erty. Then the girl can come back, for all I
care.... You an' Wilson fix up the deal between you. If you have to let
the gang in on it don't give them any hunch as to who an' what. This 'll
make you a rich stake. An' providin', when it's paid, you strike for new
territory."

"Thet might be wise," muttered Snake Anson. "Beasley, the weak point in
your game is the uncertainty of life. Old Al is tough. He may fool you."

"Auchincloss is a dyin' man," declared Beasley, with such positiveness
that it could not be doubted.

"Wal, he sure wasn't plumb hearty when I last seen him.... Beasley, in
case I play your game--how'm I to know that girl?"

"Her name's Helen Rayner," replied Beasley, eagerly. "She's twenty
years old. All of them Auchinclosses was handsome an' they say she's the
handsomest."

"A-huh!... Beasley, this 's sure a bigger deal--an' one I ain't
fancyin'.... But I never doubted your word.... Come on--an' talk out.
What's in it for me?"

"Don't let any one in on this. You two can hold up the stage. Why, it
was never held up.... But you want to mask.... How about ten thousand
sheep--or what they bring at Phenix in gold?"

Jim Wilson whistled low.

"An' leave for new territory?" repeated Snake Anson, under his breath.

"You've said it."

"Wal, I ain't fancyin' the girl end of this deal, but you can count on
me.... September sixteenth at Magdalena--an' her name's Helen--an' she's
handsome?"

"Yes. My herders will begin drivin' south in about two weeks. Later, if
the weather holds good, send me word by one of them an' I'll meet you."

Beasley spread his hands once more over the blaze, pulled on his gloves
and pulled down his sombrero, and with an abrupt word of parting strode
out into the night.

"Jim, what do you make of him?" queried Snake Anson.

"Pard, he's got us beat two ways for Sunday," replied Wilson.

"A-huh!... Wal, let's get back to camp." And he led the way out.

Low voices drifted into the cabin, then came snorts of horses and
striking hoofs, and after that a steady trot, gradually ceasing.
Once more the moan of wind and soft patter of rain filled the forest
stillness.

CHAPTER II

Milt Dale quietly sat up to gaze, with thoughtful eyes, into the gloom.

He was thirty years old. As a boy of fourteen he had run off from his
school and home in Iowa and, joining a wagon-train of pioneers, he was
one of the first to see log cabins built on the slopes of the White
Mountains. But he