Spring was warming swiftly into summer. Where the gently sloping ranges went up in waves and swells toward the uplands at the east, the bright new green had turned to a darker shade. The tiny purple and white flowers had disappeared to give place to sturdier ones of crimson and gold. The veil of water that fell sharply down the face of the Wall for a thousand feet at the Valley’s southern end had thinned to sheerest gauze. In the CaÑon Country the snow had disappeared from most of the high points. Red, black, yellow, the great face of the encircling Wall stood in everlasting majesty, looking down upon the level cup of Lost Valley. The unspeakable upheaval of peaks and crags, of caÑons and splits and unfathomable depths, was almost a sealed book to the denizens of the Valley. There were those who knew False Ridge.

There were those who said they knew more. Many a man had adventured therein, and few had returned to tell of their adventures. CaÑon 53 Jim had not returned. Not that he was a loss to the community, or that they mourned him, but his absence pointed again to the formidable secretive power of the CaÑon Country.

Tharon Last, standing in her western door, could look across the Valley’s deceptive miles and see the huge black seams and fissures that rent the grim face. These splits and caÑons were peculiar in that none came down to the Valley’s floor, their yawning doorways being, in every instance, set from two hundred to five hundred feet up the Wall.

Often the girl watched them in the changing lights and her active mind formed many a conjecture concerning them.

“Some day,” she told young Paula, “I’ll go into the CaÑon Country and see it for myself.”

“Saints forbid, SeÑorita!” said Paula, who had no love for the mysterious, and who was more Mexic than Porno, “there are demons and devils there!”

“Yes, I doubt not, Paula,” said Tharon grimly. “They say Courtrey knows th’ CaÑons, an’ when he’s there, it’s peopled, an’ no mistake!

“But it must be beautiful––beautiful! Why––there’s a thousand feet of crevasse on every hand, I know, steps an’ benches an’ weathered faces that no man can climb. They say there’s bright waters 54 that tumble down like th’ Vestal’s Veil and sink into holes without an outlet. Just go away in the rock. There’s strange flowers an’ stunted trees. An’ they tell of th’ Cup of God, a hidden glade so beautiful that th’ eye of man has never seen its like. All my life it’s called me, th’ CaÑon Country.

“Don’t you believe, Paula, that there’s somethin’ there for me? Some reason why I know I must some day go into its heart an’ give myself up to it for a time? If I was free,” she finished with a sigh, “if I was my own woman, wholly, I’d go soon. There’s rest an’ peace up there, I know––and a place to think of Jim Last without such bitterness that my heart turns t’ gall.”

She shook her bright head against the doorpost and shut her soft lips into a straight line.

“Nope,” she finished sadly, “I ain’t my own woman yet.”

“Tharon,” said Billy Brent this day, clanking around the corner of the adobe house, his leather chaps flapping with every step, his yellow hair curling boyishly under his hat-brim. “Tharon, I got bad news for you.”

There was genuine distress in his grey eyes.

“Yes?” asked the mistress of Last’s, straightening up. 55

“Yes, sir, an’ I hate like hell t’ tell it.”

“Out with it, Billy. What’s wrong?”

“Somebody’s dynamited th’ Crystal Spring in th’ Cup Rim.”

“What?”

The word was in italics. Its one syllable told all one might care to know of the importance of Billy’s news.

“Yes. Opened her up fer two square yards. Spread th’ lovely old Crystal all over th’ range. An’ she’s gone, as sure’s shootin’. Nothin’ but a lot o’ wet an’ dryin’ mud to show for her.”

Tharon drew a long breath.

“Courtrey’s beginnin’,” she said. “He’s heard th’ word I sent th’ settlers. He’s goin’ t’ use th’ tactics now with Last’s that he’s used with every poor devil he wanted to run out of th’ Valley, th’ tactics he darsent use while Jim Last lived. Well––go send Conford to me, Billy.”

The girl sat down in the doorway and gazed sombrely out over the summer land.

When her foreman came and stood before her, a slim, efficient figure, dark-faced and quiet, she had already made up her mind.

