everything like that?” she asked quickly, for she detected a trace of seriousness in his face and wished to drive home her advantage. If she could get a serious promise from him she would rest content, for she knew he would keep his word.

He thought for an instant and then turned a smiling face to her. Seeing veiled entreaty in her eyes, he suddenly felt a quiet gladness steal over him. Perhaps she really cared about his welfare, after all, though he dared not hope for that. He grew serious, and when he spoke she knew that he had given his word.

“I promise not to take the initiative in any warfare, nor to harass the Cross Bar-8 unless they force me to in self-defense,” he replied.

She hid her elation, for she had gained the point her brother had failed to win, and did not wish to risk anything by showing her feelings. As if to reward him for yielding to her, she led the conversation from the personal grounds it had assumed and cleverly got him to talk about the country and everything pertaining to it.

He was thoroughly at ease now, and for an hour held them interested by his knowledge of the trails and the natural phenomena. He told them of cattle herding, its dangers and sports; and his description of a stampede was masterly. He recounted the struggles of the first settlers with the Indians, and even quite extensively covered the field of practical prospecting, lightening his story with naÏve bits of humor and witty personal opinions which had them laughing heartily. It was not long before they forgot that they were entertaining, or, rather, being entertained by an outlaw; and as for himself, it was the most pleasant evening he had ever known. There was such an air of friendliness and they were so natural and human that he was stimulated to his best efforts; the barriers had been broken down.

“Oh, James says that you are a wonderful shot!” cried Helen, interrupting his description of a shooting match at a cowboy carnival he had once attended in a northern town. “He says that no man ever lived who could hope to beat you with either rifle or revolver, six-shooter, as he calls it. Won’t you let me see you shoot, some day?”

He laughed deprecatingly: “You ask the sheriff to shoot for you,” he responded. “He can beat me, I’m sure.”

“No, he can’t!” she cried impulsively, “because he said he couldn’t. That was why he couldn’t get you–” she stopped, horrified at what she had said. Then, determined to make the best of it, and knowing that excuses or apologies would make it worse, she hurriedly continued: “He says that you are so fair and square that he just will not take any advantage of you. He likes square people, and he isn’t afraid to say it, either.”

The Orphan sat silently for half a minute, thinking hard, while Mrs. Shields looked anxiously at him. Here was peace and happiness. The sheriff could come and go as he pleased, and every good citizen was his friend. He had a home–a pleasant contrast to the man who spent his nights under the stars, not sure of his life from day to day, hounded from point to point, having no friend, no one who cared for him; he was just an outlaw, and damned by his fellow men. Then he remembered what Helen had said before leaving him at the coach. She had faith in him, for she had told him so–and she would not lie. Her kindness and faith in him, an outcast, had been with him in his thoughts ever since, and he had felt the loneliness of his life heavily from that day. He felt a strange gnawing at his heart and he slowly raised his eyes to her, eagerly drinking in her radiant beauty, a beauty wonderful to him, for never before had he seen a beautiful woman. To him women had always been repellent–and no wonder. He scorned those usually found in the cow towns. At their best they were only ornaments, and to The Orphan’s mind ornaments were trash. But now he suddenly awoke to the fact that she was more, that she was all that was worth fighting for, that she was the missing half of his consciousness. And she herself had given him heart for the fight, slight as it was, for he was like a drowning man clutching at straws. But still his cynicism swayed him and made him fear that it would be a hopeless battle. Again he thought of her brother and suddenly envied him, and the liking he had felt for the sheriff became strong and clear. Shields was a white man, just and square.

He slowly raised his eyes to Mrs. Shields and smiled, which caused her look of anxiety to clear.

“The Sheriff is the whitest man in this whole country,” he said quietly, a trace of his mood being in his voice, “and only for that did I play square with him. In confidence, just to let you know that I am not as bad as people say, I will tell you that I have had him under my sights more than once, and that I will never try to harm him while he remains the man he is. I do not exaggerate when I say that I am naturally a good judge of men, and I knew what he was in less than a minute after I met him.

