quarters of an hour behind the
rock, not if he lived to be a hundred. And if he did live, she was
going to pay, even if she was lovelier than Venus and all the Graces
combined. He felt irritated with himself that he should have observed
in such a silly way the sable glow of her hair in the moonlight. And
her eyes. What the deuce did prettiness matter in the present
situation? The sister of Fanchet, the mail robber, was beautiful, but
her beauty had failed to save Fanchet. The Law had taken him in spite
of the tears in Carmin Fanchet's big black eyes, and in that particular
instance he was the Law. And Carmin Fanchet was pretty--deucedly
pretty. Even the Old Man's heart had been stirred by her loveliness.

"A shame!" he had said to Carrigan. "A shame!" But the rascally Fanchet
was hung by the neck until he was dead.

Carrigan drew himself up slowly until he was sitting erect. He wondered
what Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain would say if he told her about Carmin.
But there was a big gulf between the names Fanchet and Boulain. The
Fanchets had come from the dance halls of Alaska. They were bad, both
of them. At least, so they had judged Carmin Fanchet--along with her
brother. And Boulain--

His hand, in dropping to his side, fell upon the butt of his pistol.
Neither Bateese nor the girl had thought of disarming him. It was
careless of them, unless Bateese was keeping a good eye on him from
behind.

A new sort of thrill crept into Carrigan's blood. He began to see where
he had made a huge error in not playing his part more cleverly. It was
this girl Jeanne who had shot him. It was Jeanne who had stood over him
in that last moment when he had made an effort to use his pistol. It
was she who had tried to murder him and who had turned faint-hearted
when it came to finishing the job. But his knowledge of these things he
should have kept from her. Then, when the proper moment came, he would
have been in a position to act. Even now it might be possible to cover
his blunder. He leaned toward her again, determined to make the effort.

"I want to ask your pardon," he said. "May I?"

His voice startled her. It was as if the stinging tip of a whip-lash
had touched her bare neck. He was smiling when she turned. In her face
and eyes was a relief which she made no effort to repress.

"You thought I might be dead," he laughed softly. "I'm not, Miss
Jeanne. I'm very much alive again. It was that accursed fever--and I
want to ask your par