“Burt,” she said swiftly, “drive th’ cattle down from th’ Cup Rim right away. We’ll run those two bunches under Blue Pine an’ Nick Bob out toward th’ Black Coulee. Tell ’em t’ keep 56 close t’ th’ others. I trust th’ Indians, but there ain’t no Indian livin’ can meet Courtrey’s white renegades in courage an’ wits. Then we’ll start right in an’ dig a well th’ first well ever dug on th’ open range in this man’s land.”

“Good Lord, Tharon!” said Conford, “A well!”

“Yes. Th’ livin’ water holes have been th’ pride of th’ Valley, I know, but we’ll fix this well of ours so’s even Courtrey will respect it.”

There was a grim note in the golden voice.

“How?” asked Conford uneasily.

“Dig it first,” said Tharon, “then I’ll tell you.”

What the mistress said, went. Therefore, the next morning saw a disgusted bunch of cowboys and Indian vaqueros setting to with a will at a spot much nearer the Holding than the Crystal had been, and it took a much shorter time to reach water in a good gravel bed than any one had dreamed.

In three days the thing was done and Conford presented himself, smiling.

“Now, Miss Secrecy,” he said, “come on with th’ mystery.”

Tharon went in to the big desk which Jim Last had used and which was now her own, and returned with a square white slab of pine, elaborately smoothed and finished by JosÉ. 57

“Read that,” she said, and held it up, face out.

Printed neatly upon its shining surface, in the jet-black ink that old Anita made from the berries of a certain bush which grew at the foot of the cliffs across the Valley, were these words:

“This well is planted. I hope it blows up the first thief who tries to destroy it. Tharon Last.”

Conford took the slab, scratched his head, holding his hat between thumb and finger, read it over, read it again, smiled, and then looked up.

“Might work,” he said, “an’ you’re givin’ out your stand an’ knowledge broadcast, ain’t you?”

“Certainly am,” said Tharon briefly. “I said I’d fight, an’ I want th’ whole Valley t’ know it.”

“It does,” said Conford with conviction. “I heard in Corvan yesterday that John Dement has rode th’ range continuous since he finished brandin’ his new herd to tell th’ settlers about it.”

“Good,” said Tharon, “couldn’t be better. There’s got to be a change in Lost Valley sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.”

And with that thought the girl let her quick mind sweep out to take in the future. She sent Conford off to post her placard and herself went rummaging among the possibilities which her defy had placed before her. She knew that Courtrey would be coldly furious. He had lived his life 58 as suited him, had taken what and where he listed, by fair means or foul, and though every soul in the Valley knew him and his methods, none had spoken the convicting word. It was the pen-stroke at the end of the death-warrant to do so.

She knew that the faction of the settlers hated him and his with a vitriolic passion, that they were in the minority, that they were no tin gods themselves, and that they were being beaten out, one by one.

Year by year Courtrey had added to his vast acreage, and it was a matter of common knowledge how he had done it. He was rich, powerful, bullying, a man whose self-aggrandizement knew no limit, whose merest whim was his law, whose will must not be thwarted. Year by year his vaqueros drove down the Wall herds of fat cattle, their brands blurred, insolently raw and careless. Many a hapless man had stood and seen his own stock go by in Courtrey’s band and dared not open his mouth. In fact Courtrey had been known to stop and chat with such a one, smiling his evil smile and enjoying the helpless chagrin of his victim.

“Insolent ruffian!” muttered Tharon this day, frowning above her daddy’s pipes on the desk top. “He’s goin’ t’ get one run for his money 59 from now till one of us is whipped. It may be me, but I’ll leave my mark on him, so help me!

“Straight killin’s too good for him. I want to smash him first.”

“Tharon, mi Corazon,” said Anita, stopping soft-foot beside her, “it is bad for one to talk so, to himself. The Evil One works on the mind that way.”

Tharon laughed.

“Perhaps, Anita,” she said shortly, “it is with the Evil One I have t’ do, an’ no mistake.”

The old woman crossed herself and went away, her wrinkled face dim with care. And Tharon dressed herself neatly, put a ribbon on her hair, set her wide hat carefully on her head, buckled on her heavy gun-belt, and went to the corral for El Rey. Her daddy’s saddle was her own now, a huge affair carved and ornamented, profusely studded with silver.

Along the right side below the pommel ran a darker stain, Jim Last’s blood, set before his daughter like a star.

She mounted the silver stallion and went away down along the summer land, a shaft of light shooting through the green of the ranges.

