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THARON OF LOST VALLEY

CHAPTER I

THE GUN MAN'S HERITAGE

Lost Valley lay like a sparkling jewel, fashioned in perfection, cast
in the breast of the illimitable mountain country--and forever after
forgotten of God.

A tiny world, arrogantly unconscious of any other, it lived its own
life, went its own ways, had its own conceptions of law--and they were
based upon primeval instincts.

Cattle by the thousand head ran on its level ranges, riders jogged
along its trail-less expanses, their broad hats pulled over their
eyes, their six-guns at their hips. Corvan, its one town, ran its
nightly games, lined its familiar streets with swinging-doored
saloons.

Toward the west the Canon Country loomed behind its sharp-faced
cliffs, on the east the rolling ranges, dotted with oak and
digger-pine, went gradually up to the feet of the stupendous peaks
that cut the sapphire skies.

Lost indeed, it was a paradise, a perfect place of peace but for its
humans. Through it ran the Broken Bend, coming in from the high and
jumbled rocklands at the north, going out along the sheer cliffs at
the south.

Out of its ideal loneliness there were but two known ways, and both
were worth a man's best effort. Down the river one might drive a band
of cattle, bring in a loaded pack train, single file against the wall.
That was a twelve days' trip. Up through the defiles at the west a man
on foot might make it out, provided he knew each inch of the Secret
Way that scaled False Ridge.

It was spring, the time of greening ranges and the coming of new
calves. Soft winds dipped and wantoned with Lost Valley, in the Canon
Country shy flowers, waxen, heavy-headed on thin stems, clung to the
rugged walls.

All day the sun had shone, mild as a lover, coaxing, promising. The
very wine of life was a-pulse in the air.

All day Tharon Last had sung about her work scouring the boards of the
kitchen floor until they were soft and white as flax, helping old
Anita with the dinner for the men, seeing about the number of new
palings for the garden. She had swept every inch of the deep adobe
house, had fixed over the arrangement of Indian baskets on the mantel,
had filled all the lamps with coal-oil. She was very careful with the
lamps, trimming the wicks to smokeless perfection, for oil was scarce
and precious in Lost Valley, as were all outside products, since they
must