under just what conditions the money was to be
turned over; and he ended with a threat that, if steps were taken to
capture the gang, or if the money were not handed over at the specified
time, Mr. West would disappear forever."

"Did the paper say whether the money would be turned over?"

"It said that Mr. Lucas was going to get into touch with the outlaws at
once, to effect the release of his chief."

A gleam of triumph flashed in the eyes of the man. "That's sure the best
way."

"It won't help your reputation, will it?" she asked. "Won't people say
that you failed on this case?"

He laughed softly, as if at some hidden source of mirth. "I shouldn't
wonder if they did say that Bucky O'Connor hadn't made good this time.
They'll figure he tried to ride herd on a job too big for him."

Her surprised eye brooded over this, too. Here he was defending the outlaw
chief, and rejoicing at his own downfall. There seemed to be no end to the
contradictions in this man. She was to run across another tangled thread
of the puzzle a few minutes later.

She had dismounted to let him tighten the saddle cinch. Owing to the heat,
he had been carrying his coat in front of him. He tossed it on a boulder
by the side of the trail, in such a way that the inside pocket hung down.
From it slid some papers and a photograph. Melissy looked down at the
picture, then instantly stooped and picked it up. For it was a photograph
of a very charming woman and three children, and across the bottom of it
was written a line.

"To Bucky, from his loving wife and children."

The girl handed it to the man without a word, and looked him full in the
face.

"Bowled out, by ginger!" he said, with a light laugh.

But as she continued to look at him--a man of promise, who had plainly
traveled far on the road to ruin--the conviction grew on her that the
sweet-faced woman in the photograph was no loving wife of his. He was a
man who might easily take a woman's fancy, but not one to hold her love
for years through the stress of life. Moreover, Bucky O'Connor held the
respect of all men. She had heard him spoken of, and always with a meed of
affection that is given to few men. Whoever this graceless scamp was, he
was not the lieutenant of rangers.

The words slipped out before she could stop them: "You're not Lieutenant
O'Connor at all."

"Playing on that string again, are you?" he jeered.

"I'm sure of it this time."

"Since you know wh