to her!"

He was in the cave, a moment later, standing in the center of the place
with the torch high above his head; it flared and glimmered in the great
eyes of Satan and the narrow eyes of Bart. At length he slipped down to
a rock beside him while the torch, fallen from his hand, sputtered and
whispered where it lay on the gravel.

"She's gone," he said to emptiness. "She's lef' me--" Black Bart licked
his limp hand but dared not even whine.

Chapter XXXVII. Ben Swann

Since the night when old Joe Cumberland died and Kate Cumberland rode
off after her wild man, Ben Swann, the foreman of the Cumberland ranch,
had lived in the big house. He would have been vastly more comfortable
in the bunkhouse playing cards with the other hands, but Ben Swann felt
vaguely that it was a shame for so much space in the ranch house to go
to waste, and besides, Ben's natural dignity was at home in the place
even if his mind grew lonely. It was Ben Swann, therefore, who ran down
and flung open the door, on which a heavy hand was beating. Outside
stood two men, very tall, taller than himself, and one of them a giant.
They had about them a strong scent of horses.

"Get a light" said one of these. "Run for it. Get a light. Start a fire,
and be damned quick about it!"

"And who the hell might you gents be?" queried Ben Swann, leaning
against the side of the doorway to dicker.

"Throw that fool on his head," said one of the strangers, "and go on in,
Lee!"

"Stand aside," said the other, and swept the doorknob out of Ben's
grip, flattening Ben himself against the wall. While he struggled there,
gasping, a man and a woman slipped past him.

"Tell him who we are," said the woman's voice. "We'll go to the
living-room, Buck, and start a fire."

The strangers apparently knew their way even in the dark, for presently
he heard the scraping of wood on the hearth in the living-room. It
bewildered Ben Swann. It was dream-like, this sudden invasion.

"Now, who the devil are you?"

A match was scratched and held under his very nose, until Ben shrank
back for fear that his splendid mustaches might ignite. He found himself
confronted by one of the largest men he had ever seen, a leonine face,
vaguely familiar.

"You Lee Haines!" he gasped. "What are you doin' here?"

"You're Swann, the foreman, aren't you?" said Haines. "Well, come out of
your dream, man. The owner of the ranch is in the living-room."

"Joe Cumberland's dead," stammere