It was on the stroke of four o’clock when Bunning-Ford left the saloon.  He had said that he would be at the ranch at four, and usually he liked to be punctual.  He was late now, however, and made no effort to make up time.  Instead, he allowed his horse to walk leisurely in the direction of the Allandales’ house.  He wanted time to think before he again met Jacky.

He was confronted by a problem which taxed all his wit.  It was perhaps a fortunate thing that his was not a hasty temperament.  He well knew the usual method of dealing with men who cheated at cards in those Western wilds.  Each man carried his own law in his holster.  He had realized instantly that Lablache was not a case for the usual treatment.  Pistol law would have defeated its own ends.  Such means would not recover the terrible losses of “Poker” John, neither would he recover thereby his own lost property.  No, he congratulated himself upon the restraint he had exercised when he had checked his natural impulse to expose the money-lender.  Now, however, the case looked more complicated, and, for the moment, he could see no possible means of solving the difficulty.  Lablache must be made to disgorge but how?  John Allandale must be stopped playing and further contributing to Lablache’s ill-gotten gains.  Again but how?

Bill was roused out of his usual apathetic indifference.  The moment had arrived when he must set aside the old indolent carelessness.  He was stirred to the core.  A duty had been suddenly forced upon him.  A duty to himself and also a duty to those he loved.  Lablache had consistently robbed him, and also the uncle of the girl he loved.  Now, how to restore that property and prevent the villain’s further depredations?

Again and again he asked himself the question as he allowed his horse to mouche, with slovenly step, over the sodden prairie; but no answer presented itself.  His thin, eagle face was puckered with perplexity.  The sleepy eyes gleamed vengefully from between his half-closed eyelids as he gazed across the sunlit prairie.  His aquiline nose, always bearing a resemblance to an eagle’s beak, was rendered even more like that aristocratic proboscis by reason of the down-drawn tip, consequent upon the odd pursing of his tightly-compressed lips.  For the moment “Lord” Bill was at a loss.  And, oddly enough, he began to wonder if, after all, silence had been his best course.

He was still struggling in the direst perplexity when he drew up at the veranda of the ranch.  Dismounting, he hitched his picket rope to the tying-post and entered the sitting-room by the open French window.  Tea was set upon the table and Jacky was seated before the stove.

“Late, Bill, late!  Guess that ‘plug’ of yours is a rapid beast, judging by the pace you came up the hill.”

For the moment Bunning-Ford’s face had resumed its wonted air of lazy good-nature.

“Glad you took the trouble to watch for me, Jacky,” he retorted quickly, with an attempt at his usual lightness of manner.  “I appreciate the honor.”

“Nothing of the sort.  I was looking for uncle.  The mail brought a letter from Calford.  Dawson, the cattle buyer of the Western Railway Company, wants to see him.  The Home Government are buying largely.  He is commissioned to purchase 30,000 head of prime beeves.  Come along, tea’s ready.”

Bill seated himself at the table and Jacky poured out the tea.  She was dressed for the saddle.

“Where is Dawson now?” asked Bill.

“Calford.  Guess he’ll wait right there for uncle.”

Suddenly a look of relief passed across the man’s face.

“This is Wednesday.  At six o’clock the mail-cart goes back to town.  Send some one down to the saloon at once, and John will be able to go in to-night.”

As Bill spoke his eyes encountered a direct and steady glance from the girl.  There was much meaning in that mute exchange.  For answer Jacky rose and rang a bell sharply.

“Send a hand down to the settlement to find my uncle.  Ask him to come up at once.  There is an important letter awaiting him,” she said, to the old servant who answered the summons.

“Bill, what’s up?” she went on, when the retainer had departed.

“Lots.  Look here, Jacky, we mustn’t be long over tea.  We must both be out of the house when your uncle returns.  He may not want to go into town to-night.  Anyway, I don’t want to give him the chance of asking any questions until we have had a long talk.  He’s losing to Lablache again.”

