by fair means or foul? Had not Buck Benson himself, that
strong, silent man of the open, begged her to beware of the half-breed?
Perhaps she had resented the hint of mastery in Benson's cool, quiet
tones as he said, "Miss St. Clair, ma'am, I beg you not to endanger your
welfare by permitting the advances of this viper. He bodes no good to
such as you."

Perhaps--who knows?--Estelle St. Clair had even thought to trifle with
the feelings of Snake le Vasquez, then to scorn him for his presumption.
Although the beautiful New York society girl had remained unsullied in
the midst of a city's profligacy, she still liked "to play with fire,"
as she laughingly said, and at the quiet words of Benson--Two-Gun Benson
his comrades of the border called him--she had drawn herself to her full
height, facing him in all her blond young beauty, and pouted adorably as
she replied, "Thank you! But I can look out for myself."

Yet she had wandered on her pony farther than she meant to, and was
not without trepidation at the sudden appearance of the picturesque
halfbreed, his teeth flashing in an evil smile as he swept off his broad
sombrero to her. Above her suddenly beating heart she sought to chat
gayly, while the quick eyes of the outlaw took in the details of the
smart riding costume that revealed every line of her lithe young figure.
But suddenly she chilled under his hot glance that now spoke all too
plainly.

"I must return to my friends," she faltered. "They will be anxious."
But the fellow laughed with a sinister leer. "No--ah, no, the lovely
senorita will come with me," he replied; but there was the temper of
steel in his words. For Snake le Vasquez, on the border, where human
life was lightly held, was known as the Slimy Viper. Of all the evil
men in that inferno, Snake was the foulest. Steeped in vice, he feared
neither God nor man, and respected no woman. And now, Estelle St. Clair,
drawing-room pet, pampered darling of New York society, which she ruled
with an iron hand from her father's Fifth Avenue mansion, regretted
bitterly that she had not given heed to honest Buck Benson. Her prayers,
threats, entreaties, were in vain. Despite her struggles, the blows her
small fists rained upon the scoundrel's taunting face, she was borne
across the border, on over the mesa, toward the lair of the outlaw.

"Have you no mercy?" she cried again and again. "Can you not see that I
loathe and despise you, foul fiend that you are? Ah. God i