t a
hanging bee, and everything all right for Bill! Well----"

His eyes left Warfield's face and went beyond the staring group. His
face darkened, a sneer twisted his lips.

"Who're them others?" he cried harshly. "Was you afraid four wouldn't
be enough to take me?"

The four turned heads to look. Bill Warfield never looked back, for
Al's gun spoke, and Warfield sagged at the knees and the shoulders, and
he slumped to the ground at the instant when Al's gun spoke again.

"That's for you, Lone Morgan," Al cried, as he fired again. "She
talked about you in her sleep last night. She called you Loney, and
she wanted you to come and get her. I was going to kill you first
chance I got. I coulda loved this little girl. I--could----"

He was down, bleeding and coughing and trying to talk. Swan had shot
him, and two of the deputies who had been there through half of Al's
bitter talk. Lorraine, unable to get up and run, too sturdy of soul to
faint, had rolled over and away from him, her lips held tightly
together, her eyes wide with horror. Al crawled after her, his eyes
pleading.

"Little Spitfire--I shot your Loney--but I'd have been good to you,
girl. I watched yuh all night--and I couldn't help loving yuh.
I--couldn't----" That was all. Within three feet of her, his face
toward her and his eyes agonising to meet hers, he died.

CHAPTER XXIV

ANOTHER STORY BEGINS

This chapter is very much like a preface: it is not absolutely
necessary, although many persons will read it and a few will be glad
that it was written.

The story itself is ended. To go on would be to begin another story;
to tell of the building up of the Quirt outfit, with Lone and Lone's
savings playing a very important part, and with Brit a semi-invalided,
retired stockman who smoked his pipe and told the young couple what
they should do and how they should do it.

Frank he mourned for and seldom mentioned. The Sawtooth, under the
management of a greatly chastened young Bob Warfield, was slowly
winning its way back to the respect of its neighbours.

For certain personal reasons there was no real neighbourliness between
the Quirt and the Sawtooth. There could not be, so long as Brit's
memory remained clear, and Bob was every day reminded of the crimes his
father had paid a man to commit. Moreover, Southerners are jealous of
their women,--it is their especial prerogative. And Lone suspected
that, given the opportunity, Bob