It was another noon in Lost Valley. The summer sun sailed the azure skies in majesty. Little soft winds from the south wimpled the grass of the rolling ranges, shook all the leaves of the poplars. Down the face of the Wall the Vestal’s Veil shimmered and shone like a million miles of lace.

At Corvan wild excitement ruled. Swift things had come upon them, things that staggered the tight-lipped community, even though it was used to speed and tragedy. For one thing, Ellen, pale, sweet flower, had hanged herself in the gaudy apartment of Lola behind the Golden Cloud where the dance-hall woman had peremptorily brought her when they took her off Cleve Whitmore’s shoulder. She left a little note for Courtrey, a pathetic short scrawl, which simply reiterated that she had “ben true to him as his shadow,” and that if he did no longer want her, she did not want herself.

At that pitiful end to a guiltless life, Lola, who 278 knew innocence and sin, sat down on the only carpeted floor in Corvan and wept. When she finished, she was done with Corvan and Lost Valley, ready to move on as she had moved through an eventful life.

For another thing, two strange men had ridden up the Wall from the Bottle Neck a few days back, and they had put through some mysterious doings.

This day at noon these two strangers were riding down on Corvan from up the Pomo way, while from the Stronghold, Buck Courtrey’s men were thundering in with the cattle king at their head. He was grim and silent, black with gathering rage. His news-veins tapped the Valley, he knew a deal that others tried to hide, and he was coming in to reach a savage hand once more toward that supremacy which he knew full well to be slipping from him.

And from the blind mouth in the Rockface at the west where the roofed cut led to the mystery and the grandeur of the CaÑon Country, a strange procession came slowly out to crawl across the green expanse––a woman on a silver horse, a rider on a red roan who sat behind the saddle and bore in his arms a man whose heavy head lolled upon his shoulder in all but mortal weakness. 279

Thus Fate, who had for so long played with life and death in Lost Valley, tiring of the play, drew in the strings of the puppets and set the stage for the last act.

As Tharon and Billy crept up to Baston’s store and stopped at the steps, a dozen eager men leaped forward to their help.

“Easy!” warned the girl. “He’s ben hurt a long time, an’ he’s had an awful trip. There’s fever in him, an’ th’ wound in his shoulder opened a bit with th’ haulin’. Lay him down on th’ porch a while to rest.”

But Kenset opened his dark eyes with the old quiet smile and looked at her.

“I’m worth a dozen dead men yet, Miss Last,” he said.

As he lay, a trim, long figure in his semi-military garments, on the edge of the porch, the populace of Corvan streamed in from the outskirts and gathered in the open street. Whispers and comments were rife among them, a new courage was noticeable everywhere. The Vigilantes were present, many of them.

Question and answer passed swiftly and quietly back and forth between Dixon, Jameson, Hill and Tharon. In a few pregnant moments she knew what had happened in Corvan––they knew the secret of False Ridge and the Cup o’ God. 280

“An’ now these strangers from below––they ben a-actin’ awful queer, ain’t a-feared o’ nothin’ an’ they ben goin’ all over like a couple o’ hounds. One of ’em’s got on a badge of some sort,” said Jameson, “didn’t mean t’ show it, I allow, but Hill, here, seen it by chanct–––”

Kenset raised himself quickly on an elbow.

“By all that’s lucky!” he said softly, excitedly. “Burn-Harris and O’Hallan! My Secret Service men!”

And it was even so, for by the end of another hour the two strangers came riding in and were brought forward to the steps where Kenset lay, to clasp his hand and greet him with all the pleasure of previous acquaintance.

Then they requested that a space be cleared to the end of ear-shot and together with Kenset, Tharon, Billy, and all the Vigilantes, they held a long and earnest colloquy.

At its end Kenset’s eyes were deep and troubled, but Tharon’s were beginning to glow with the old fire that all the Holding knew, the leaping flame that rose and died and rose again, exciting to the beholder, promising, threatening, unfathomable.

