He stooped and Anita, laughing at her posture, clambered upon his back, her arms about his neck, arms which seemed to shut out the biting blast of the blizzard as he staggered through the high-piled snow and downward to the road. There he continued to carry her; Fairchild found himself wishing that he could carry her forever, and that the road to the sheriff’s office were twenty miles away instead of two. But her voice cut in on his wishes.

“I can walk now.”

“But the drifts-”

“We can get along so much faster!” came her plea. “I ’ll hold on to you-and you can help me along.”

Fairchild released her and she seized his arm. For a quarter of a mile they hurried along, skirting the places where the snow had collected in breast-high drifts, now and then being forced nearly down to the bank of the stream to avoid the mountainous piles of fleecy white. Once, as they floundered through a knee-high mass, Fairchild’s arm went quickly about her waist and he lifted her against him as he literally carried her through. When they reached the other side, the arm still held its place,-and she did not resist. Fairchild wanted to whistle, or sing, or shout. But breath was too valuable-and besides, what little remained had momentarily been taken from him. A small hand had found his, where it encircled her. It had rested there, calm and warm and enthralling, and it told Fairchild more than all the words in the world could have told just then-that she realized that his arm was about her-and that she wanted it there. Some way, after that, the stretch of road faded swiftly. Almost before he realized it, they were at the outskirts of the city.

Grudgingly he gave up his hold upon her, as they hurried for the sidewalks and for the sheriff’s office. There Fairchild did not attempt to talk-he left it all to Anita, and Bardwell, the sheriff, listened. Taylor Bill had confessed to the robbery at the Old Times dance and to his attempt to so arrange the evidence that the blame would fall on Harry. Taylor Bill and Blindeye Bozeman had been caught at work in a cross-cut tunnel which led to the property of the Blue Poppy mine, and one of them, at least, had admitted that the sole output of the Silver Queen had come from this thieving encroachment. Then Anita completed the recital,-of the plans of the Rodaines to leave and of their departure for Center City. At last, Fairchild spoke, and he told the happenings which he had encountered in the ramshackle house occupied by Crazy Laura. It was sufficient. The sheriff reached for the telephone.

“No need for hurry,” he announced. “Young Rodaine can’t possibly make that trip in less than two hours. How long did it take you to come down here?”

“About an hour, I should judge.”

“Then we ’ve got plenty of time-hello-Central? Long distance, please. What’s that? Yeh-Long Distance. Want to put in a call for Center City.” A long wait, while a metallic voice streamed over the wire into the sheriff’s ear. He hung up the receiver. “Blocked,” he said shortly. “The wire ’s down. Three or four poles fell from the force of the storm. Can’t get in there before morning.”

“But there ’s the telegraph!”

“It ’d take half an hour to get the operator out of bed-office is closed. Nope. We ’ll take the short cut. And we ’ll beat him there by a half-hour!”

Anita started.

“You mean the Argonaut tunnel?”

“Yes. Call up there and tell them to get a motor ready for us to shoot straight through. We can make it at thirty miles an hour, and the skip in the Reunion Mine will get us to the surface in five minutes. The tunnel ends sixteen hundred feet underground, about a thousand feet from Center City,” he explained, as he noted Fairchild’s wondering gaze. “You stay here. We ’ve got to wait for those prisoners-and lock ’em up. I ’ll be getting my car warmed up to take us to the tunnel.”

Anita already was at the ’phone, and Fairchild sank into a chair, watching her with luminous eyes. The world was becoming brighter; it might be night, with a blizzard blowing, to every one else,-but to Fairchild the sun was shining as it never had shone before. A thumping sound came from without. Harry entered with his two charges, followed shortly by Bardwell, the sheriff, while just beneath the office window a motor roared in the process of “warming up.” The sheriff looked from one to the other of the two men.

“These people have made charges against you,” he said shortly. “I want to know a little more about them before I go any farther. They say you ’ve been high-jacking.”

Taylor Bill nodded in the affirmative.

“And that you robbed the Old Times dance and framed the evidence against this big Cornishman?”

