Jacky held her treasure fast.  The choking grip of the running noose quieted Golden Eagle into perfect docility.  Bunning-Ford was off his horse in a moment.  Approaching the primitive dwelling he forced open the crazy door.  It was a patchwork affair and swung back on a pair of hinges which lamented loudly as the accumulation of rust were disturbed.  The interior was essentially suggestive of the half-breed, and his guess at its purpose had been a shrewd one.  Part storehouse for forage, part bedroom, and part stable, it presented a squalid appearance.  The portion devoted to stable-room was far in the back; the curious apparatus which constituted the bed was placed under the window.

The man propped the door open, and then went to relieve the girl from the strain of holding her captive.  Seizing the lariat he gripped it tightly and proceeded to pass slowly, hand over hand, towards the beautiful, wild-eyed chestnut.  Golden Eagle seemed to understand, for, presently, the tension of the rope relaxed.  For a moment the animal looked fearfully around and snorted, then, as “Lord” Bill determinedly attempted to lead him, he threw himself backward.  His rebellion lasted but for an instant, for, presently, drooping his proud head as though in token of submission, he followed his captor quietly into the stable which had always been his.

The girl dismounted, and, shortly after, “Lord” Bill rejoined her.

“Well?” she asked, her questioning eyes turned in the direction of the cave.

“He’s snug enough,” Bill replied quietly, glancing at his watch.  He looked up at the chilly sky, then he seated himself on the edge of a boulder which reposed beside the entrance to the stable.  “We’ve just got two hours and a half before dark,” he added slowly.  “That means an hour in which to talk.”  Then he quietly prepared to roll a cigarette.  “Now, Jacky, let’s have your yarn first; after that you shall hear mine.”

He leisurely proceeded to pick over the tobacco before rolling it in the paper.  He was usually particular about his smoke.  He centered his attention upon the matter now, purposely, so as to give his companion a chance to tell her story freely.  He anticipated that what she had to tell would affect her nearly.  But his surmise of the direction in which she would be affected proved totally incorrect.  Her first words told him this.

She hesitated only for the fraction of a second, then she plunged into her story with a directness which was always hers.

“This is Bad Man’s Hollow he he was my half-brother.”

So the stories of the gossips were not true.  Bill gave a comprehensive nod, but offered no comment.  Her statement appeared to him to need none.  It explained itself; she was speaking of Peter Retief.

“Mother was a widow when she married father widow with one son.  Mother was a half-breed.”

An impressive silence ensued.  For a moment a black shadow swept across the valley.  It was a dense flight of geese winging their way back to the north, as the warm sun melted the snow and furnished them with well-watered feeding-grounds.  The frogs were chirruping loudly down at the edge of the stream which trickled its way ever southwards.  She went on.

“Mother and Peter settled at Foss River at different times.  They never hit it off.  No one knew that there was any relationship between them up at the camp.  Mother lived in her own shack.  Peter located himself elsewhere.  Guess it’s only five years since I learned these things.  Peter was fifteen years older than I. I take it they made him ‘bad’ from the start.  Poor Peter! still, he was my half-brother.”

She conveyed a world of explanation in her last sentence.  There was a tender, far-away look in her great, sorrowful eyes as she told her jerky story.  “Lord” Bill allowed himself a side-long glance in her direction, then he turned his eyes towards the south end of the valley and something very like a sigh escaped him.  She had struck a sympathetic chord in his heart.  He longed to comfort her.

