s speech, he now motioned the driver to move on. McKinney was there,
Doc Tomlinson, Uncle Jim Brothers--the man from Leavenworth--many whom
they knew, but not Dan Anderson.

As they turned from the street to cross the _arroyo_, they saw
following at a respectful distance both Curly and Tom Osby, the latter
walking at Curly's saddle-skirt, for reasons not visible at a distance.
Tom Osby was still continuing his protestations. "You go on over,
Curly," said he. "You've done mighty well; now go on and finish up. I
ain't in on the messenger part."

"Maybe not," replied Curly, "but both halfs of this here amanyensis is
goin' over there together. I told that girl that Dan Anderson was shot
to a finish and just about to cash in. Now here's all this hoorah about
his bein' put up for Congress! I dunno _what_ she'll find when she
gets into that house, but whichever way it goes, she's due to think I'm
a damned liar. You come along, or I'll take _you_ over on a rope."

The two conspirators crossed the _arroyo_ and paused at the path which
led up to Dan Anderson's little cabin. They saw Mr. Ellsworth and
Constance leave the buckboard and stop uncertainly at the door. They
saw him knock and step half within, then withdraw and gently push his
daughter ahead of him. Then he stood outside, his hat in hand,
violently mopping his brow. As he caught sight of the two laggards he
beckoned them peremptorily.

"O Lord!" moaned Tom Osby; "now here's what that sheepherder done to us,
with his missive and his signet ring."

Constance Ellsworth had grown deadly pale as she approached the
dwelling. The open door let in upon a darkened interior. There was no
light, no ray of hope to comfort her. There, as it seemed to her, in
that tomblike abode, lay the end of all her happiness. In her heart was
only the prayer that she might find him able, still to recognize her.

At her father's gesture she stepped to the door--and stopped. The blood
went first to her heart, and then flamed back into her face. Her cheeks
tingled. Her hand fell lax from the door jamb, and she half staggered
against it for support, limp and helpless.

There before her, and busily engaged in writing--so busy that he had
merely called out a careless invitation to enter when he heard the knock
of what he presumed to be a chance caller--there, perhaps a trifle pale,
but certainly well, and very much himself, sat Dan Anderson!

"He's alive!" whispered Constance