“Why, it’s a cinch!” said O’Hallan, “a dead moral cinch! Don’t see how it’s held on like it has. Couldn’t have in any other place in the good old 281 U.S.A. but this God forsaken hole! Well named, Lost Valley! Why, we’ve found enough evidence already to convict a dozen men! Your Courtrey’s the man that planned a dozen murders, I can see that, and he’s pulled off a lot of them himself. The people are talking now, rumbling from one end of the Valley to the other. We’ve had to hold up our hands to ward them off lately. Your Vigilantes here have opened up since we got them together and showed some of them your letter. You were wise to tell us to go ahead if you were not here––what did you look for?”

“Just about what I got,” said Kenset smiling, “and I wanted things to be pushed through anyway.”

“Well,––they’re pushing,” said Burn-Harris. “Your little old sheriff has had the fear-of-the-Lord put into him somewhat. He’s shaking in his boots about the snow-packer. There’s only one thing lacking to make our grip close down on Courtrey, and that’s vital––the gun with the untrue firing pin you speak about in your instructions.”

“Not lackin’,” said Tharon grimly, “we’ve got it, Mister.”

The Secret Service man whirled to her.

“You have?” he cried, “then show me your man!” 282

But Tharon stood for a long moment looking off across the rolling green stretches, toward the north where a moving dot was drawing down––the riders from the Stronghold.

“This,” she said at last, tapping the gun which Billy handed over, “this, then, is proof––is proof in law?”

“If it’s the true gun that fits the shell which Mr. Kenset left for us here at Baston’s––yes.”

“Then,” said Burn-Harris, “a little time and your man’s ours as sure’s the sun shines. Why, this is a hot-bed of crime––there’s enough work here to keep a whole force busy for months.”

But Tharon Last did not heed his words. Her mind had leaped away from the present back to that day in spring when Jim Last came home to die. She heard again his last command, “Th’ best gun woman in Lost Valley,” heard her own voice promising to his dulling ears, “I’ll get him, so help me, God!”

And this was the end. Strangers were waiting to fulfill that promise, to take her work out of her hands. She absently watched the moving dot take form and sharply string out into a line of riding men. These strangers with their hidden signs of authority would bring to his just desserts Buck Courtrey, the man who had instigated the killing of poor Harkness, who had personally shot her 283 daddy in the back! For them, then, she had made her crosses of promise in the granite under the pointing pine.

They who had no right in Lost Valley would settle its blood scores, would pay her debts!

She frowned and the fingers of her right hand fiddled at the gun-butt at her hip.

For what had she striven all these many months? For what had she perfected herself in Jim Last’s art?

A little white line drew in about her lips, the flame in her blue eyes leaped and flickered. The tawny brows gathered into a puckered frown.

Billy, watching, moved restlessly on his booted feet. He it was who saw––who feared. He touched her wrist with timid fingers and she flashed him a swift glance that half melted to a smile. Then she forgot him and all the rest––for the Ironwoods were thundering in from the outside levels, were coming into town.

Ahead rode Courtrey, big, black, keen, his wide hat swept back on his iron-grey hair, an imposing presence.

“Here’s your man!” said Kenset softly, rising excitedly on his elbow. “He’s coming! And God grant that there is no bloodshed!”

All of Corvan, so long meek and quiet under Courtrey’s foot, moved dramatically back to give 284 him room to come thundering down to his accounting.

In a few seconds he would be encompassed by his enemies.

And then, on the tick of fate, that universally unknown factor, a woman’s heart, flung its last pawn in the balance.

Lola, gleaming like a bird of paradise in her gay habiliments, leaning forward from the further steps of Baston’s store where she had slipped up unnoticed, cupped her white hands to her scarlet mouth, and sent out a cry like a clarion.

