se soul is seared with
the blasting fury of a hell from the sight of which he is powerless to
withdraw his terrified gaze. He knew nothing but the agony which smote
through his every sense. The world about him, the place, even the
hideous swaying remains of a once joyous life that confronted him. He
was blind, blind to it all, crushed beneath a burden of agony which
left him stupefied. His twin brother Ronald was there before him, a
dreadful, dead thing, hanged for a--cattle thief.

* * * * * *

Bud gazed from the dead to the living. His deep eyes were full of an
understanding which required no words. There was that about the dead,
distorted face which was unmistakable. One look into the dreadful eyes
of the living had told him all he needed.

He, too, stood silently contemplating the swaying figure. But it was
only for a moment. Then he moved swiftly, actively. As he moved he
drew a sheath knife from his belt.

He reached up. The steel of the knife gleamed. The next moment the
dead thing was in his arms.

A low fierce cry suddenly broke the silence of those dreadful shades.

"Leave him! Don't dare, or--I'll kill you!"

Bud's head turned, and the muzzle of a gun touched his cheek. The
blazing eyes behind it shone like coals of fire as they glared into his.

But the great Bud's purpose was stronger than the madness of the
other's agony.

"Put up your gun, Jeff," he said, in a deep gentle voice. "We're jest
goin' to hide this poor boy wher' the eyes o' men an' beasts can't see
him. We're jest goin' to hide him away wher' mebbe the good God'll
watch over him, an' help him, an' surely will forgive him. You ken
jest help me, boy, to locate the place, an' when we find it we'll sort
o' seal it up, an' you ken hide the key away in your heart so no one'll
ever find it. Are you goin' to help, Jeff?"

For answer the gun was abruptly withdrawn. Then Bud saw the stricken
man's hand dash across his eyes, and, as it passed, he realized the
moisture of tears upon the back of it.

CHAPTER VIII

JEFF CLOSES THE BOOK

Ju Penrose was a mild sort of sun-worshipper. But he confined his
regard to the single blessings of light and warmth. Some of his
deity's idiosyncrasies were by no means blessings in his estimation.
He blamed the sun for the flies. He blamed it that it made necessary
the adoption of light cotton shirts, which required frequent washing.
He, furthermor