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CHAPTER XV

WILLIE DART PICKS A LOCK

The summer sped by like one long golden day under its rare blue sky;
yet always upon the horizon was that single black cloud. Not until
summer had gone its bright way and winter had come, locked the mountain
passes and departed again, was the way to be made clear.

If Wayne Shandon could have had the opportunity to act at once when
Wanda told him the reason of her father's open enmity he would have
gone immediately in his headlong way to MacKelvey. He would have told
the sheriff his own version of the tragedy; he would have recounted the
finding of the revolver by Wanda, her giving it to him, his certainty
that Arthur had taken his own life. But having promised Wanda to do
nothing rashly, without again talking with her, having pondered deeply
as he rode back to the Bar L-M and during the days which followed, he
came to see sanely that for his own sake and for the sake of the girl
he loved it would be better if he held his peace until time and thought
brought clear vision.

He was already suspected by Martin Leland, perhaps by MacKelvey
himself, perhaps by many men among whom he came and went. Would the
story he had to tell lessen suspicion in any single breast? Would it
not rather give the sheriff just such a bit of evidence as he had long
been seeking?

Much alike in one great essential Wayne Shandon and Wanda Leland had
hearts that were tuned to happiness. To such people it is easier to be
gay than sad; the trouble, stern as it was, that had entered their
lives so early was less than the brightness which dissipated all other
troubles but that one. Good fortune had disclosed to them a meeting
place as high as the waving treetops where no one's curious eye would
penetrate; they could converse across the miles almost as people may
call across a street; they could be together two or three times a week
without their world knowing. These things gave wings to the summer.

They were busy days, clad in action, crowned with dreamings. Wanda's
cave became a dainty bower for a fair lady. Across the cliffs, by
tortuous trail, it was a scant five miles to the little mountain town
of White Rock. Many a dim morning before the shadows lifted to the
rising sun the trail had echoed to the clanging hoofs of Shandon's
horse as he rode down and back, bringing a surprise for Wanda. A
packhorse had brought in supplies, bought in Shandon's own reckless
way, which when piled h