“There’s no use in reckoning up Peter’s acts.  You know ’em as well as I do, Bill.  He was slick was Peter,” she went on, with an inflection of satisfaction.  She was returning to a lighter manner as she contemplated the cattle-thief’s successes.  “Cattle, mail-trains, mail-carts nothing came amiss to him.  In his own line Peter was a Jo-dandy.”  Her face flushed as she proceeded.  The half-breed blood in her was stirred in all its passionate strength.  “But he’d never have slipped the coyote sheriffs or the slick red-coats so long as he did without my help.  Say, Bill,” leaning forward eagerly and peering into his face with her beautiful glowing eyes, “for three years I just just lived!  Poor Peter!  Guess I’m reckoned kind of handy ’round a bunch of steers.  There aren’t many who can hustle me.  You know that.  All the boys on the round-up know that.  And why?  Because I learnt the business from Peter and Peter taught me to shoot quick and straight.  Those three years taught me a deal, and I take it those things didn’t happen for nothing,” with a moody introspective gaze.  “Those years taught me how to look after myself and my uncle.  Say, Bill, what I’m telling you may sicken you some.  I can’t help that.  Peter was my brother and blood’s thicker than water.  I wasn’t going to let him be hunted down by a lot of bloodthirsty coyotes who were no better than he.  I wasn’t going to let my mother’s flesh feed the crows from the end of a lariat.  I helped Peter to steer clear of the law lynch at that and if he fell at last, a victim to the sucking muck of the muskeg, it was God’s judgment and not man’s that’s good enough for me.  I’d do it all again, I guess, if if Peter were alive.”

“Peter had some shooting on the account against him,” said Bill, without raising his eyes from the contemplation of his cigarette.  The girl smiled.  The smile hovered for a moment round her mouth and eyes, and then passed, leaving her sweet, dark face bathed in the shadow of regret.  She understood the drift of his remark but in no way resented it.

“No, Bill, I steered clear of that.  I’d have shot to save Peter, but it never came to that.  Whatever shooting Peter did was done on his lonely.  I jibbed at a frolic that meant shooting.  Peter never let me dirty my hands to that extent.  Guess I just helped him and kept him posted.  If I’d had law, they’d have called me accessory after the fact.”

“Lord” Bill pondered.  His lazy eyes were half-closed.  He looked indifferent but his thoughts were flowing fast.  This girl’s story had given a fillup to a wild plan which had almost unconsciously found place in his active brain.  Now he raised his eyes to her face and was astonished at the setness of its expression.  She reminded him of those women in history whose deeds had, at various periods, shaken the foundations of empires.  There was a deep, smouldering fire in her eyes, for which only the native blood in her veins could account.  Her beautiful face was clouded beneath a somber shadow which is so often accredited as a presage of tragedy.  Surely her expression was one of a great, passionate nature, of a soul capable of a wondrous love, or a wondrous hate.  She had seated herself upon the ground with the careless abandon of one used to such a resting-place.  Her trim riding-boots were displayed from beneath the hem of her coarse dungaree habit.  Her Stetson hat was pushed back on her head, leaving the broad low forehead exposed.  Her black waving hair streamed about her face, a perfect framing for the Van Dyke coloring of her skin.  She was very beautiful.

The man shifted his position.

“Tell me,” he went on, gazing over towards where a flock of wild ducks had suddenly settled upon a reedy swamp, and were noisily revelling in the water, “did your uncle know anything about this?”

“Not a soul on God’s earth knew.  Did you ever suspect anything?”

Bill shook his head.

“Not a thing.  I was as well posted on the subject of Peter as any one.  Sometimes I thought it curious that old John’s stock and my own were never interfered with.  But I had no suspicion of the truth.  Peter’s relationship to your mother did the Breeds in the settlement know anything of it?”

“No I alone knew.”

“Ah!”

The girl looked curiously into her companion’s face.  The tone of his exclamation startled her.  She wondered towards what end his questions were leading.  His face was inscrutable; she gained no inspiration from it.  There was a short pause.  She wondered anxiously how her story had affected him in regard to herself.  After all, she was only a woman a woman of strong affections and deep feelings.  Her hardihood, her mannish self-reliance, were but outer coverings, the result of the surroundings of her daily life.  She feared lest he should turn from her in utter loathing.

The Hon. Bunning-Ford had no such thoughts, however.  Twenty-four hours ago her story might have startled him.  But now it was different.  His was as wild and reckless a nature as her own.  Law and order were matters which he regarded in the light of personal inclinations.  He had seen too much of the early life on the prairie to be horrified by the part this courageous girl had taken in her blood-relative’s interests.  Under other circumstances “Lord” Bill might well have developed into a “bad man” himself.  As it was, his sympathies were always with those whose daring led them into ways of danger and risk of personal safety.

