he smiled once more, and
smilingly faced toward the Great Beyond. And the morning air, fresh from
the sun-tipped mountains and sweet with the scent of the June roses,
came blowing soft and cool through the open window upon the dead,
smiling face. And it seemed fitting so. It came from the land of the
Morning.

Again The Duke did a beautiful thing; for, reaching across his dead
friend, he offered his hand to The Pilot. "Mr. Moore," he said,
with fine courtesy, "you are a brave man and a good man; I ask your
forgiveness for much rudeness."

But Moore only shook his head while he took the outstretched hand, and
said, brokenly:

"Don't! I can't stand it."

"The Company of the Noble Seven will meet no more," said The Duke, with
a faint smile.

They did meet, however; but when they did, The Pilot was in the chair,
and it was not for poker.

The Pilot had "got his grip," as Bill said.

CHAPTER IX

GWEN

It was not many days after my arrival in the Foothill country that I
began to hear of Gwen. They all had stories of her. The details were not
many, but the impression was vivid. She lived remote from that centre of
civilization known as Swan Creek in the postal guide, but locally as
Old Latour's, far up among the hills near the Devil's Lake, and from her
father's ranch she never ventured. But some of the men had had glimpses
of her and had come to definite opinions regarding her.

"What is she like?" I asked Bill one day, trying to pin him down to
something like a descriptive account of her.

"Like! She's a terrer," he said, with slow emphasis, "a holy terrer."

"But what is she like? What does she look like?" I asked impatiently.

"Look like?" He considered a moment, looked slowly round as if searching
for a simile, then answered: "I dunno."

"Don't know? What do you mean? Haven't you seen her?"

"Yeh! But she ain't like nothin'."

Bill was quite decided upon this point.

I tried again.

"Well, what sort of hair has she got? She's got hair, I suppose?"

"Hayer! Well, a few!" said Bill, with some choice combinations of
profanity in repudiation of my suggestion. "Yards of it! Red!"

"Git out!" contradicted Hi. "Red! Tain't no more red than mine!"

Bill regarded Hi's hair critically.

"What color do you put onto your old brush?" he asked cautiously.

"'Tain't no difference. 'Tain't red, anyhow."

"Red! Well, not quite exactly," and Bill went off into a low, long,
choking chuckle, ejaculating