“Buck!” she called, bell-like, clear, far-reaching––“Buck! Turn back! They’ve called your turn! It’s all up for you! Go! Go––down––the Wall! And––God bless you––Buck! Good-bye!”

For one awful moment the great red Ironwood, Bolt, flung up his head and slid forward on his haunches, ploughing up the earth in a cloud.

Then, while the half-stunned crowd gaped in silence, he gathered himself, straightened, whirled, shook his giant frame and leaped clear of the ground in a spectacular turn. The man on his back snatched off his hat and shook it defiantly at the town––the people––the very Valley that he had ruled so long. It was a dramatic gesture––daring, scorning, renouncing. Then, without a 285 word to his henchmen, a single look of farewell, Buck Courtrey struck the Ironwood, and was gone back along the little street.

His men whirled after him, but strange turn of destiny, they swung directly north away from him, for he was turning south at the town’s edge.

“For the––Wall!” breathed Lola, her face like milk, one hand on her glittering breast. “He––goes––for below!”

Then all the watchers knew the same.

The master of the Stronghold, having played for Lost Valley and for a woman and lost them both––was done with both.

He leaned on the Ironwood’s mighty neck and went south toward the Bottle Neck.

All eyes were upon him––all, that is, save the earnest grey ones of Billy Brent. They were fixed in anguish on the face of Tharon Last beside him––Tharon Last, who shoved the gun-butts hard down in the holsters at her hips, who whirled on her booted heel, who cleared the space between her and El Rey in three cat-like leaps.

As she went up the stallion rose with her, came down with a pounding of iron-shod hoofs, dropped his huge hips in the first leap––and was away.

Corvan saw the silver horse shoot out from its midst and woke from its lethargy. 286

“Th’ race!” some one cried, high and shrill, “th’ race at last!”

The two strangers saw it, and their lips fell open with amaze.

Kenset from his low porch saw it––and dropped his face on his arms.

“Lord God!” he groaned, “it’s come! I couldn’t hold her! I might have known! I might have known! She’s Valley bred––she is the Valley! I––and all I stand for––chaff in the wind! Nothing could hold her now! Aye––nothing could hold her.”

True at last to herself––true to Harkness––true to Jim Last––true to the Vigilantes and to the Valley she loved, Tharon flung the sombrero from her bright head, settled her feet in the stirrups, slid the rein on El Rey’s neck, leaned down above him and began to call in his ears.

No need of that cry.

El Rey heeded nothing that she might say. She was not his master––never had been. He had had but one, the big, stern man whose sharp word had been his law––the one who had ever had his best, his love and his speed.

What was it now that rode in his saddle––the saddle with the long dark stain?

Assuredly it was not the slim girl-thing with the golden voice! 287

El Rey had ever looked through, beyond her.

Nay, it was something bigger, stronger, sterner––who shall say? Perhaps the spirit of that master whom he had served, whom he had brought faithfully home that night in spring, for whom he had looked and listened all these weary months! There was something, indeed––for El Rey, the great, lay down to earth and ran without the need of guidance. He set the long red horse out there on the green plain before him like a beacon and put the mighty machinery of his massive body into motion. Bolt was a rival worthy of his best––Bolt, the king of the Ironwoods, huge, spirited, fast as the wind and wild as fire. El Rey’s silver ears lay back along his neck, the mane above them was like a cloud, his long tail streamed behind him like a comet––and forgotten was his singlefooting. He ran, his great limbs gathering and spreading beneath him––gathering and spreading––with the regularity, of clock-work.

Tharon’s blue eyes were narrow as her father’s, the little lines about them stood out. She rode low, like a limpet clinging, and her mind was on the two ahead––the man and the great bay horse.

As she felt the wind sing by her cheeks, sting the tears beneath her lids, she shut her lips tighter and hugged the pommel closer.

The green carpet went by beneath her like a 288 blur. The thunder of El Rey’s beating hoofs was like the sound of the cataracts when the caÑons shot their freshets from the Rockface.