“Ah!  I don’t want anything to eat.  Whenever you are ready, Bill, I am.”

Bunning-Ford drank his tea and rose from the table.  The girl followed his example.

There was something very strong and resolute in the brisk, ready-for-emergency ways of this girl.  There was nothing of the ultra-feminine dependence and weakness of her sex about her.  And yet her hardiness detracted in no way from her womanly charm; rather was that complex abstract enhanced by her wonderful self-reliance.  There are those who decry independence in women, but surely only such must come from those whose nature is largely composed of hectoring selfishness.  There was a resolute set of the mouth as Jacky sent word to the stables to have her horse brought round.  She asked no questions of her companion, as, waiting for compliance with her orders, she drew on her stout buckskin gauntlets.  She understood this man well enough to be aware that his suggestion was based upon necessity.  “Lord” Bill rarely interfered with anything or anybody, but when such an occasion arose his words carried a deal of weight with those who knew him.

A few minutes later and they were both riding slowly down the avenue of pines leading from the house.  The direction in which they were moving was away from the settlement, down towards where the great level flat of the muskeg began.  At the end of the avenue they turned directly to the southeast, leaving the township behind them.  The prairie was soft and springy.  There was still a keen touch of winter in the fresh spring air.  The afternoon sun was shining coldly athwart the direction of their route.

Jacky led the way, and, as they drew clear of the bush, and the house and settlement were hidden from view behind them, she urged her horse into a good swinging lope.  Thus they progressed in silence.  The far-reaching deadly mire on their right, looking innocent enough in the shadow of the snow-clad peaks beyond, the ranch well behind them in the hollow of the Foss River Valley, whilst, on their left, the mighty prairie rolled away upwards to the higher level of the surrounding country.

In this way they covered nearly a mile, then the girl drew up beside a small clump of weedy bush.

“Are you ready for the plunge, Bill?” she asked, as her companion drew up beside her.  “The path’s not more than four feet wide.  Does your ‘plug’ shy any?”

“He’s all right.  You lead right on.  Where you can travel I’ve a notion I’m not likely to funk.  But I don’t see the path.”

“I guess you don’t.  Never did nature keep her secret better than in the setting out of this one road across her woeful man-trap.  You can’t see the path, but I guess it’s an open book to me, and its pages ain’t Hebrew either.  Say, Bill, there’s been many a good prairie man looking for this path, but” with a slight accent of exultation “they’ve never found it.  Come on.  Old Nigger knows it; many a time has he trodden its soft and shaking surface.  Good old horse!” and she patted the black neck of her charger as she turned his head towards the distant hills and urged him forward with a “chirrup.”

Far across the muskeg the distant peaks of the mountain range glistened in the afternoon sun like diamond-studded sugar loaves.  So high were the clouds that every portion of the mighty summits was clearly outlined.  The great ramparts of the prairie are a magnificent sight on a clear day.  Flat and smooth as any billiard-table stretched this silent, mysterious muskeg, already green and fair to the eye, an alluring pasture to the unwary.  An experienced eye might have judged it too green too alluring.  Could a more perfect trap be devised by evil human ingenuity than this?  Think for one instant of a bottomless pit of liquid soil, absorbing in its peculiar density.  Think of all the horrors of a quicksand, which, embracing, sucks down into its cruel bosom the despairing victim of its insatiable greed.  Think of a thin, solid crust, spread like icing upon a cake and concealing the soft, spongy matter beneath, covering every portion of the cruel plain; a crust which yields a crop of luxurious, enticing grass of the most perfect emerald hue; a crust firm in itself and dry looking, and yet not strong enough to bear the weight of a good-sized terrier.  And what imagination can possibly conceive a more cruel more perfect trap for man or beast?  Woe to the creature which trusts its weight upon that treacherous crust.  For one fleeting instant it will sway beneath the tread, then, in the flash of a thought, it will break, and once the surface gives no human power can save the victim.  Down, down into the depths must the poor wretch be plunged, with scarce time to offer a prayer to God for the poor soul which so swiftly passes to its doom.  Such is the muskeg; and surely more terrible is it than is that horror of the navigator the quicksands.