Far over to her left she could see her cattle, beautiful bunches spread like figures in a tapestry. 60 The figures of her riders were small dots on the outskirts.

El Rey, always hard on the bit, always strong-headed, wanted to run and she swung loose her rein and let him go. But run as he might, there was always in his speed that rising note, that seeming of reserve power.

She passed the head of Black Coulee, swung out across the edge of Rolling Cove, thundered down to the ford of the Broken Bend. Here she let the stallion drink, deep draughts that would have slowed a lesser horse. El Rey went up the bank beyond the ford like a charging engine, squared away and stretched out to finish his run. He was within three miles of Corvan, set like a stone in a smooth green surface, before he came down and lifted his shoulders into his gait. With the first rock and swing of the singlefoot, Tharon smiled and settled herself more comfortably in the saddle. This was joy to her, this beautiful syncopation, this poetic marked time that reeled off the miles beneath her and would scarcely have shaken a pebble from her hat-brim.

As she struck the outskirts of the little town the unmistakable sound of El Rey’s iron-shod hoofs brought heads into doors, children at the house corners to look upon her. She came down the main street at a smart clip, to bring up with 61 a slide at the hitch-rail before Baston’s store where the monthly mail was handled. There were horses tied there, and among them she saw what caused her to look twice with a narrowing of her keen eyes––a huge, raw-boned, black, rusty and slug-headed, among the Ironwood bays from Courtrey’s Stronghold.

“H’m,” she told herself quietly, “so there’s where he was expected.”

She tied El Rey to himself, far from the rest, for she knew his imperious temper and that trouble would ensue if he was near strange horses.

Then she went into Baston’s with her meal-sack on her arm. This meal-sack was a part of her accoutrement, a regular carry-all for such small purchases as she must take home––a roll of print for Paula, some tobacco for the men, a dozen spools of the linen thread which was so much prized among the women of Lost Valley.

As she stepped in the open door her quick glance went over the big room with a comprehensiveness which catalogued its inmates accurately and instinctively. Courtrey was not there, though his great bay, Bolt, stood outside. However, Wylackie Bob was there. This man, sitting at a canvas covered table in a corner, idly fingering a pack of cards, was not one to be passed over easily. He was notorious. 62

Tall, slow of action, sleepy-eyed, he was treacherous as a snake, as swift to move when necessary. He had been known to sit as he was now, idly playing, to leap up, crouch, draw and kill a man, and be down again at his place, idly playing, before the breath was done in his victim.

He was a past-master of his gun, and unlike most men of the time and place, he carried only one.

He was a quarter-blood Wylackie Indian. Near him sat the stranger who had ridden the slug-head black into Lost Valley. They both looked up as the girl entered and regarded her with smiles.

Tharon did not look at them again. She saw, however, that they were together, of one interest. There were two or three of the settlers in the store, Jameson from over under the Rockface at the south, Hill from farther up, Thomas from Rolling Cove. She spoke to these men quietly and noticed with an inward thrill the eagerness with which they responded.

There was an electric something between them which told her that her promise had, indeed, gone up and down the country, that in a subtle, unheralded manner she stood in Jim Last’s place, a head, a leader.

She made her purchases without undue speech, 63 got two letters in her father’s name––and these brought a smarting under her eyelids––tied up her sack and went out without so much as a glance at the two men in the corner. Laughter followed her, however, which set the red blood of anger pulsing in her cheeks.

At the end of the store porch she came face to face with Courtrey and Steptoe Service, the sheriff of Menlo county. She swung to one side to descend the rough steps, vouchsafing them no word or look, but Service blocked her way. She raised her eyes and looked him full in the face, scanning his coarse red features coolly.

“Well?” she said sharply.

“What’s this I hear, Tharon?” asked Service, “about you a-makin’ threats?”

“What have you heard?” she wanted to know.

“W’y, that you’re a-makin’ threats.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

The sheriff flushed darker.

“Look here, young woman,”––he raised his voice suddenly and on the instant there was a sound of boots on the store floor and the settlers, the two men in the corner, Baston and two clerks came crowding out to hear, “you look a-here––don’t 64 you know it’s a-gin th’ law for any one t’ make a threat like you done, open an’ above board, in th’ Golden Cloud th’ other night?”