Taylor Bill scraped a foot on the floor.

“It’s true. Squint Rodaine wanted me to do it. He ’d been trying for thirty years to get that Blue Poppy mine. There was some kind of a mix-up away back there that I did n’t know much about-fact is, I did n’t know anything. The Silver Queen didn’t amount to much and when demonetization set in, I quit-you ’ll remember, Sheriff-and went away. I ’d worked for Squint before, and when I came back a couple of years ago, I naturally went to him for a job again. Then he put this proposition up to me at ten dollars a day and ten per cent. It looked too good to be turned down.”

“How about you?” Bardwell faced Blindeye. The sandy lashes blinked and the weak eyes turned toward the floor.

“I-was in on it.”

That was enough. The sheriff reached for his keys. A moment more and a steel door clanged upon the two men while the officer led the way to his motor car. There he looked quizzically at Anita Richmond, piling without hesitation into the front seat.

“You going too?”

“I certainly am,” and she covered her intensity with a laugh, “there are a number of things that I want to say to Mr. Maurice Rodaine-and I have n’t the patience to wait!”

Bardwell chuckled. The doors of the car slammed and the engine roared louder than ever. Soon they were churning along through the driving snow toward the great buildings of the Argonaut Tunnel Company, far at the other end of town. There men awaited them, and a tram motor, together with its operator,-happy in the expectation of a departure from the usual routine of hauling out the long strings of ore and refuse cars from the great tunnel which, driving straight through the mountains, had been built in the boom days to cut the workings of mine after mine, relieving the owners of those holdings of the necessity of taking their product by the slow method of burro packs to the railroads, and gaining for the company a freight business as enriching as a bonanza itself. The four pursuers took their places on the benches of the car behind the motor. The trolley was attached. A great door was opened, allowing the cold blast of the blizzard to whine within the tunnel. Then, clattering over the frogs, green lights flashing from the trolley wire, the speeding journey was begun.

It was all new to Fairchild, engrossing, exciting. Close above them were the ragged rocks of the tunnel roof, seeming to reach down as if to seize them as they roared and clattered beneath. Seepage dripped at intervals, flying into their faces like spray as they dashed through it. Side tracks appeared momentarily when they passed the opening of some mine where the ore cars stood in long lines, awaiting their turn to be filled. The air grew warmer. The minutes were passing, and they were nearing the center of the tunnel. Great gateways sped past them; the motor smashed over sidetracks and spurs and switches as they clattered by the various mine openings, the operator reaching above him to hold the trolley steady as they went under narrow, low places where the timbers had been placed, thick and heavy, to hold back the sagging earth above.

Three miles, four, five, while Anita Richmond held close to Fairchild as the speed became greater and the sparks from the wire above threw their green, vicious light over the yawning stretch before them. A last spurt, slightly down-grade, with the motor pushing the wheels at their greatest velocity; then the crackling of electricity suddenly ceased, the motor slowed in its progress, finally to stop. The driver pointed to the right.

“Over there, sheriff-about fifty feet; that’s the Reunion opening.”

“Thanks!” They ran across the spur tracks in the faint light of a dirty incandescent, gleaming from above. A greasy being faced them and Bardwell, the sheriff, shouted his mission.

“Got to catch some people that are making a get-away through Center City. Can you send us up in the skip?”

“Yes, two at a time.”

“All right!” The sheriff turned to Harry. “You and I ’ll go on the first trip and hurry for the Ohadi road. Fairchild and Miss Richmond will wait for the second and go to Sheriff Mason’s office and tell him what’s up. Meet us there,” he said to Fairchild, as he went forward. Already the hoist was working; from far above came the grinding of wheels on rails as the skip was lowered. A wave of the hand, then Bardwell and Harry entered the big, steel receptacle. At the wall the greasy workman pulled three times on the electric signal; a moment more and the skip with its two occupants had passed out of sight.

A long wait followed while Fairchild strove to talk of many things,-and failed in all of them. Things were happening too swiftly for them to be put into crisp sentences by a man whose thoughts were muddled by the fact that beside him waited a girl in a whipcord riding suit-the same girl who had leaped from an automobile on the Denver highway and-

It crystallized things for him momentarily.

