d nothing to his peace of mind in the morning to learn
definitely from McAlpin that Gale Morgan, within twenty-four hours,
had really disappeared from Calabasas. No word of any kind had come
from Music Mountain for days. No one at Calabasas was aware even that
Nan had gone into the Gap again. Bob Scott was at Thief River. De
Spain telephoned to him to come up on the early stage, and turned his
attention toward getting information from Music Mountain without
violating Nan's injunction not to frustrate her most delicate effort
with her uncle.

As a possible scout to look into her present situation and report on
it, McAlpin could point only to Bull Page. Bull was a ready
instrument, but his present value as an assistant had become a matter
of doubt, since practically every man in the Gap had threatened within
the week to blow his head off--though Bull himself felt no scruples
against making an attempt to reach Music Mountain and get back again.
It was proposed by the canny McAlpin to send him in with a team and
light wagon, ostensibly to bring out his trunk, which, if it had not
been fed to the horses, was still in Duke's barn. As soon as a rig
could be got up Page started out.

It was late November. A far, clear air drew the snow-capped ranges
sharply down to the eye of the desert--as if the speckless sky,
lighted by the radiant sun, were but a monster glass rigged to trick
the credulous retina. De Spain, in the saddle in front of the barn,
his broad hat brim set on the impassive level of the Western horseman,
his lips seeming to compress his thoughts, his lines over his forearm,
and his hands half-slipped into the pockets of his snug leather coat,
watched Page with his light wagon and horses drive away.

Idling around the neighborhood of the barns in the saddle, de Spain
saw him gradually recede into the long desert perspective, the
perspective which almost alone enabled the watcher to realize as he
curtained his eyes behind their long, steady lashes from the blazing
sun, that it was a good bit of a way to the foot of the great outpost
of the Superstition Range.

De Spain's restlessness prevented his remaining quietly anywhere for
long. As the morning advanced he cantered out on the Music Mountain
trail, thinking of and wishing for a sight of Nan. The deadly shock of
Pardaloe's story had been dulled by days and nights of pain. His
deep-rooted love and his loneliness had quieted his impulse for
vengeance and overborn