The note of his speed was rising––rising––rising. The blood began to pound in her temples with pride and exultation.

She saw the distance narrowing just the smallest bit between her and Courtrey. Just the smallest trifle, indeed, but narrowing.

“He ain’t a-puttin’ Bolt down to his best,” she told herself tensely, “I know what he can do.” And she remembered that ride from the mouth of Black Coulee to the pine-guarded glade––and Kenset. At that thought she pressed her lips tighter.

No thought of Kenset must come to her now––to weaken her with memory of those pressing, vital hands of his above his pounding heart.

No––she was herself again––Tharon Last, Jim Last’s girl, the gun woman of Lost Valley––and yonder went her father’s killer.

She leaned down and called again in El Rey’s ear.

No slightest spurt of speed rewarded her––nothing but the rising note. Then she saw that the distance was widening––just a tiny bit.

Truly it was widening. Courtrey, looking back, had caught the sun on her golden hair, on her face 289 as white as milk. He saw that her hands were at her hips––loosely set back at her hips––and what thought he might have had of mercy at her hands––what wild vision he might have seen of speech with her––of parley––of persuasion––was dead.

He leaned down and struck the Ironwood with his open hand.

Bolt, the beautiful, leaped in answer. A little more––slowly––the distance between pursuer and pursued widened. Then––Tharon blinked the mist from her eyes to make sure––the gain was lost. Slowly, steadily, El Rey closed up the extra width. Then for a time there was no change. The open plain resounded to the roar of hoofs, the wind sang by like taut strings struck. The earth was still that racing green blur beneath.

And still the electric note of rising speed hummed softly higher.

If Jim Last rode his silver stallion to the goal of vengeance he must surely have been satisfied. The great shoulders worked like pistons, the whole massive body was level as the flowing floor beneath, the steel-thewed limbs reached and doubled––reached and doubled––with wonderful power and precision.

And then at last Tharon knew––knew that El Rey was gaining, slowly, steadily, surely. The splendid bay horse was running magnificently, but 290 El Rey ran like a super-horse. His silver head was straight as a level, his ears laid back, his nostrils wide and flaring, red as blood, his big eyes glowed with the wildness of savage flight.

The great king was mad with speed!

Jim Last’s girl was mad also––mad with the lust of conquest, of revenge.

She rose a little from the stallion’s whipping mane, and her blue eyes burned on the man ahead.

“I said I’d get you, Buck Courtrey!” she muttered, “that some day I’d run th’ Ironwoods off their feet––th’ heart out of their master!

“Run, damn you––for it’s your last ride!”

Then she dropped forward again and watched the distance closing down.

Nearer––nearer––nearer!

The note rose another notch.

Never in his life had El Rey run as he ran now. Always he had had reserves. He had them now. The bottom of his power was not reached.

Bolt was doing his best. Once he threw up his head and foam flew on the wind––red foam that shot back and whipped on Tharon’s hand, a wet pink stain, thinned and faded.

At that sight an exultant cry, savage, inhuman, ugly, burst from her throat.

She was within long gunshot now––was closing her fingers lightly on the blue gun-butts–––. 291

Courtrey heard that cry.

He rose in his saddle––turned––flashed up his hand and fired. Quick as the motion of the gun man was, Tharon Last was quicker. She dropped over El Rey’s shoulder like a cat, firing as she went.

Courtrey’s bullet clipped the cantle of the big saddle an inch above her flattened leg across it. Hers did something else––what she had dreamed of. It struck that other wrist of Courtrey’s, the left––and sent his six-gun tumbling.

Once again she yelled as she came back in her saddle.

And El Rey was closing––closing up the gap between.

Once again Tharon raised her guns to shoot––both, this time, as her daddy had taught her. This was the pinnacle of her life, her skill, her training.

Never again would she live a moment like it. She laughed and crouched for the final act.

But a sudden coldness went over her from head to foot, sent the hot blood shaking down her spine.