The girl led the way without as much as a passing thought for the dangers which surrounded her.  Truly had her companion said “I don’t see the path,” for no path was to be seen.  But Jacky had learned her lesson well and learned it from one who read the prairie as the Bedouin reads the desert.  The path was there and with a wondrous assurance she followed its course.

The travelers moved silently along.  No word was spoken; each was wrapped in thought.  Now and again a stray prairie chicken would fly up from their path with a whirr, and speed across the mire, calling to its mate as it went.  The drowsy chirrup of frogs went on unceasingly around, and already the ubiquitous mosquito was on the prowl for human gore.

The upstanding horses now walked with down-drooped heads, with sniffing noses low towards the ground, ears cocked, and with alert, careful tread, as if fully alive to the danger of their perilous road.  The silence of that ride teemed with a thrill of danger.  Half an hour passed and then the girl gathered up her reins and urged her willing horse into a canter.

“Come on, Bill, the path is more solid now, and wider.  The worst part is on the far side,” she called back over her shoulder.

Her companion followed her unquestioningly.

The sun was already dipping towards the distant peaks and already a shadowy haze was rising upon the eastern prairie.  The chill of winter grew keener as the sun slowly sank.

Two-thirds of the journey were covered and Jacky, holding up a warning hand, drew up her horse.  Her companion came to a stand beside her.

“The path divides in three here,” said the girl, glancing keenly down at the fresh green grass.  “Two of the branches are blind and end abruptly further on.  Guess we must avoid ’em,” she went on shortly, “unless we are anxious to punctuate our earthly career.  This is the one we must take,” turning her horse to the left path.  “Keep your eye peeled and stick to Nigger’s footprints.”

The man did as he was bid, marvelling the while at the strange knowledge of his companion.  He had no fear; he only wondered.  The trim, graceful figure on the horse ahead of him occupied all his thoughts.  He watched her as, with quiet assurance she guided her horse.  He had known Jacky for years.  He had watched her grow to womanhood, but although her up-bringing must of necessity have taught her an independence and courage given to few women, he had never dreamt of the strength of the sturdy nature she was now displaying.  Again his thoughts went to the tales of the gossips of the settlement, and the strange figure of the daring cattle-thief loomed up over his mental horizon.  He rode, and as he rode he wondered.  The end Of this journey would be a fitting place for the explanations which must take place between them.

At length the shaking path came to an end and the mire was crossed.  A signal from the girl brought her companion to her side.

“We have crossed it,” she said, glancing up at the sun, and indicating the muskeg with a backward jerk of her head.  “Now for the horse.”

“What about your promise to tell me about Peter Retief?”

“Guess being the narrator you must let me take my time.”

She smiled up into her companion’s eagle face.

“The horse is a mile or so further up towards the foothills.  Come along.”

They galloped side by side over the moist, springy grass moist with the recently-melted snow.  “Lord” Bill was content to wait her pleasure.  Suddenly the man brought his horse up with a severe “yank.”

“What’s up?” The girl’s beautiful eyes were fixed upon the ground with a peculiar instinct.  Bill pointed to the ground on the side furthest from his companion.

“Look!”

Jacky gazed at the spot indicated.

“The tracks of the horse,” she said sharply.

She was on the ground in an instant and inspecting the hoof-prints eagerly, with that careful study acquired by experience.

“Well?” said the other, as she turned back to her horse.

“Recent.”  Then in an impressive tone which her companion failed to understand, “That horse has been shod.  The shoes are off all except a tiny bit on his off fore.  We must track it.”

