Trevison dropped from Nigger at the dooryard of Levins’ cabin, and looked with a grim smile at Levins himself lying face downward across the saddle on his own pony. He had carried Levins out of the Belmont and had thrown him, as he would have thrown a sack of meal, across the saddle, where he had lain during the four-mile ride, except during two short intervals in which Trevison had lifted him off and laid him flat on the ground, to rest. Trevison had meditated, not without a certain wry humor, upon the strength and the protracted potency of Manti’s whiskey, for not once during his home-coming had Levins shown the slightest sign of returning consciousness. He was as slack as a meal sack now, as Trevison lifted him from the pony’s back and let him slip gently to the ground at his feet. A few minutes later, Trevison was standing in the doorway of the cabin, his burden over his shoulder, the weak glare of light from within the cabin stabbing the blackness of the night and revealing him to the white-faced woman who had answered his summons.

Her astonishment had been of the mute, agonized kind; her eyes, hollow, eloquent with unspoken misery and resignation, would have told Trevison that this was not the first time, had he not known from personal observation. She stood watching, gulping, shame and mortification bringing patches of color into her cheeks, as Trevison carried Levins into a bedroom and laid him down, removing his boots. She was standing near the door when Trevison came out of the bedroom; she was facing the blackness of the desert night—a blacker future, unknowingly—and Trevison halted on the threshold of the bedroom door and set his teeth in sympathy. For the woman deserved better treatment. He had known her for several years—since the time when Levins, working for him, had brought her from a ranch on the other side of the Divide, announcing their marriage. It had been a different Levins, then, as it was a different wife who stood at the door now. She had faded; the inevitable metamorphosis wrought by neglect, worry and want, had left its husks—a wan, tired-looking woman of thirty who had only her hopes to nourish her soul. There were children, too—if that were any consolation. Trevison saw them as he glanced around the cabin. They were in another bed; through an archway he could see their chubby faces. His lungs filled and his lips straightened.

But he grinned presently, in an effort to bring cheer into the cabin, reaching into a pocket and bringing out the money he had recovered for Levins.

“There are nearly a thousand dollars here. Two tin-horn gamblers tried to take it from Clay, but I headed them off. Tell Clay—”

Mrs. Levins’ face whitened; it was more money than she had ever seen at one time.

“Clay’s?” she interrupted, perplexedly. “Why, where—”

“I haven’t the slightest idea—but he had it, they tried to take it away from him—it’s here now—it belongs to you.” He shoved it into her hands and stepped back, smiling at the stark wonder and joy in her eyes. He saw the joy vanish—concern and haunting worry came into her eyes.

“They told me that Clay shot—killed—a man yesterday. Is it true?” She cast a fearing look at the bed where the children lay.

“The damned fools!”

“Then it’s true!” She covered her face with her hands, the money in them. Then she took the hands away and looked at the money in them, loathingly. “Do you think Clay—”

“No!” he said shortly, anticipating. “That couldn’t be. For the man Clay killed had this money on him. Clay accused him of picking his pocket. Clay gave the bartender in the Plaza the number of each bill before he saw them after taking the bills out of the pickpocket’s clothing. So it can’t be as you feared.”

She murmured incoherently and pressed both hands to her breast. He laughed and walked to the door.

“Well, you need it, you and the kiddies. I’m glad to have been of some service to you. Tell Clay he owes me something for cartage. If there is anything I can do for you and Clay and the kiddies I’d be only too glad.”

“Nothing—now,” said the woman, gratitude shining from her eyes, mingling with a worried gleam. “Oh!” she added, passionately; “if Clay was only different! Can’t you help him to be strong, Mr. Trevison? Like you? Can’t you be with him more, to try to keep him straight for the sake of the children?”

“Clay’s odd, lately,” Trevison frowned. “He seems to have changed a lot. I’ll do what I can, of course.” He stepped out of the door and then looked back, calling: “I’ll put Clay’s pony away. Good night.” And the darkness closed around him.

Over at Blakeley’s ranch, J. C. Benham had just finished an inspection of the interior and had sank into the depths of a comfortable chair facing his daughter. Blakeley and his wife had retired, the deal that would place the ranch in possession of Benham having been closed. J. C. gazed critically at his daughter.

“Like it here, eh?” he said. “Well, you look it.” He shook a finger at her. “Agatha has been writing to me rather often, lately,” he added. There followed no answer and J. C. went on, narrowing his eyes at the girl. “She tells me that this fellow who calls himself ‘Brand’ Trevison has proven himself a—shall we say, persistent?—escort on your trips of inspection around the ranch.”

Rosalind’s face slowly crimsoned.

“H’m,” said Benham.

“I thought Corrigan—” he began. The girl’s eyes chilled.

“H’m,” said Benham, again.