Tharon shifted the meal-sack higher on her left arm. Courtrey’s eyes went down to her right hand and stayed there.

The girl’s upper lip lifted from her teeth in a sneer that was the acme of insult. The fire was beginning to play in her blue eyes.

“Law?” she said. “My God! Law!”

“Yes, law! you young hussy, an’ don’t you fergit that I represent it.”

The girl threw down the sack and flashed both hands on the gun-butts. Courtrey, watching, was half-a-second behind her and stopped with his hands hovering.

“Not much, Courtrey,” she said, “you fast gun man! You’re too slow. An’ this ain’t your game, anyway, not face t’ face. You’re all right on a dark night––an’ from behind. Fine! But you’re a coward. You’re what I called you before––an assassin.”

She was pale as ashes, her eyes narrowed to blazing slits. Jim Last, gun man, was in her like those composite pictures which show the shadow in the substance. There was a gasp from the store porch where Thomas stood with a shaking hand covering his lips. Baston was stuck against 65 his wall like a leech, rigid. These men knew that she tempted death.

Not a man in Lost Valley could have done it and gotten away with it.

Tharon knew it, too, but she did not care.

“An’ now you know what you are, Courtrey. I’ll tell th’ same to you, Step Service. Law! In Lost Valley? Yes, Courtrey’s law! Th’ law of th’ gun alone––th’ law of thieves––th’ law of murderers. An’ you stand for that, you bet! What were you before you took th’ oath of office? Tell me that! Th’ man who killed old Mike McCrea an’ took his cattle down th’ Wall! Th’ whole Valley knows it––but we’ve never dared to say it before!”

The porch was lined with people now. Soft-footed Indians and Mexican vaqueros, sprung from nowhere, cowboys, ranchers, women, they came silently up and listened.

The sheriff’s red face was the colour of liver, purple and mottled with bursting rage. His fingers worked at his sides. He set his lips, and his small eyes never left the girl’s face.

Tharon, crouched a bit, her feet apart, her elbows crooked above her hips, her fingers curled on her gun-butts with nice precision, wet her own pale lips and continued:

“An’ who put you in office? That laugh of an 66 office! Who? Why, Courtrey––th’ biggest thief, th’ coldest murderer in th’ country! He put you there! An’ what are you good for? My daddy was shot––in th’ back––an’ did you make one inquiry into the murder? Come out to Last’s, even to find a clew? Not you! There’s only one sheriff in this Valley––one bit o’ law that will avenge his death––an’ that’s me! Now, you two fine gentlemen––I’m goin’. There’s my hand! I throw th’ cards on th’ table! Shoot me in the back if you’ve got th’ nerve. Come out in th’ open an’ fight! But you better be quick about it!”

With that she backed slowly along the porch, keeping them in view.

“Get away behind me,” she called. There was a path opened instantly, the sound of shuffling feet. Along the porch she went, step by step, stopping every moment or so to keep close hold on her advantage, every nerve strained, every one of her faculties at the top of its power.

She felt for the step with her foot, went down, backed through the crowd, brought them all in the range of the guns which she flashed out now and held upon them.

She was ashy pale, a flaming, vibrant thing. Not a man there but knew she was more dangerous at the moment than cool Jim Last had ever been, for she radiated hatred of her father’s killer 67 in every bitter glance. She had none for whom to be cautious. She was the last of her blood. She was efficient, and she knew it.

Courtrey knew it, and felt the sweat start on his skin.

Service knew it, and hated her for it.

As the girl backed clear there came into her vision a strange figure––the straight, trim figure of a man who stood stiffly at attention, where her imperious words had caught him.

He wore a uniform of semi-military style, leather leggings, a flannel shirt of butternut and a smart, tan, broad-brimmed hat.

He, too, came in the range of the travelling guns and waited their pleasure.

Tharon reached El Rey. She stuck her right-hand weapon in its holster, loosed the rein, flung it over the stallion’s head, stepped around his shoulder and mounted deftly and swiftly from the wrong side. It was a pretty trick of horsemanship and showed up her adroitness. As El Rey rose on his hind feet, whirling, that unwavering muzzle whirled also, to keep in line. The king struck into his gait and his rider, facing backward, swung away down the narrow street. Until she was well out of range the tension held.