What was Courtrey doing?

He rode straight up at last, like an Indian showing, and his bleeding left hand swung at his side. With the other he had swept off his wide 292 hat, so that his handsome iron-grey head was bare to the summer sun. His keen hawk face was lifted. He made a spectacular figure––like a warrior, unarmed, waiting his end with courage.

Unarmed!

That it was which struck Tharon like a hand across her face. The gun he had used with his left hand was his only one! He had carried but one since that night at the Stronghold when she had first marked him.

She should have known! Word of this had been about Corvan and the Valley.

And so she had Buck Courtrey at her mercy. She could close the lessening gap and kill him in his saddle–––

But the icy blood still seemed to trickle down her back.

She––and Jim Last––they had always fought in fair-and-open. They were no murderers.... They did not strike in the dark––shoot a man from ambush––nor kill a man unarmed.... And Kenset––Kenset of the foothills––what had he said about the stain of blood––blood-guilt––clean hands–––

The girl caught her breath with a choking sob.

The game was up.

Neither Jim Last––nor Kenset––nor she––would shoot a man unarmed. 293

And Courtrey was riding toward the Bottle Neck.

He would go down the Wall to freedom.

And the crosses in Jim Last’s granite––they would be forever unredeemed, a shame, a sadness, a living accusation!

Nay––not that! Not that!

She had promised––and the Law was waiting––the big Law of below.

She was Jim Last’s daughter still.

She leaned closer to El Rey’s neck––held her two guns ready––and rode with the very wind.

She was near now––she could see Courtrey’s face, waxen white but fearless, his dark eyes turned back toward her in a sort of desperate admiration.... Courtrey loved strength and courage and all things wild and fierce. She could see Bolt’s staring eyeballs, his open mouth, gasping and piteous. One more moment––another––yet one more––then she rose in her stirrups and fired straight at the broad bay temple, shining and black with sweat!

The great gallant Ironwood went down in a huge arc––first his beautiful head, then the sinking arch of his neck, then the shoulders that had worked so wondrously. He rolled on his back like a hoop, his iron-shod hoofs spinning for one 294 spectacular moment in the air. Then he lay at sudden ease, his still fluttering nose pointing directly back the way he had come.

With the first catching stumble of the true forefeet, the man on his back had shot out of the saddle and far ahead. He landed twenty feet away and squarely on his head and shoulders. Like Bolt, Courtrey’s body turned a complete somersault––and lay still, at sudden peace.

Tharon Last and El Rey went on like an arrow––they could not stop.

When at last she did draw the great king down she was far and away from the spot. She turned her head, panting and dizzy, and looked back.... She could see the prone red heap that was Bolt––a little way beyond that other, lesser, darker heap....

For a long time she sat on El Rey’s heaving back and stared unseeingly at the green earth where the short grasses quivered in the little wind.

There was a deathly white line about her lips, but her eyes blazed with the fire that had characterized them from birth, the flickering, unfathomable flame that came and went.

Then, presently, new lines came in her young face, unstable lines that quivered and worked, and all the good green earth danced grotesquely before her vision, for a wall of tears shut out the world. 295 ... She laid her head down on El Rey’s cloudy mane––and wept.

It was early dawn at Last’s Holding. The sun was not yet up behind the eastern ramparts. The cottonwoods whispered in the dawn-wind, the spring beneath the milk-house talked and murmured. Out in the big corrals the cattle were beginning to stir and bawl.

In the kitchen old Anita and young Paula had breakfast waiting for the men.

Deep in that dim south room where the pale Virgin kept watch and ward, Kenset of the foothills slept in healing peace.

And at the step of the western door, Billy stood by Golden––Golden the beautiful, who ranked next to El Rey himself––and his face was lifted to Tharon who drooped against the lintel with her forehead on her arm.

