Puzzled, but watchful and alert, De Launay saw her retreating, sensing the terrible change that had come over her.

“Yes, I am Louisiana,” he said. “What is the matter?”

In answer she laughed, while one hand went to the breast of her shirtwaist and the other reached behind her, groping for something as she paced backward. Like a cameo in chalk her features were set and the writhing flames in her hair called up an image of Medusa. There was no change in expression, but through her parted lips broke a low laugh, terrible in its utter lack of feeling.

“And I have for my husband—Louisiana! Quelle farce!”

The hand at her breast was withdrawn and in it fluttered the yellow paper that Wilding had brought from Maryville to Wallace’s ranch. She flung it toward him, and as he stooped to pick it up, her groping hand fell on the pistol resting on the upturned log at the side of the bunk. She drew it around in front of her, dropped the holster at her side and snapped the safety down. Her thumb 272 rested on the hammer and she stood still, tensely waiting.

De Launay read the notice of reward swiftly and looked up. His face was stern, but otherwise expressionless.

“Well?” he demanded, his eyes barely resting on the pistol before they swept to meet her own blazing gaze. There was no depth to her eyes now. Instead they seemed to be fire surrounded by black rims.

“You have read—murderer!”

“I have read it.” De Launay’s voice was like his face, and in both appeared a trace of contempt.

“What have you to say before I kill you?”

“That you would have shot before now had you been able to do it,” answered De Launay, and now the note of contempt was deeper. He turned his back to her and leaned forward over the fire, one outstretched hand upon the stone slab that formed the rude mantel.

The girl stood there immobile. The hand that held the pistol was not raised nor lowered. The thumb did not draw back the hammer. But over her face came, gradually, a change; a desperate sorrow, an abandonment of hope. Even the light in her hair that had made it a flaming wheel seemed in some mysterious way to die down. The terrible fire in her eyes went out as though drowned in rising tears.

A sob burst from her lips and her breast heaved. 273 De Launay gazed down upon the fire, and his face was bitter as though he tasted death.

Solange slowly reached behind her again and dropped the heavy weapon upon the log. Then, in a choked voice she struggled to call out:

“Monsieur Wallace! Will you come?”

In the next room there was a stirring of hasty movements. Sucatash raised a cheery and incongruous voice.

“Just a minute, mad’mo’selle! I’m comin’ a-runnin’.”

He stamped into his boots and flung the door open, disheveled, shirt open at the neck. Astonished, he took in the strange attitudes of the others.

“What’s the answer?” he asked. “What was it you wanted, ma’am?”

Solange turned to him, her grief-ridden face stony in its hopelessness.

“Monsieur, you are my friend?”

“For mayhem, manslaughter or murder,” he answered at once. “What’s wanted?”

“Then—will you take this pistol, and kill that man for me?”

Sucatash’s eyes narrowed and his mottled hair seemed to bristle. He turned on De Launay.

“What’s he done?” he asked, with cold fury.

De Launay did not move. Solange answered dully.

“He is the man who—married me—when he was the man who had murdered my father!” 274

But Sucatash made no move toward the pistol. He merely gaped at her and at De Launay. His expression had changed from anger to stupidity and dazed incomprehension.

“What’s that? He murdered your father?”

“He is Louisiana!”

“He? Louisiana! I allowed he was an old-timer. Well, all I can say is—heaven’s delights!”

Solange put out her hand to the edge of the bunk as though she could not support herself longer unaided. Her eyes were half closed now.

“Will you kill him, monsieur? If you do, you may have—of me—anything—that you ask!”

The words were faltered out in utter weariness. For one instant De Launay’s eyes flickered toward her, but Sucatash had already sprung to her side and was easing her to a seat on the edge of the bunk. Her head drooped forward.

“Ma’am,” said Sucatash, earnestly, “you got me wrong. I can’t kill him—not for that.”

“Not for that?” she repeated, wonderingly.

“Never in the world! I thought he’d insulted you, and if he had I’d a taken a fall out of him if he was twenty Louisianas. But this here notion you got that he beefed your father—that’s all wrong! You can’t go to downin’ a man on no such notions as that!”