Then Steptoe Service struck a fist into a palm 68 and began to swear in a fury, but Courtrey laughed, one of his rare, short bursts of mirth that were more bodeful than oaths.

He turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come.

The stranger in the uniform walked forward, went up the steps, crossed the porch, and, stooping, picked up the meal-sack which Tharon had dropped.

“Will some one kindly tell me who the young lady is and where she lives?” he asked gravely.

Baston, unglued from the wall, spoke up with his usual pompous eagerness.

“Tharon, from Last’s Holdin’,” he said.

“Thanks,” and the man wrapped the sack into a small bundle and tied it with its own string.

He stuck it under one arm and taking out a short brown pipe, proceeded to fill and light it.

Courtrey, halted a few rods away, eyed him sharply.

As he turned, rolling his match to death in his fingers, the sun struck mellowly upon something on his breast, a small, dark copper shield which bore strange heraldry.

At the sight Courtrey’s eyes sought Service’s and held them for a swift, questioning moment.

Strangers in Lost Valley were contraband.

The three settlers looked covertly at each other, 69 drifted apart, got their horses and presently left town by different ways.

Three hours later these men met by common consent at the head of Rolling Cove and talked long and earnestly of the happening. They knew that Courtrey would never take silently that bitter arraignment, that something would transpire swiftly to show his resentment, to prove his absolute power over Lost Valley.

“’Tain’t Tharon that’ll suffer, even ef he did try t’ shoot her that night in th’ Golden Cloud, because Courtrey wants her himself,” said Jameson quietly, “th’ whole country knows that. There was only one man who didn’t know it, an’ that was Jim Last himself. No, he won’t monkey with th’ Holdin’ yet, not to any great extent. It’ll be us little fellers, us others who he knows would stan’ behind her. Some of us’ll lose somethin’ soon, an’ don’t you forget it.”

“If we do,” said Hill passionately, “it’s time t’ show our hand. We’ve been hounded long enough. Th’ men from Last’s will be with us, we can gamble on that.”

“Yes,” said Thomas, “but it’ll be war. Open war. There’ll be killin’s then.”

Jameson, a quiet man with deep eyes, made a wide gesture.

“What if there is?” he asked, “might’s well be 70 done in th’ open as in th’ dark an’ unseen. Might better be! I move we ride th’ Valley an’ ask th’ settlers to band together, under Last’s, an’ give our ultimatum t’ Courtrey on th’ heels of this. What say you?”

“I say yes,” said Hill swiftly. Thomas, of less stern stuff, wavered.

“Well, let’s wait awhile. Let’s don’t be too quick. Courtrey now, he’s mighty quick an’ hot. They ain’t no tellin’–––”

“All right,” said Jameson promptly, “suit yourself––we ain’t a-pressin’ no man into this.”

“Why, now, I’m fer it, boys––that is, I’m believin’ it’s got t’ be done, only I counsels time.”

“No time,” cried Hill, “we ben counselin’ time an’ quiet an’ not doin’ anything to stir ’em up, an’ what d’ we get? Cattle stole every spring, waterholes taken an’ fenced fer Courtrey’s stock right on th’ open range, hogs drove off, fences tore down, like pore old John Dement’s an’ some of us left t’ rot every year in some coulee. We done waited a sight too long. Courtrey thinks he owns Lost Valley, an’ he comes near doin’ it, what with his hired killers, Wylackie an’ Black Bart an’ this new gun man that’s just come in. I heered today he’s from Arizona, an’ imported article.”

Jameson turned to him and held out his hand. 71

“I’m goin’ to ride tomorrow,” he said.

Hill grasped the extended hand and looked hard in the other’s eyes.

“Me, too,” he said.

Thomas, still of the timid, doubting heart, watched them with a hand over his mouth to hide its shaking.

Without a word the others turned their horses and rode away in different directions. As they went farther from him in the wash of the late light the uncertain hand came down with a jerk. Fear was in his eyes, the deep, quaking fear of the man poor in courage, but he beat it down.

“Boys!” he cried in a panic, “don’t leave me out! For God’s sake, don’t think I ain’t willin’! I’ll be out come day tomorrow!”

The others both stopped and turned in their saddles.

“Glad to hear ye come through, Thomas,” called Jameson, “you ride south along th’ Rockface. You’ll go over Black Coulee way, won’t ye, Dan?”