“I ’m going to ask you something after a while-something that I ’ve wondered and wondered about. I know it was n’t anything-but-”

She laughed up at him.

“It did look terrible, didn’t it?”

“Well, it would n’t have been so mysterious if you had n’t hurried away so quick. And then-”

“You really did n’t think I was the Smelter bandit, did you?” the laugh still was on her lips. Fairchild scratched his head.

“Darned if I know what I thought. And I don’t know what I think yet.”

“But you ’ve managed to live through it.”

“Yes-but-”

She touched his arm and put on a scowl.

“It’s very, very awful!” came in a low, mock-awed voice. “But-” then the laugh came again-“maybe if you ’re good and-well, maybe I ’ll tell you after a while.”

“Honest?”

“Of course I ’m honest! Is n’t that the skip?”

Fairchild walked to the shaft. But the skip was not in sight. A long ten minutes they waited, while the great steel carrier made the trip to the surface with Harry and Sheriff Bardwell, then came lumbering down again. Fairchild stepped in and lifted Anita to his side.

The journey was made in darkness,-darkness which Fairchild longed to turn to his advantage, darkness which seemed to call to him to throw his arms about the girl at his side, to crush her to him, to seek out with an instinct that needed no guiding light the laughing, pretty lips which had caused him many a day of happiness, many a day of worried wonderment. He strove to talk away the desire-but the grinding of the wheels in the narrow shaft denied that. His fingers twitched, his arms trembled as he sought to hold back the muscles, then, yielding to the impulse, he started-

“Da-a-a-g-gone it!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

But Fairchild was n’t telling the truth. They had reached the light just at the wrong, wrong moment. Out of the skip he lifted her, then inquired the way to the sheriff’s office of this, a new county. The direction was given, and they went there. They told their story. The big-shouldered, heavily mustached man at the desk grinned cheerily.

“That there’s the best news I ’ve heard in forty moons,” he announced. “I always did hate that fellow. You say Bardwell and your partner went out on the Ohadi road to head the young ’un off?”

“Yes. They had about a fifteen-minute start on us. Do you think ?”

“We ’ll wait here. They ’re hefty and strong. They can handle him alone.”

But an hour passed without word from the two Searchers. Two more went by. The sheriff rose from his chair, stamped about the room, and looked out at the night, a driving, aimless thing in the clutch of a blizzard.

“Hope they ain’t lost,” came at last.

“Had n’t we better ?”

But a noise from without cut off the conversation. Stamping feet sounded on the steps, the knob turned, and Sheriff Bardwell, snow-white, entered, shaking himself like a great dog, as he sought to rid himself of the effects of the blizzard.

“Hello, Mason,” came curtly.

“Hello, Bardwell, what ’d you find?”

The sheriff of Clear Creek county glanced toward Anita Richmond and was silent. The girl leaped to her feet.

“Don’t be afraid to talk on my account,” she begged. “Where’s Harry? Is he all right? Did he come back with you?”

“Yes-he’s back.”

“And you found Maurice?”

Bardwell was silent again, biting at the end of his mustache. Then he squared himself.

“No matter how much a person dislikes another one-it’s, it’s-always a shock,” came at last. Anita came closer.

“You mean that he ’s dead?”

The sheriff nodded, and Fairchild came suddenly to his feet. Anita’s face had grown suddenly old,-the oldness that precedes the youth of great relief.

“I ’m sorry-for any one who must die,” came finally. “But perhaps-perhaps it was better. Where was he?”

“About a mile out. He must have rushed his horse too hard. The sweat was frozen all over it-nobody can push a beast like that through these drifts and keep it alive.”

“He did n’t know much about riding.”

