ive men."

"And we are two," smiled Aldous. "So there _is_ an advantage on their side,
isn't there, Mac? And it makes the game most eminently fair, doesn't it?"

"Johnny, we're good for the five!" cried old Donald in a low, eager voice.
"If we start now----"

"Can you have everything ready by morning?"

"The outfit's waiting. It's ready now, Johnny."

"Then we'll leave at dawn. I'll come to you to-night in the coulee, and
we'll make our final plans. My brain is a little muddled now, and I've got
to clear it, and make myself presentable before supper. We must not let
Joanne know. She must suspect nothing--absolutely nothing."

"Nothing," repeated MacDonald as he went to the door.

There he paused and, hesitating for a moment, leaned close to Aldous, and
said in a low voice:

"Johnny, I've been wondering why the grave were empty. I've been wondering
why there weren't somebody's bones there just t' give it the look it should
'a' had an' why the clothes were laid out so nicely with the watch an' the
ring on top!"

With that he was gone, and Aldous closed and relocked the door.

He was amazed at his own composure as he washed himself and proceeded to
dress for supper. What had happened had stunned him at first, had even
terrified him for a few appalling moments. Now he was superbly
self-possessed. He asked himself questions and answered them with a
promptness which left no room for doubt in his mind as to what his actions
should be. One fact he accepted as absolute: Joanne belonged to him. She
was his wife. He regarded her as that, even though Mortimer FitzHugh was
alive. In the eyes of both God and man FitzHugh no longer had a claim upon
her. This man, who was known as Culver Rann, was worse than Quade, a
scoundrel of the first water, a procurer, a blackmailer, even a
murderer--though he had thus far succeeded in evading the rather loose and
poorly working tentacles of mountain law.

Not for an instant did he think of Joanne as Culver Rann's wife. She was
_his_ wife. It was merely a technicality of the law--a technicality that
Joanne might break with her little finger--that had risen now between them
and happiness. And it was this that he knew was the mountain in his path,
for he was certain that Joanne would not break that last link of bondage.
She would know, with Mortimer FitzHugh alive, that the pledge between them
in the "coyote," and the marriage ceremony in the room below, meant
nothing. Legally, she was