Something in the depths
of her blue eyes was changing--deepening, growing in subtle beauty, as
if the universe was suddenly become perfect, as if there was nowhere a
flaw.

"There's only one kind of man, after all, Mr. Kenset," she said at
last with a sweet dignity, "th' man who is true an' honest to th'
best there is in him, accordin' to his lights. That's my kind of
man."

* * * * *

Then she rose, and it was as if a light of activity burned up in her.
She became practical on the instant.

"I'm glad you brought th' thin rope, Billy," she said, "it's longer'n
mine. An' th' little axe, too. We'll need 'em all to get him up an'
down False Ridge. An' we must get busy right pronto. Th' Pomo killer
we'll leave where he is. The Canon Country will make him a silent
grave."

CHAPTER XI

FINGER MARK AND IRONWOOD AT LAST

It was another noon in Lost Valley. The summer sun sailed the azure
skies in majesty. Little soft winds from the south wimpled the grass
of the rolling ranges, shook all the leaves of the poplars. Down the
face of the Wall the Vestal's Veil shimmered and shone like a million
miles of lace.

At Corvan wild excitement ruled. Swift things had come upon them,
things that staggered the tight-lipped community, even though it was
used to speed and tragedy. For one thing, Ellen, pale, sweet flower,
had hanged herself in the gaudy apartment of Lola behind the Golden
Cloud where the dance-hall woman had peremptorily brought her when
they took her off Cleve Whitmore's shoulder. She left a little note
for Courtrey, a pathetic short scrawl, which simply reiterated that
she had "ben true to him as his shadow," and that if he did no longer
want her, she did not want herself.

At that pitiful end to a guiltless life, Lola, who knew innocence and
sin, sat down on the only carpeted floor in Corvan and wept. When she
finished, she was done with Corvan and Lost Valley, ready to move on
as she had moved through an eventful life.

For another thing, two strange men had ridden up the Wall from the
Bottle Neck a few days back, and they had put through some mysterious
doings.

This day at noon these two strangers were riding down on Corvan from
up the Pomo way, while from the Stronghold, Buck Courtrey's men were
thundering in with the cattle king at their head. He was grim and
silent, black with gathering rage. His news-veins tapped the Valley,
he knew a deal that other