is the muck-hole o' creation, an' the men is the
muck. I orter know. Didn't I marry George D. Ransford, an' didn't I
raise twins by him, as you might say, an' didn't I learn thereby, an'
therewith, as the sayin' is, that wi' muck around there's jest one way
o' cleanin' it up an' that's with a broom! Come right into the house,
pretty. You're needin' hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore!
Come right in. Guess I'm a match fer any male muck around these hills.
Mussy on us, what's that!"

Both women started and stood staring with anxious, terrified eyes down
the trail which led to the camp. Two shots had been fired almost
simultaneously, and now, as they waited in horrified silence, two more
shots rang out, echoing against the hills in the still air with
ominous threat. After that all was quiet again.

Presently the strained look in the farm-wife's face relaxed, and she
turned to her charge.

"That's him," she cried, with a swift return to her angry,
contemptuous manner. "It's him showin' off--like all them scallawags.
Come right in, missie," she added, holding out her hands to lead the
girl home.

But her kindly intention received an unexpected shock. Joan brushed
her roughly aside, and her look was almost of one suddenly demented.

"No, no," she cried in a voice of hysterical passion. "You don't
understand. You can't understand. Those shots--oh! It is my fate--my
curse. I must go!"

And she fled down the trail in the direction whence the sound had
proceeded--fled, leaving Mrs. Ransford staring stupidly after her, a
prey to utter bewilderment.

CHAPTER XXI

THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL

The quiet was profound. All the world seemed so still. There was no
sign of life, yet the warm air was thrilling with the unseen life of
an insect world. The heat haze rose from the soft, deep surface sand
of the trail, and the grass-lined edges looked parched beneath the
glare of the summer sun. There was no breath from the mountains down
here, where the forest trees crowded in on either side, forming a
great screen against the cooling breezes, and holding the heat like
the sides of an oven.

A startled bird fluttered amongst the branches of a tree with that
restless movement which so surely indicates the alarm of some subtle
sense which no other creature possesses in so keen a degree. An
answering rustle came from near by. And in a moment this was followed
by a bustling rush among the leaves as two winged mates f