The boy held her hand clasped in both of his own, and there was a yearning tenderness in his soft voice when he spoke, a pride and joy ineffable that glowed above the pain that was never to leave him.

“It ain’t that I love you less, Tharon, dear,” he said gently, “that I must go. Not that, little girl. I’ll love you till I die––that I know in dead certainty. But I can’t stay here––not where I’ll 296 have to see you givin’ all your sweet self to another man. A good man, too, Tharon––I think there ain’t a better one in th’ land––but––well,––I can’t––that’s all. I can’t thank you for all you’ve done for me sence you was a little mite of a girl––five years back,”––his voice broke a bit, but he controlled it, “nor for th’ joy you’ve given me––th’ rides together––an’ th’ jokes an’ playin’–––”

He paused a moment, unhappily, and the mistress of Last’s drooped more heavily against the old adobe wall.

“Nor for Golden here,” went on the rider, “we’ll be pals as long as we both live––nor fer-fer––” he stopped again, hesitated, looked yearningly at the quivering cheek against the curving arm, and went on to the finish.

“Nor fer that one kiss, Tharon––it’s my one treasure for life, so help me, God––that you give me that night. An’ over all I want to thank you fer––fer––killin’ th’ Pomo half-breed in th’ Cup o’ God––fer you done that trick fer me! Th’ one stain on your dear hands––fer me––the only one, fer Fate killed Courtrey, not you. His neck was clean broke when they picked him up.... That memory will keep me alive, will save th’ beauty of th’ stars at night fer me, will make th’ rest worth livin’.... That one kiss.”

He stopped again and stood for a long time 297 looking at her as if he would fix forever in his memory the beauty of her, the fire, the spirit, the elusive quality that was Tharon Last herself.

Then he sighed and smiled and gently shook the hand he held.

“Come––tell me good-bye, Tharon, dear,” he said softly.

For answer the mistress of Last’s once again reached out her arms and drew his head to her heart––once more pressed her lips upon his own.

“Oh, Billy,” she said with a sound of tears in her voice, “Kenset’s th’ one man––that’s true, an’ I’m helpless before th’ fact––but there’ll never be another can take your place in my heart––there’ll never be no one to ride with me in th’ Big Shadow in just th’ same way, Billy––to hold my hand as we come home to Last’s with that same sweet, honest friendship, that don’t need words! I’ve got my life-love, but I’ve lost my life-friend––an’ my heart’s sore––sore with pain!”

The rider lifted his face and it was glorified in the first rays of the sun that was rising over the eastern mountains. His gayly studded belt and riding cuffs, his spurs and the vanity of silver on his wide hat caught the glow and sparkled brightly. Joy became paramount over sadness.

“Don’t you fret, Tharon,” he said, still in that soft voice, “I’m always at your shoulder in spirit––in 298 body, too, if you ever want me or need me. So long.”

And he kissed both the hands he held, dropped them, turned and mounted Golden, waved a hand to all the Holding, and putting the horse to a run, went down the sounding-board as if he dared not look back.

Until horse and rider were a tiny speck on the living green––until they passed the Silver Hollow and the mouth of Black Coulee, Tharon Last stood in the western door and watched them with dim blue eyes.

Ail the wide expanse of Lost Valley was still and sweet with dawn, smiling as if with a new and wondrous peace, the Vestal’s Veil shimmered on the Rockface, the distant peaks above the CaÑon Country cut the skies.

She scanned the little world about and felt this peace press down upon her soul––as if the questions all were answered, the duty done.

Never in all her life before had Last’s Holding seemed to her so secure and settled, so sweet and to be desired....

Within it lay her destiny––the man in the cool south room.

Without in the great Valley lay a future.

Love was with her––friendship would be with her always in memory, one glowing with its vital 299 presence, the other softened and doubly sweet with the sorrow of absence.

She raised her hand and made the sign of the Cross between herself and that disappearing speck, then she turned and followed old Anita carrying gruels to that dim south room.

THE END