“At this minute he is watching for me, he and Charley Winter and the Larkin brothers. They are lying quietly out on the plain, waiting for me to show up between them and the lights of the windows. This is not guesswork, for I know it. And if it was only the sheriff, and I did show up over his sights, he would call out and give me a chance to surrender or fight, and not shoot me down like a dog; the others wouldn’t. And because of my faith in his squareness, and because I above all others can fully appreciate it at its highest value, I am going to ask you to remember this, Mrs. Shields: If he ever needs a man to stand at his back, and I can be found, he has only to let me know. He is compromising himself with certain people because he has been fair to me, so please remember what I said. He is the sheriff, and he only does his duty, for which I cannot blame him. Bill Howland may be able to find me if trouble should come upon you and yours.

“Others have hunted for me as if I was a cattle-killing wolf. They have tracked me and hounded me in gangs, determined to shoot me down at the first opportunity, and unawares, if possible. They have laid traps for me, tried to ambush me, and even stooped so low as to poison the water of a remote water hole with wolf poison–strychnine. They knew that I occasionally filled my canteen from it. Those who fight me foully I repay in kind–but never with poison! It is my wits and gunplay against theirs and against their cowardice and dirty tricks. When I fight, it is not because I want to, except in the case of Indians, but because I must. But your husband is a white man, madam, a thoroughbred. He stands so far above the rest of the men in this country that I have only respect and liking for him. Can you imagine the sheriff using poison to kill a man?

“Once when I had finally found a good berth punching cows, once when I had started out aright, I was discovered. They didn’t get me, though they tried to hard enough. And they call me a murderer because I declined to remain inactive while they prepared for my funeral! Ever since I was a lad of fifteen I have fought for my life at every turn, and continually. I have no friends, not a living soul cares whether I live or die. There is no one whom I can trust, and no one who trusts me. I have to be ever on the lookout, and suspicious. Every man is my enemy, and all I have is my life, worthless as it is. But pride will not let me lose it without making a fight.

“I hope the time will come when you can see me shoot, Miss Shields, that the time will come when I can turn my back to my fellow men without fearing a shot. Only once have I done that–it was with your brother, and I enjoyed it immensely. And no one will welcome that day more devoutly than the outlawed Orphan–the many times murderer–but by necessity: for I never killed a man unless he was trying to kill me, and I never will. I know what is said, but what I say is the truth. I can only ask you to believe me, although I realize that I am asking much.”

He arose and walked over to his sombrero, taking it up and turning toward the door.

“To-night is the first time in ten years that I have been in a stranger’s house unarmed, and at ease. You have made the evening so pleasant for me, so delightfully strange, and you all have been so good to talk to me and treat me white that I find it impossible to thank you as I wish I could. Words are hopelessly inadequate, and more or less empty, but you will not lose by it,” he said as he opened the door. “Good night, ladies.”

The door closed softly, quickly, and the women heard the cantering hoofbeats of his horse as they grew fainter and finally died out on the plain.

His departure was seemingly unnoticed. They sat in silence for a minute or more, each lost in her own thoughts, each deeply affected by his words, staring before them and picturing each as her temperament guided, the hunted man’s dangers and loneliness. Mrs. Shields sat as he had left her, her chin resting in her hand, seeing only two men in a chaparral, one of whom was the man she loved. She could hear the shooting and the war cries, she could see them meet, and clasp hands at the parting; and her heart filled with kindly pity for the outcast, a pity the others could not know. Helen, her face full in the light, her arms outstretched on the table before her and her eyes moist, wondered at the savage unkindness of men, the almost unbelievable harshness of man for man. Her head dropped to her arms, and her sister Mary, also under the spell, wondered at the expression she had seen on Helen’s face. Miss Ritchie, who had scarcely given more than a passing thought to the sadness in his words, was picturing his fights, drinking in the dash and courage which had so exalted him in her mind. With all his loneliness, his danger, she almost envied him his devil-may-care, humorous recklessness and good fortune, his superb self-confidence and prowess. Here was a man who fought his own battles, who stood alone against the best the world sent against him, giving blow for blow, and always triumphing.

Mrs. Shields stirred, glanced at Helen’s bowed head and sighed:

“Now I understand why James likes him so. Poor boy, I believe that if he had a chance he would be a different and better man. James is right; he always is.”

“I think he is just splendid!” cried Miss Ritchie with a start, emerging from her dreams of deeds of daring. “Simply splendid! Don’t you Helen?” she asked impulsively.

