he penitentiary for life."

When Wellesly reached Las Plumas he found the town basking in peace
and friendliness. Colonel Whittaker and Judge Harlin were enjoying a
midday mint julep together over the bar of the Palmleaf saloon; John
Daniels and Joe Davis were swapping yarns over a watermelon in the
back room of Pierre Delarue's store, while Delarue himself was
laughing gleefully at their stories, and Mrs. Harlin was assisting
Mrs. Daniels in preparations for the swellest card party of the
summer, which the sheriff's wife was to give that afternoon.

In the late afternoon Wellesly sat beside Marguerite Delarue on her
veranda and told her the story of his abduction and of his fight,
which he had come so near to losing, with the fiends of heat and
thirst. He showed her the bent and bloody pin which had helped to
liberate him from his captivity in the canyon and in soft and
lover-like tones told her that he owed his life to her and that a
lifetime of devotion would not be sufficient to express his gratitude.
But he stopped just short of asking her to accept the lifetime of
devotion. She was much moved and her tender blue eyes were misty with
tears as she listened to the story of his sufferings. He thought he
had never seen her look so sweet and attractive and so entirely in
accord with his ideal of womanly sympathy. When he told her how
Emerson Mead and his two friends had worked over him and by what a
narrow margin they had saved him from severe illness and probably from
death, her face brightened and she seemed much pleased. She asked some
questions about Mead, and was evidently so interested in this part of
the story that Wellesly, much to his surprise, felt a sudden impulse
of personal dislike and enmity toward the big Texan. That night, as he
sat at his window smoking and looking thoughtfully at the lop-sided
moon rising over the Hermosa mountains, he was thinking about
Marguerite Delarue and the advisability of asking her to marry him.

"Undoubtedly," he owned to himself, "I think more of her than I
usually do of women, because I never before cared a hang what their
feelings were toward other men. I must have been mistaken in thinking
there was anything between her and Mead. Her heart is as fresh as her
face, and I can go in and take it, and feel there have been no
predecessors, if I want to. Do I want to? I don't know. She's handsome
and she's got a stunning figure. Her feet aren't pretty, but they
would look bet