They now separated and rode keeping the hoof-prints between them.  The marks were quite fresh and so plain in the soft ground that they were able to ride at a good pace.  The clear-cut indentations led away from the mire up the gently-sloping ground.  Suddenly they struck upon a path that was little more than a cattle-track, and instantly became mingled with other hoof-marks, older and going both ways.  Hitherto the girl had ridden with her eyes closely watching the tracks, but now she suddenly raised her sweet, weather-tanned face to her companion, and, with a light of the wildest excitement in her eyes, she pointed along the path and set her horse at a gallop.

“Come on!  I know,” she cried, “right on into the hills.”

Bill followed willingly enough, but he failed to understand his companion’s excitement.  After all they were merely bent upon “roping” a stray horse.  The girl galloped on at breakneck speed; the heavy black ringlets of hair were swept like an outspread fan from under the broad brim of her Stetson hat, her buckskin bodice ballooning in the wind as rider and horse charged along, utterly indifferent to the nature of the country they were traveling indifferent to everything except the mad pursuit of an unseen quarry.  Now they were on the summit of some eminence whence they could see for miles the confusion of hills, like innumerable bee-hives set close together upon an endless plain; now down, tearing through a deep hollow, and racing towards another abrupt ascent.  With every hill passed the country became less green and more and more rugged.  “Lord” Bill struggled hard to keep the girl in view as she raced on on through the labyrinth of seemingly endless hillocks.  But at last he drew up on the summit of a high cone-like rise and realized that he had lost her.

For a moment he gazed around with that peculiar, all-observing keenness which is given to those whose lives are spent in countries where human habitation is sparse where the work of man is lost in the immensity of Nature’s effort.  He could see no sign of the girl.  And yet he knew she could not be far away.  His instincts told him to search for her horse tracks.  He was sure she had passed that way.  While yet he was thinking, she suddenly reappeared over the brow of a further hill.  She halted at the summit, and, seeing him, waved a summons.  Her gesticulations were excited and he hastened to obey.  Down into the intervening valley his horse plunged with headlong recklessness.  At the bottom there was a hard, beaten track.  Almost unconsciously he allowed his beast to adopt it.  It wound round and upwards, at the base of the hill on which Jacky was waiting for him.  He passed the bend, then, with a desperate, backward heave of the body, he “yanked” his horse short up, throwing the eager animal on to its haunches.

He had pulled up on what, at first appeared to be the brink of a precipice, and what in reality was a declivity, down which only the slow and sure foot of a steer or broncho might safely tread.  He sat aghast at his narrow escape.  Then, turning at the sound of a voice behind him, he found that Jacky had come down from the hill above.

“See, Bill,” she cried, as she drew abreast of his hard-breathing horse, “there he is!  Down there, peacefully, grazing.”

Her excitement was intense, and the hand with which she pointed shook like an aspen.  Her agitation was incomprehensible to the man.  He looked down.  Hitherto he had seen little beyond the brink at which he had come to such a sudden stand.  But now, as he gazed down, he beheld a deep dark-shadowed valley, far-reaching and sombre.  From their present position its full extent was beyond the range of vision, but sufficient was to be seen to realize that here was one of those vast hiding-places only to be found in lands where Nature’s fanciful mood has induced the mighty upheaval of the world’s greatest mountain ranges.  On the far side of the deep, sombre vale a towering craig rose wall-like, sheer up, overshadowing the soft, green pasture deep down at the bottom of the yawning gulch.  Dense patches of dark, relentless pinewoods lined its base, and, over all, in spite of the broad daylight, a peculiar shadow, as of evening, added mystery to the haunting view.

It was some seconds before the man was able to distinguish the tiny object which had roused the girl to such unaccountable excitement.  When he did, however, he beheld a golden chestnut horse quietly grazing as it made its way leisurely towards the ribbon-like stream which flowed in the bosom of the mysterious valley.  “Lord” Bill’s voice was quite emotionless when he spoke.

“Ah, a chestnut!” he said quietly.  “Well, our quest is vain.  He is beyond our reach.”

