on's gate in her life."

Carmody was at heart convinced. "Don't worry," said he. "I'll give you a
chance to get all that evidence before the jury, and for fear Abe may
try to arrest you and keep you away from the session, I reckon I'd
better send you home in charge of Throop." He smiled, and the sheriff
smiled, but it was not so funny to the ranger.

"Never mind about me," he said. "I can take care of myself. Kitsong is
only bluffing."

"All the same, you'd better go home with Throop," persisted the coroner.
"You're needed at the hearing to-morrow, and Miss McLaren will want you
all in one piece," he said.

Hanscom considered a moment. "All right. I'm in your hands till
to-morrow. Good night."

"Good night," replied Carmody. "Take good care of him," he added to the
sheriff as he rose.

"He won't get away," replied Throop. As he stepped into the street he
perceived a small group of Kitsong's sympathizers still hanging about
the door of the saloon. "What are you hanging around here for?" he
demanded.

"Waiting for Abe. He's gone after a warrant and the city marshal," one
of them explained.

"You're wasting time and so is Abe. You tell him that the coroner has
put Hanscom in my custody and that I won't stand for any interference
from anybody--not even the county judge--so you fellers better clear
off home."

The back streets were silent, and as they walked along Throop said: "I'm
going to lose you at the door of the hotel, but you'd better turn up at
my office early to-morrow."

Hanscom said "Good night" and went to his bed with a sense of physical
relaxation which should have brought slumber at once, but it didn't. On
the contrary, he lay awake till long after midnight, reliving the
exciting events of the day, and the hour upon which he spent most
thought was that in Mrs. Throop's front room when he sat opposite Helen
and discussed her future and his own.

When he awoke it was broad day, and as Kauffman, who occupied a bed in
the same chamber, was still soundly slumbering, the ranger dressed as
quietly as possible and went out into the street to take account of a
dawn which was ushering in the most important morning of his life--a day
in which his own fate as well as that of Helen McLaren must be decided.

The air was clear and stinging and the mountain wall, lit by the direct
rays of the rising sun, appeared depressingly bald and prosaic, like his
own past life. The foot-hills, in whose minute wrinkle the