“Why not?” asked Solange, in a stifled voice.

“Because he never done it—that’s whatever. You’d 275 never get over it, mad’mo’selle, if you done that and then found you was wrong! And you are wrong.”

Slowly, Solange dragged herself upright. She was listless, the lightness had gone out of her step. Without a word, she reached out and lifted her leather coat from the nail on which it hung. Then she dragged her leaden feet to the door. Sucatash silently followed her.

In the other room she spoke once.

“Will you saddle my horse for me, monsieur?”

“There ain’t no place for you to go, ma’am.”

“Nevertheless, I shall go. If you please——”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

She followed him to the door, putting on her coat. Outside, she sat down on a log and remained stonily oblivious as Sucatash hastily caught up several horses and dragged saddles and alforjas into position. The westering sun was getting low along the rim of the crater and he worked fast with the knowledge that night would soon be upon them. Inside the cabin he heard De Launay moving about. A moment later as he entered to gather Solange’s equipment, he saw the soldier seated at the rough table busy with paper and fountain pen.

As Sucatash went past him, carrying an armload of blankets and a tarpaulin, De Launay held out a yellow paper.

“She will want this,” he said, and then bent over his writing. 276

Again, when Sucatash came in for more stuff, De Launay stopped him. He held out the pen, indicating the sheet of paper spread upon the table.

“This needs two witnesses, I think, but one will have to serve. She is my wife, after all—but it will make it more certain. Will you sign it?”

Sucatash glanced hastily at the document, reading the opening words: “I, Louis Bienville de Launay, colonel and late general of division of the army of France, being of sound and disposing mind, do make, declare, and publish this my Last Will and Testament——”

His eye caught only one other phrase: “I give, bequeath, and devise to my dearly beloved wife, Solange——”

With an oath, Sucatash savagely dashed his signature where De Launay indicated, and then rushed out of the room. The soldier took another piece of paper and resumed his writing. When he had finished he folded the two sheets into an envelope and sealed it. Outside, Sucatash was heaving the lashings taut on the last packs.

De Launay came to the door and stood watching the final preparations. Solange still sat desolately on the log.

Finally Sucatash came to her and assisted her to rise. He led her to her horse and held the stirrup for her as she swung to the saddle. He was about 277 to mount himself when De Launay caught his eye. Instead, he stepped to the soldier’s side.

“Take this,” said De Launay, holding out the envelope. “Give it to her to-morrow. And—she needn’t worry about the mine—or Banker.”

“She’s not even thinkin’ about them!” growled Sucatash.

He turned and strode to his horse. In another moment they were riding rapidly toward the rim of the crater.

De Launay watched them for some time and then went into the cabin. He came out a moment later carrying saddle and bridle. On his thighs were now hanging holsters on both sides, and both were strapped down at the bottoms.

He caught and saddled his horse, taking his time to the operation. Then, searching the darkening surface of the crater wall, he found no trace of the two who had ridden away. But he busied himself in getting food and eating it. It was fully an hour after they had gone before he mounted and rode after them.

By this time Solange and Sucatash had reached the rim and were well on their way through the down timber. More by luck than any knowledge of the way, they managed to strike the game trail, and wound through the impeding snags, the cow-puncher taking the lead and the girl following listlessly in his wake. Before dark had come upon 278 them they had gained the level bench and were riding toward the gulch which led into the caÑon.

After a while Sucatash spoke. “Where you aimin’ to camp, ma’am?”

“I am going down to these miners,” she said flatly.

“But, mad’mo’selle, that camp ain’t no place for you. There ain’t no women there, most likely, and the men are sure to be a tough bunch. I wouldn’t like to let you go there.”

“I am going,” she answered. To his further remonstrances she interposed a stony silence.

He gave it up after a while. As though that were a signal, she became more loquacious.

“In a mining camp, one would suppose that the men, as you have said, are violent and fierce?”

