ledge of the completeness with
which the girl had duped him only added to his realization of her
ability. But he promised himself that any advantage gained by his
pretense of helplessness should be used only with a view to Elsie's
benefit.

Such pity as he had felt for Farley before the discovery of the illicit
whiskey-still was now smothered in disgust. He would fight for Elsie,
but he would not lift a finger to help rid Dead Hole of Farley's
boot-leg confederates.

Carmena had turned about to peer down the half-shadowed valley.

"I thought sure Slade would get here to-night," she said. "He's overdue
already. Well, we can count on him for to-morrow. Maybe you had better
let me hide your rifle."

"Is that necessary?"

Lennon's tone was more curt than he had intended. The girl entered the
living room and went on through into a rear room.

She did not come out again that evening, but sent word by Elsie that
Farley was sick and needed nursing. Lennon was only too pleased to sup
and visit alone with the younger girl. Elsie's piquant daintiness was
more than ever fascinating to him. He spent a delightful evening, though
at times his enjoyment was dampened by remembrance of the danger that
threatened her.

Carmena came to the breakfast table pale and weary-eyed. From her
laconic remarks to Elsie, Lennon gathered that she had spent the night
waiting upon her father. After forcing herself to eat a hasty meal, she
came around the table and laid an old short-barreled revolver beside
Lennon's bowl-plate.

"It's Dad's," she said. "He's too sick to use it, anyhow. Put it in your
pocket out of sight and have Elsie hide your rifle where either of you
can readily get it. I saw the signal. Slade is coming."

Elsie almost dropped the pot of fresh coffee that she was settling.
Carmena took it and a kettle of hot water and went out without looking
at Lennon.

In the extreme corner of the room was a dutch-oven built of stone slabs.
Elsie started a fire in it, placed large kettles of food on her brazier,
and began to mix white flour dough.

"Slade likes pies as much as Cochise--and white biscuits. That's why he
brings us flour. He says he's going to make me his cook. It always gets
Cochise awful mad."

The bare suggestion that the doubtful partners of Farley were accustomed
to imply ownership in the innocent, helpless girl brought an angry flush
into Lennon's lean face. He unloaded the short-barreled revolver, made
careful t