ured
me of the preparedness of the impecunious clansmen who played watchdogs
for their keep.

Then a loud and affable voice from the road gave greeting, "Hello, Cal
Marcus!"

There was no immediate reply. Those inside were awaiting a more
conclusive guarantee of pacific intent. Seemingly amicable salutations
shouted from the night had before now brought householders into the
excellent target of a lighted door, where they had lain down and died.

"Hello, Cal Marcus!" called the voice again, "we're a-comin' in."

"Who be ye?" challenged a voice from the interior. "Don't come till we
know who ye be."

In the next moment I started violently and found myself in a tremor from
head to foot, for the voice which answered the question was a woman's
voice, and it was the voice of rich contralto which I had once heard and
often imagined.

"It's I, Frances Weighborne," was the response, "and some gentlemen who
rode over with me from the train." In corroboration came other voices,
deep and masculine, and evidently recognized within as the voices of
friends. The man in the shadow of the kitchen came out from his
concealment and started down to the gate swinging his rifle at his side.
A door opened and framed the emaciated, half-clad figure of Calloway
Marcus. "Come right in, Ma'm," he shouted. The group rode up into the
light and dismounted.

I saw her come in at the gate. The moonlight was full upon her, and I
stood skulking in my concealment of shadow like a thief, held fast in a
paralysis of jealousy and worship.

This was no place for me. I, of all men in the world, could least endure
or be endured at that greeting between Weighborne and his wife who had
ridden these mountains to be with him.

CHAPTER XXI

I GO WALKING AND MEET ENEMIES.

He and I had labored across those twenty miles in a wagon by daylight. I
could guess what it meant at night and in the saddle--and she had done
it! She had come alone, except for such chance escort as she could
recruit at the mining town, and now as she walked in the moon-bath of
the clearing, there was not a man of them all who carried himself with
so free and unwearied a stride. She was dressed in a short riding-skirt
and a heavy sweater. Her shoulders swung back as free as an Indian's,
and I knew at that moment, and without doubt, that this was the elusive
lady of Europe who had walked out of Shepheard's Hotel the night when I
sat on the terrace. She was no fragile orname