For a moment the girl looked at him in indignant surprise.  Then her mood changed and she nearly laughed outright.  She had forgotten that this man as yet knew nothing of what had all along been in her thoughts.  As yet he knew nothing of the secret of this hollow.  To her it meant a world of recollection a world of stirring adventure and awful hazard.  When first she had seen that horse, grazing within sight of her uncle’s house, her interest had been aroused suspicions had been sent teeming through her brain.  Her thoughts had flown to the man whom she had once known, and who was now dead.  She had believed his horse had died with him.  And now the strange apparition had yielded up its secret.  The beast had been traced to the old, familiar haunt, and what had been only suspicion had suddenly become a startling reality.

“Ah, I forgot,” she replied, “you don’t understand.  That is Golden Eagle.  Can’t you see, he has the fragments of his saddle still tied round his body.  To think of it and after two years.”

Her companion still seemed dense.

“Golden Eagle?” he repeated questioningly.  “Golden Eagle?” The name seemed familiar but he failed to comprehend.

“Yes, yes,” the girl broke out impatiently.  “Golden Eagle Peter Retief’s horse.  The grandest beast that ever stepped the prairie.  See, he is keeping watch over his master’s old hiding-place faithful faithful to the memory of the dead.”

“And this is is the haunt of Peter Retief,” Bill exclaimed, his interest centering chiefly upon the yawning valley before him.

“Yes follow me closely, and we’ll get right along down.  Say, Bill, we must round up that animal.”

For a fleeting space the man looked dubious, then, with lips pursed, and a quiet look of resolution in his sleepy eyes, he followed in his companion’s wake.  The grandeur the solitude the mystery and associations, conveyed by the girl’s words, of the place were upon him.  These things had set him thinking.

The tortuous course of that perilous descent occupied their full attention, but, at length, they reached the valley in safety.  Now, indeed, was a wonderful scene disclosed.  Far as the eye could reach the great hollow extended.  Deep and narrow; deep in the heart of the hills which towered upon either side to heights, for the most part, inaccessible, precipitous.  It was a wondrous gulch, hidden and unsuspected in the foothills, and protected by those amazing wilds, in which the ignorant or unwary must infallibly be lost.  It was a perfect pasture, a perfect hiding-place, watered by a broad running stream; sheltered from all cold and storm.  No wonder then that the celebrated outlaw, Peter Retief, had chosen it for his haunt and the harborage of his ill-gotten stock.

With characteristic method the two set about “roping” the magnificent crested horse they had come to capture.  They soon found that he was wild timid as a hare.  Their task looked as though it would be one of some difficulty.

At first Golden Eagle raced recklessly from point to point.  And so long as this lasted his would-be captors could do little but endeavor to “head” him from one to the other, in the hope of getting him within range of the rope.  Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind, and, with a quick double, gallop towards the side of the great chasm.  A cry of delight escaped the girl as she saw this.  The horse was making for the mouth of a small cavern which had been boarded over, and, judging by the door and window in the woodwork, had evidently been used as a dwelling or a stable.  It was the same instinct which led him to this place that had caused the horse to remain for two years the solitary tenant of the valley.  The girl understood, and drew her companion’s attention.  The capture at once became easy.  Keeping clear of the cave they cautiously herded their quarry towards it.  Golden Eagle was docile enough until he reached the, to him, familiar door.  Then, when he found that his pursuers still continued to press in upon him, he took alarm, and, throwing up his head, with a wild, defiant snort he made a bolt for the open.

Instantly two lariats whirled through the air towards the crested neck.  One missed its mark, but the other fell, true as a gun-shot over the small, thoroughbred head.  It was Jacky’s rope which had found its mark.  A hitch round the horn of her saddle, and her horse threw himself back with her forefeet braced, and faced the captive.  Then the rope tightened with a jerk which taxed its rawhide strands to their utmost.  Instantly Golden Eagle, after two years’ freedom, stood still; he knew that once more he must return to captivity.