ched his life like a coin
of little value into the gamble of that tragic day.

"Never mind trying--it's only an incident," Morgan told him, full of
another thought.

"I'll see that he locks Craddock and the other two up safe, then I'll
have these guns picked up for evidence. I'm going to lay an information
against every man of them in that mob with the prosecuting attorney!"

"Let them go, Judge Thayer--I'd never appear against them," Morgan said.

Judge Thayer appeared to be dazed by the events of that day, crowded to
their fearful climax of destruction of property and life. He was lacking
in his ready words, older, it seemed, by many years, crushed under the
weight of this terrible calamity that had fallen on his town. He went
away after the sheriff, leaving Morgan and Rhetta, the last actors on
the stage in the drama of Ascalon's downfall, alone.

Beyond them the fire raged in the completion of the havoc that was far
beyond any human labor to stay. The heat of it was scorching even where
they stood; coals, blazing fragments, were blown about their feet on the
turbulent wind. The black-green smoke still rose in great volume,
through which the sun was red. On the flank of the fire those who
labored to confine its spread shouted in the voice of dismay. It was an
hour of desolation; it was the day of doom.

"Thank you for my life," said Morgan. "I've put a new valuation on it
since you've gone to so much trouble to save it."

"Don't speak cynically about it, Mr. Morgan!" she said, hurt by his
tone.

"I'm not cynical," he gravely assured her. "My life wasn't worth much to
me this morning when I left Stilwell's. It has acquired a new value
now."

All this time Morgan had stood holding Seth Craddock's big revolvers in
his hands, as if he distrusted the desolation of the fire-sown square.
Now he sheathed one of them in his holster, and thrust the other under
his belt. His right hand was bleeding, from wounds of the bullet that
had struck his rifle-barrel and sprayed hot lead into his flesh, and
from the blows he had dealt in his fury amongst the mob.

Rhetta put out her hand and took his, bleeding and torn and
battle-maimed as it was, and lifted it tenderly, and nestled it against
her cheek.

"Dear, brave hand!" she said.

"You're not afraid of it now!" he wondered, putting out his free hand as
if he offered it also for the absolution of her touch.

"It was only the madness of the wind," she told him, the sor