“How far does this valley extend?” he asked abruptly, stepping over as though to obtain a view of the southern extremity of the mysterious hollow.

“Guess we reckoned it 300 miles.  Dead straight into the heart of the mountains, then out again sharply into the foot-hills thirty miles south of the border.  It comes to an end in Montana.”

“And Peter disposed of his stock that way all by himself?” he asked, returning to his seat upon the boulder.

“All by himself,” the girl repeated, again wondering at the drift of his questions.  “My help only extended as far as this place.  Peter used to fatten his stock right here and then run them down into Montana.  Down there no one knew where he came from, and so wonderfully is this place hidden that he was never traced.  There is only one approach to it, and that’s across the keg.  In winter that can be crossed anywhere, but no sane persons would trust themselves in the foothills at that time of year.  For the rest it can only be crossed by the secret path.  This valley is a perfectly-hidden natural road for illicit traffic.”

“Wonderful.”  The man permitted a smile to spread over his thin, eagle face.  “Peter’s supposed to have made a pile of money.”

“Yes, I guess Peter sunk a pile of dollars.  He hid his bills right here in the valley,” Jacky replied, smiling back into the indolent face before her.  Then her face became serious again.  “The secret of its hiding-place died with him it’s buried deep down in the reeking keg.”

“And you’re sure he died in the ’reeking keg’?” There was a sharp intonation in the question.  The matter seemed to be of importance in the story.

Jacky half started at the eagerness with which the question was put.  She paused for an instant before replying.

“I believe he died there,” she said at length, like one weighing her words well, “but it was never clearly proved.  Most people think that he simply cleared out of the country.  I picked up his hat close beside the path, and the crust of the keg had been broken.  Yes, I believe he died in the muskeg.  Had he lived I should have known.”

“But how comes it that Golden Eagle is still alive?  Surely Peter would never have crossed the keg on foot”

The girl looked perplexed for a moment.  But her conviction was plainly evident.

“No he wouldn’t have walked.  Peter drank some.”

“I see.”

“Once I saved him from taking the wrong track at the point where the path forks.  He’d been drinking then.  Yes,” with a quiet assurance, “I think he died in the keg.”

Her companion seemed to have come to the end of his cross-examination.  He suddenly rose from his seat.  The chattering of the ducks in the distance caused him to turn his head.  Then he turned again to the girl before him.  The indolence had gone from his eyes.  His face was set, and the firm pursing of his lips spoke of a determination arrived at.  He gazed down at the recumbent figure upon the ground.  There was something in his gaze which made the girl lower her eyes and look far out down the valley.

“This brother of yours he was tall and thin?”

The girl nodded.

“Am I right in my recollection of him when I say that he was possessed of a dark, dark face, lantern jaws, thin and high, prominent cheek-bones?”

“That’s so.”

She faced him inquiringly as she answered his eager questions.

“Ah!”

He quickly turned again in the direction of the noisy water-fowl.  Their rollicking gambols sounded joyously on the brooding atmosphere of the place.  The wintry chill in the air was fast ousting the balmy breath of spring.  It was a warning of the lateness of the hour.

“Now listen to me,” he went on presently, turning again from the contemplation of his weird surroundings.  “I lost all that was left to me from the wreck of my little ranch this afternoon no, not to Lablache,” as the girl was about to pronounce the hated name, “but,” with a wintry smile, “to another friend of yours, Pedro Mancha.  I also discovered, this afternoon, the source of Lablache’s phenomenal luck.  He has systematically robbed both your uncle and myself ” He broke off with a bitter laugh.

“My God!”

The girl had sprung to her feet in her agitation.  And a rage indescribable flamed into her face.  The fury there expressed appalled him, and he stood for a moment waiting for it to abate.  What terrible depths had he delved into?  The hidden fires of a passionate nature are more easily kept under than checked in their blasting career when once the restraining will power is removed.  For an instant it seemed that she must choke.  Then she hurled her feelings into one brief, hissing sentence.

“Lablache I hate him!”

And the man realized that he must continue his story.

“Yes, we lost our money not fairly, but by cheating.  I am ruined, and your uncle ” Bill shrugged.