“They’re sure likely to be some wolfish, ma’am,” he agreed. In hope that she would be deterred by exaggeration, he dwelt on the subject. “The gunmen and hoss thieves and tinhorn gamblers all come in on the rush. There’s a lot of them hobos and wobblies—reds and anarchists and such—floatin’ round the country, and they’re sure to be in on it, too. I reckon any of them would cut a throat or down a man for two bits in lead money. Then there’s the kind of women that follows a rush—the kind you wouldn’t want to be seen with even—and the men might allow you was the same kind if you come rackin’ in among ’em.” 279

Solange listened thoughtfully and even smiled bleakly.

“These men would kill, you say, for money?”

“For money, marbles or chalk,” said Sucatash. He was about to embellish this when she nodded with satisfaction.

“That is good,” she said. “And, if not for money, for a woman—one of that kind of woman—they would shoot a man?”

Sucatash blanched. “What are you drivin’ at, ma’am?”

“They will kill for me, for money—or if that is not enough—for a woman; such a woman as I am. Will they not, Monsieur Sucatash?”

“Kill who?”

He knew the answer, though, before she spoke: “Louisiana!”

Shocked, he ventured a feeble remonstrance.

“He’s your husband, ma’am!”

But this drove her to a wild outburst in startling contrast to her former quiescence.

“My husband! Yes, my husband who has defiled me as no other on earth could have soiled and degraded me! My husband! Oh, he shall be killed if I must sell myself body and soul to the man who shoots him down!”

Then she whirled on him.

“Monsieur Sucatash! You have said to me that you liked me. Maybe indeed, you have loved me a 280 little! Well, if you will kill that man for me—you may have me!”

Sucatash groaned, staring at her as though fascinated. She threw back her head, turning to him, her face upraised. The sweetly curved lips were half parted, showing little white teeth. On the satin cheeks a spot of pink showed. The lids were drooping over the deep eyes, veiling them, hiding all but a hint of the mystery and beauty behind them.

“Am I not worth a man’s life?” she murmured.

“You’re worth a dozen murders and any number of other crimes,” said Sucatash gruffly. He turned his head away. “But you got me wrong. If he was what you think, I’d smoke him up in a minute and you’d not owe me a thing. But, ma’am, I know better’n you do how you really feel. You think you want him killed—but you don’t.”

Solange abruptly straightened round and rode ahead without another word. Morosely, Sucatash followed.

They came into the caÑon at last and turned downward toward the spot where camp had been pitched that day, which seemed so long ago, and yet was not yet a week in the past. Snow was falling, clouding the air with a baffling mist, but they could see, dotted everywhere along the sides of the caÑon, the flickering fires where the miners had camped on their claims. Around them came the muffled voices of men, free with profanity. Here 281 and there the shadow of a tent loomed up, or a more solid bulk spoke of roughly built shacks of logs and canvas. Faint laughter and, once or twice, the sound of loud quarreling was heard. It all seemed weirdly unreal and remote as though they rode through an alien, fourth dimensional world with which they had no connection. The snow crunched softly under the feet of the horses.

But as they progressed, the houses or shacks grew thicker until it appeared that they were traversing the rough semblance of a street. Mud sloshed under the hoofs of the horses instead of snow, and a black ribbon of it stretched ahead of them. Mistily on the sides loomed dimly lighted canvas walls or dark hulks of logs. The sound of voices was more frequent and insistent down here, though most of it seemed to come from some place ahead.

In the hope that she would push on through the camp Sucatash followed the girl. They came at last to a long, dim bulk, glowing with light from a height of about six feet and black below that level. From this place surged a raucous din of voices, cursing, singing and quarreling. A squeaky fiddle and a mandolin uttered dimly heard notes which were tossed about in the greater turmoil. Stamping feet made a continuous sound, curiously muffled.

“What is this?” said Solange, drawing rein before the place.

“Ma’am, you better come along,” replied Sucatash. 282 “I reckon the bootleggers and gamblers have run in a load of poison and started a honkatonk. If that’s it, this here dive is sure no place for peaceable folks like us at this time o’ night.”

“But it is here that these desperate men who will kill may be found, is it not?” Solange asked.

“You can sure find ’em as bad as you want ’em, in there. But you can’t go in there, ma’am! My God! That place is hell!”

“Then it is the place for me,” said Solange. She swung down from her horse and walked calmly to the dimly outlined canvas door, swung it back and stepped inside. 283