“I should say not. Did n’t know much of anything when we got to him. He was just about gone-tried to stagger to his feet when we came up, but could n’t make it. Kind of acted like he ’d lost his senses through fear or exposure or something. Asked me who I was, and I said Bardwell. Seemed to be tickled to hear my name-but he called it Barnham. Then he got up on his hands and knees and clutched at me and asked me if I ’d drawn out all the money and had it safe. Just to humor him, I said I had. He tried to say something after that, but it was n’t much use. The first thing we knew he ’d passed out. That’s where Harry is now-took him over to the mortuary. There isn’t anybody named Barnham, is there?”

“Barnham?” The name had awakened recollections for Fairchild; “why he’s the fellow that-”

But Anita cut in.

“He ’s a lawyer in Denver. They ’ve been sending all the income from stock sales to him for deposit. If Maurice asked if he ’d gotten the money out, it must mean that they meant to run with all the proceeds. We ’ll have to telephone Denver.”

“Providing the line’s working.” Bardwell stared at the other sheriff. “Is it?”

“Yes-to Denver.”

“Then let’s get headquarters in a hurry. You know Captain Lee, don’t you? You do the talking. Tell him to get hold of this fellow Barnham and pinch him, and then send him up to Ohadi in care of Pete Carr or some other good officer. We ’ve got a lot of things to say to him.”

The message went through. Then the two sheriffs rose and looked at their revolvers.

“Now for the tough one.” Bardwell made the remark, and Mason smiled grimly. Fairchild rose and went to them.

“May I go along?”

“Yes, but not the girl. Not this time.”

Anita did not demur. She moved to the big rocker beside the old base burner and curled up in it. Fairchild walked to her side.

“You won’t run away,” he begged.

“I? Why?”

“Oh-I don’t know. It-it just seems too good to be true!”

She laughed and pulled her cap from her head, allowing her wavy, brown hair to fall about her shoulders, and over her face. Through it she smiled up at him, and there was something in that smile which made Fairchild’s heart beat faster than ever.

“I ’ll be right here,” she answered, and with that assurance, he followed the other two men out into the night.

Far down the street, where the rather bleak outlines of the hotel showed bleaker than ever in the frigid night, a light was gleaming in a second-story window. Mason turned to his fellow sheriff.

“He usually stays there. That must be him-waiting for the kid.”

“Then we ’d better hurry-before somebody springs the news.”

The three entered, to pass the drowsy night clerk, examine the register and to find that their conjecture had been correct. Tiptoeing, they went to the door and knocked. A high-pitched voice came from within.

“That you, Maurice?”

Fairchild answered in the best imitation he could give.

“Yes. I ’ve got Anita with me.”

Steps, then the door opened. For just a second, Squint Rodaine stared at them in ghastly, sickly fashion. Then he moved back into the room, still facing them.

“What’s the idea of this?” came his forced query. Fairchild stepped forward.

“Simply to tell you that everything ’s blown up as far as you ’re concerned, Mr. Rodaine.”

“You needn’t be so dramatic about it. You act like I ’d committed a murder! What ’ve I done that you should ?”

“Just a minute. I would n’t try to act innocent. For one thing, I happened to be in the same house with you one night when you showed Crazy Laura, your wife, how to make people immortal. And we ’ll probably learn a few more things about your character when we ’ve gotten back there and interviewed-”

He stopped his accusations to leap forward, clutching wildly. But in vain. With a lunge, Squint Rodaine had turned, then, springing high from the floor, had seemed to double in the air as he crashed through the big pane of the window and out to the twenty-foot plunge which awaited him.

Blocked by the form of Fairchild, the two sheriffs sought in vain to use the guns which they had drawn from their holsters. Hurriedly they gained the window, but already the form of Rodaine had unrolled itself from the snow bank into which it had fallen, dived beneath the protection of the low coping which ran above the first-floor windows of the hotel, skirted the building in safety and whirled into the alley that lay beyond. Squint Rodaine was gone. Frantically, Fairchild turned for the door, but a big hand stopped him.

“Let him go-let him think he ’s gotten away,” said grizzled Sheriff Mason. “He ain’t got a chance. There ’s snow everywhere-and we can trail him like a hound dawg trailing a rabbit. And I think I know where he ’s bound for. Whatever that was you said about Crazy Laura hit awful close to home. It ain’t going to be hard to find that rattler!”