ould not,
she called upon her last strength, and climbed into the great pen where
he lay insensible.

The murderers had gone away. Their task seemed complete, and they had
no wish to tarry too long after the countryside had been aroused by
that beacon of fire.

But it was much later that neighborhood searchers found Alexander
sitting on a mound of salvaged wheat with the head of an unconscious
man in her lap. It was a man stripped to the waist, sweat-covered and
smoke blackened. The girl was mumbling incoherent things into his
unresponsive ear.

"Ye saved ther wheat fer us anyhow--an' ther doctor says he hain't none
hurted beyond being scorched up some," declared Warwick McGivins that
same night at his own house, and Alexander, limp to collapse with her
long vigil of terror, but with eyes that glowed with triumph--and with
something else--replied, "I've saved somethin' better then a mighty
heap of wheat."

Jerry spoke from the bed, where he lay conscious now, but still very
weak.

"Things looked mighty unsartain--fer a spell."

And the girl answered in a silvery voice that held the thrill of
invincible courage. "Nothin' hain't never goin' ter be unsartain fer
us from now on. Hit teks fire, I reckon, ter weld iron--but----"

The enfeebled man tried to raise himself on his elbow, but she gently
pressed him back.

"Does ye mean hit, Alexander?" he whispered tensely. "Hit hain't jest
because I've been hurted a leetle--an' ye're compassionate fer me?"

"Jerry," she said and her voice became all at once softly tremulous,
"jest es soon as ye're able I wants ye ter tek me in yore arms--an' I
don't never want ye ter let me go ergin!"

"I'll git thet strong right soon," he declared with a fervor that
brought the strength back to his voice--and the sparkle back into his
blood-shot eyes.

Jack Halloway came into his rooms one day in early September and ran
through some mail that lay piled on his table. He was not in a happy
humor. The business here had dragged out to the annoying length of six
weeks and his mind was busy with anxiety centering on the hills. But
as his thoughts ran irritably along, the hand that had lifted an
envelope out of the collection became rigid. It was a very plain
envelope and quite unaccountably it was postmarked from the station
near the mouth of Shoulder-blade creek.

Who, down there, could know his New York address? It could not be
Brent, for this was not Brent's hand.