Helen arose and walked to the door of her room, turning her face toward the wall as she passed them: “Yes, dear,” she replied. “Good night.”“Oh, why are men so cruel!” she cried softly as she paused before her mirror. “Why must they fight and kill one another! It’s awful!”

The door had softly opened and closed and Miss Ritchie’s arms were around her neck, hugging tightly.

“It is awful, dear,” she said. “But they can’t kill him! They can’t hurt him, so don’t you care. Come on to bed–I have so much to talk about! Don’t put your hair up to-night, Helen–let’s go right to bed!”

Helen impulsively kissed her and pushed her away, her face flushed.

“You dear, silly goose, do you think I am worrying about him? Why, I had forgotten him. I’m thinking about James.”

“Yes, of course you are,” laughed Miss Ritchie. “I was only teasing you, dear. But it is too bad that nobody cares anything about him, isn’t it, Helen?”

Tears trembled in Helen’s eyes and she turned quickly toward the bed. “Well, it’s his own fault–oh, don’t talk to me, Grace! Poor James, all alone out there on that awful plain! I’m just as blue as I can be, so there!”“Have a good, long cry, dear,” suggested Miss Ritchie. “It does one so much good,” she added as she stepped before the mirror. “But I think he is just as splendid as he can be–I wish I was a man like him!”

And while they played at pretending, the man who was uppermost in their thoughts was playing a joke on the sheriff at the Cross Bar-8 which would open that person’s eyes wide in the morning.

·····

On the ranch the darkness was intense and no sounds save the natural noises of the night could be heard. The sky was overcast with clouds and occasionally a drop of rain fell. The haunting wail of a distant coyote quavered down the wind and the cattle in the corral were restless and uneasy. A mounted man suddenly topped a rise at a walk and then stopped to stare at the dim lights in the windows of the houses nearly a mile away. He laughed softly at the foolishness of the inmates trying to plot for his death by doing something they had not dared to do for a week. Who would be so foolish as to ride up to those lighted windows unless he was a tenderfoot?

Leaping lightly to the grass, he hobbled his horse and then took a bundle from his saddle, which he strapped on his back and then went quietly forward on foot, peering intently into the darkness before him. Soon he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled cautiously and without a sound. After covering several hundred yards in this manner he dropped to his stomach and wriggled forward, his eyes strained for dangers. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and then he heard a sneeze, muffled and indistinct, but still a sneeze. Avoiding the place from whence it came, he made a wide detour and finally stopped, chuckling silently. Untying the bundle he removed it from his back and placed it upon a pile of sand, which he heaped up for the purpose, and, printing his name in the sand at its base, retreated as he had come and without mishap. After searching for a quarter of an hour for his horse he finally found it, removed the hobbles and vaulted to the saddle. Wheeling, he rode off at a walk, soon changing to a canter, in the direction of the Limping Water. When he had gained it he chanced the danger of quicksands and rode north along the middle of the stream. If he was to be followed, the probability was that his pursuers would ride south to find where he had left the water; and they must be delayed as long as possible.

An hour later daylight swiftly developed and a peculiarly shaped pile of sand quaked and split asunder as a man arose from it. He shook himself and spent some time in digging the sand from his pockets and boots and in cleaning his rifle of it. Then he walked wearily toward the bunk-house, whose occupants were still lost in the sleep of the exhausted. It was very tedious to stay awake all night peering at the lights in the distant windows; and it was very hard to keep one’s eyes from closing when lying in that position, and without any sleep for twenty-four hours. The sheriff determined to crawl into a bunk as soon as he possibly could and be prepared for his next vigil.

As he glanced over the plain he espied something which caused him to stare and rub his tired eyes, and which immediately banished sleep from his mind. Running to it, he suddenly stopped and swore: “Hell!” he shouted.

His wife’s blue flower pot sat snugly on the apex of a pile of sand and from it arose a geranium, which was tied to a supporting stick by a white ribbon. He had whittled that stick himself, and he knew the flower pot. Roughly traced in the sand at its base was one word–“Orphan.”

“Margaret’s geranium in its blue pot, by God!” cried the sheriff, his mouth open in amazement. “Well, I’ll be d––d!” he exclaimed, running toward the corral for his horse. “If that son-of-a-gun ain’t been out here under my very nose while I watched for him!”