ed, 'Lindy Clanton.
Mebbe you won't hold yore head so high now."

The girl rode between them down from the hills. Who knows into what an
agony of fear and remorse and black despair she fell? She could not go
home a cast-off, a soiled creature to be scorned and pointed at. She
dared not meet her father. It would be impossible to look her little
brother Jimmie in the face. Would they believe the story she told? And if
they were convinced of its truth, what difference would that make? She
was what she was, no matter how she had become so.

On the pike they met old Nance Cunningham returning from the mill with a
sack of meal. The story of that meeting was one the old gossip told after
the tragedy to many an eager circle of listeners,

"She jes' lifted her han' an' stopped me, an' if death was ever writ on a
human face it shorely wuz stomped on hers. 'I want you to tell my father
I'm sorry,' she sez. 'He swore he'd marry me inside of an hour. This man
hyer--his brother--made out like he wuz a preacher an' married us. Tell
my father that an' ask him to forgive me if he can.' That wuz all she
said. Ranse Roush hit her horse with a switch an' sez, 'Yo' kin tell him
all that yore own self soon as you git home.' I reckon I wuz the lastest
person she spoke to alive."

They left the old woman staring after them with her mouth open. It could
have been only a few minutes later that they reached Quicksand Creek.

'Lindy pulled up her horse to let the men precede her through the ford.
They splashed into the shallows on the other side of the creek and waited
for her to join them. Instead, she slipped from the saddle, ran down the
bank, and plunged into the quicksand.

"Goddlemighty!" shrieked Ranse. "She's a-drowndin' herself in the sands."

They spurred their horses back across the creek and ran to rescue the
girl. But she had flung herself forward face down far out of their reach.
They dared not venture into the quivering bog after her. While they still
stared in a frozen horror, the tragedy was completed. The victim of their
revenge had disappeared beneath the surface of the morass.

Chapter I

"Call Me Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em"

The boy had spent the night at a water-hole in a little draw near the
foot of the mesa. He had supped on cold rations and slept in his blanket
without the comfort of glowing pinon knots. For yesterday he had cut
Indian signs and after dark had seen the shadow of Apache camp-fires
reflected in the