elessness? Do you realize that it means something to me, for I have
been the reason of that carelessness. I know it! Just this once, forget
all he has done to you. You can trust him. Don't be afraid of that.
Tell him that I sent you, if you don't want to trust him on your own
account----" she broke off. "Where are you going?" she asked anxiously.

"To do something," he answered, shutting his teeth together with a
snap.

"Will you see Jim?" she begged, following him to the edge of the Rock
as he swung himself down the tree.

"No!" he said, without looking back.

After he disappeared--in the direction of the Holy Smoke camp, as she
noticed--she descended rapidly to the ground and hurried, sobbing
excitedly, away toward Spanish Gulch. She was all alive with distress.
She had never realized until the moment of his failure how much she had
loved this man. Near the village she paused, bathed her eyes in the
brook, and, assuming an air of deliberation and calmness, began making
inquiries as to the whereabouts of Jim Fay.

CHAPTER XIX

BENNINGTON PROVES GAME

Bennington de Laney sat on the pile of rocks at the entrance to the
Holy Smoke shaft. Across his knees lay the thirty-calibre rifle. His
face was very white and set. Perhaps he was thinking of his return to
New York in disgrace, of his interview with Bishop, of his inevitable
meeting with a multitude of friends, who would read in the daily papers
the accounts of his incompetence--criminal incompetence, they would
call it. The shadows were beginning to lengthen across the slope of the
hill. Up the gulch cow bells tinkled, up the hill birds sang, and
through the little hollows twilight flowed like a vapour. The wild
roses on the hillside were blooming--late in this high altitude. The
pines were singing their endless song. But Bennington de Laney was
looking upon none of these softer beauties of the Hills. Rather he
watched intently the lower gulch with its flood-wracked, water-twisted
skeleton laid bare. Could it be that in the destruction there figured
forth he caught the symbol of his own condition? That the dreary gloom
of that ruin typified the chaos of sombre thoughts that occupied his
own remorseful mind? If so, the fancy must have absorbed him. The
moments slipped by one by one, the shadows grew longer, the bird songs
louder, and still the figure with the rifle sat motionless, his face
white and still, watching the lower gulch.

Or could it be that B