“I will,” said Hill.

“Good. I’ll go north.”

There was a quiet grimness in the few words, for he who rode north on such an errand tempted fate.

Then the three separated, and there was only 72 the silence and the red light of the dying day at the head of Rolling Cove.

That same evening Tharon Last sat in her western doorway and watched the sun go down in majesty over the weathered peaks and ridges of the CaÑon Country.

Billy Brent lounged on the hard earth beside the step, his fair head shining in the afterglow, his grey eyes upon the girl’s face in a sort of idol-worship.

The curve of her cheek, golden with tan and red with the hue of youth, was more to him than all the sunsets the world had ever seen.

A deep light shone in his young eyes which, had the girl been wise, she might have seen. But Tharon was as elemental as the kitten chasing a moth out by the pansy bed, and could look in a man’s face with the unconscious eyes of a child.

Now she watched the pageant of the dying day in a rapt delight.

“Billy,” she said presently, “I’ve often wondered if there’s another place in all the world as lovely as our Valley. Jim Last told me once that there were places so much bigger out below, that we wouldn’t be a patchin’ to them. Don’t seem like there could be.”

She lifted her slim body up along the doorpost and looked long and earnestly all up and down the 73 wonderful stretch of country that lay along the Wall from north to south. She could see the tiny dots that went for the different homesteads, scattered here and there. Up at the head there lay, hard against the frowning hills, the squat, wide blur that was Courtrey’s Stronghold. Her lips compressed at sight of it.

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t believe he meant it. He used to tease me a lot, you know. It’s an awful big valley, an’ no mistake.”

The rider, who had drifted up along the Wall five years before, looked down at the playing kitten and smiled with a lean crinkling of his cheeks.

“It’s a sure-enough big place, Tharon,” he said gravely, “an’ it’s lovely as Eden.”

“Huh?” said Tharon, “where’s that, Billy?”

The boy sobered and looked up into her blue eyes.

“Why, Tharon,” he whispered, “that’s where th’ heart is.”

For a moment she regarded him. Then she smiled.

“Billy,” she said severely, “you’re stringin’ your boss. I’m sure goin’ to fire you, some day, like I ben a-threatenin’.”

“Do––an’ hire me over!” 74

“Nope.”

The girl shut her pretty lips and the man’s hand crept softly up and touched her wrist where it lay against her knee.

“All right,” he said airily, “gimme my time. I quit.”

There was an odd note in his voice, as if under the play there was a purpose. For a second Tharon held her breath.

“What you mean, Billy?” she asked so sharply that the boy jumped.

Then he laughed, still in that light fashion.

“What I said,” he affirmed doggedly.

But the mistress of Last’s took a clutch on his hand that was authority in force and leaned down to look anxiously in his face.

“Why, Billy,” she said with a quiver in her voice, “Last’s couldn’t run without you, boy. An’ what’s more, I thought all th’ riders of th’ Holdin’ would stand by th’ place.”

Billy, fully sobered, straightened up and held hard to that clutching hand. The red light of the sunset flushed his cheeks, but it never set the glow that was in his eyes.

“Don’t you know yet, Tharon,” he said quietly, “when I’m a-jokin’ with you? I’d stand by Last’s an’ you to my last breath. Don’t you know that?” 75

For a long moment Tharon regarded him gravely.

“Yes, I do,” she said, “but somehow I don’t like to have you talk that-a-way, Billy. Don’t do it no more.”

“All right,” promised the rider, “if you say so, Boss. Only don’t talk about firin’ me, then. I’m very sensitive.”

And he looked away with smiling eyes to where the deep black shadows fell prone into the Valley from the forbidding face of the great Wall.

Only the towering peaks were alight with crimson and gold, which haloed their bulk in majestic mystery.

Night was coming fast across Lost Valley, while the tree-toads out by the springhouse set up their nightly chorus.

“It’s Eden,” thought the man, “as sure’s th’ world, made an’ forgot with all its trimmin’s––innocence an’ sweetness an’ plenty, an’ th’ silence of perfect peace, not to overlook th’ last unnecessary evil, th’ livin’ presence of his majesty, th’ devil.”

Then the light died wholly and there came the disturbing sound of boots on the ringing stones. The rest of the riders were coming in to claim their share of Billy’s Eden.