cation.

"Miss Lawton," said Bennington with formality, "I hope you will allow
me, after your great kindness, to see that you get down the gulch
safely."

Fay cut in before the girl could reply.

"Don't bother about that, de Laney," said he, in a most cavalier
fashion. "I'll see to it."

"I did not address you, sir!" returned Bennington coldly. The
Westerner's eyes twinkled with amusement. The girl interrupted.

"Thank you very much, Mr. de Laney, but Mr. Fay is right--I wouldn't
trouble you." Her eyes commanded Fay, and he moved a little apart.

"Don't be angry," she pleaded hurriedly, in an undertone, "but it's
better that way to-night. And I think you acted grandly."

"You are the one who acted grandly," he replied, a little mollified.
"How can I ever thank you? You came just in time."

She laughed.

"You're not angry, are you?" she coaxed.

"No, of course not; what right have I to be?"

"I don't like that--quite--but I suppose it will do. You'll be there
to-morrow?"

"You know I will."

"Then good-night." She gave his folded arm a hasty pat and ran on down
the hill after Fay, who had gone on. Bennington saw her seize his
shoulders, as she overtook him, and give them a severe shake.

The light of the torches down the gulch wavered and disappeared.
Bennington returned to his room. On the table lay his manuscript, and
the ink was hardly dried on the last word of it. Outside a poor-will
began to utter its weird call. The candle before him sputtered, and
burned again with a clear flame.

[Footnote A: Western--to become frightened.]

CHAPTER IX

THE HEAVENS OPENED

Bennington awoke early the next morning, a pleased glow of anticipation
warming his heart, and almost before his eyes were opened he had raised
himself to leap out of the bunk. Then with a disappointed sigh he sank
back. On the roof fell the heavy patter of raindrops.

After a time he arose and pulled aside the curtains of a window. The
nearer world was dripping; the farther world was hidden or obscured by
long veils of rain, driven in ragged clouds before a west wind.
Yesterday the leaves had waved lightly, the undergrowth of shrubs had
uplifted in feathery airiness of texture, the ground beneath had been
crisp and aromatic with pine needles. Now everything bore a drooping,
sodden aspect which spoke rather of decay than of the life of spring.
Even the chickens had wisely remained indoors, with the exception of a
single bedragg