“My uncle God help him!”

“I do not know the full extent of his losses, Jacky except that they have probably trebled mine.”

“But I know to what extent the hound has robbed him,” Jacky answered in a tone of such bitter hatred as to cause her companion to glance uneasily at the passionate young face before him.  “I know, only too well.  And right thoroughly has Lablache done his work.  Say, Bill, do you know that that skunk holds mortgages on our ranch for two hundred thousand dollars?  And every bill of it is for poker.  For twenty years, right through, he has steadily sucked the old man’s blood.  Slick?  Say a six-year-old steer don’t know more about a branding-iron than does Verner Lablache about his business.  For every dollar uncle’s lost he’s made him sign a mortgage.  Every bit of paper has the old man had to redeem in that way.  What he’s done lately I mean uncle I can’t say.  But Lablache held those mortgages nearly a year ago.”

“Whew ” “Lord” Bill whistled under his breath.  “Gee-whittaker.  It’s worse than I thought.  ‘Poker’ John’s losses during the last winter, to my knowledge, must have amounted to nearly six figures the devil!”

“Ruin, ruin, ruin!”

The girl for a moment allowed womanly feeling to overcome her, for, as her companion added his last item to the vast sum which she had quoted, she saw, in all its horrible nakedness, the truth of her uncle’s position.  Then she suddenly forced back the tears which had struggled into her eyes, and, with indomitable courage, faced the catastrophe.

“But can’t we fight him can’t we give him ”

“Law?  I’m afraid not,” Bill interrupted.  “Once a mortgage is signed the debt is no longer a gambling debt.  Law is of no use to us, especially here on the prairie.  There is only one law which can save us.  Lablache must disgorge.”

“Yes yes!  For every dollar he has stolen let him pay ten.”

The passionate fire in her eyes burned more steadily now.  It was the fire which is unquenchable the fire of a lasting hate, vengeful, terrible.  Then her tone dropped to a contemplative soliloquy.

“But how?” she murmured, looking away towards the stream in the heart of the valley, as though in search of inspiration.

Bunning-Ford smiled as he heard the half-whispered question.  But his smile was not pleasant to look upon.  All the latent recklessness which might have made of him a good soldier or a great scoundrel was roused in him.  He was passing the boundary which divides the old Adam, which is in every man, from the veneer of early training.  He was mutely unconsciously calling to his aid the savage instincts which the best of men are not without.  His face expressed something of what was passing within his active brain, and the girl before him, as she turned and watched the working features, usually so placid indifferent, knew that she was to see a side of his character always suspected by her but never before made apparent.  His thoughts at last found vent in words of almost painful intensity.

“How?” he said, repeating the question as though it had been addressed to himself.  “He shall pay pay!  Everlastingly pay!  So long as I have life and liberty, he shall pay!”

Then as if anticipating a request for explanation he told her the means by which Lablache had consistently cheated.  The girl listened, speechless with amazement.  She hung upon his every word.  At the conclusion of his story she put an abrupt question.

“And you gave no sign?  He doesn’t suspect that you know?”

“He suspects nothing.”

“Good.  You are real smart, Bill.  Yes, shooting’s no good.  This is no case for shooting.  What do you propose?  I see you mean business.”

The man was still smiling but his smile had suddenly changed to one of kindly humor.

“First of all Jacky,” he said, taking a step towards her, “I can do nothing without your help.  I propose that you share this task with me.  No, no, I don’t mean in that way,” as she commenced to assure him of her assistance.  “What I mean is that that I love you, dear.  I want you to give me the right to protect your uncle.”

He finished up with his hands stretched out towards her.  Golden Eagle stirred in his stable, and the two heard him whinny as if in approval.  Then as the girl made no answer Bill went on:  “Jacky, I am a ruined man.  I have nothing, but I love you better than life itself.  We now have a common purpose in life.  Let us work together.”

His voice sank to a tender whisper.  He loved this motherless girl who was fighting the battle of life single-handed against overwhelming odds, with all the strength of his nature.  He had loved her ever since she had reached woman’s estate.  In asking for a return of his affections now he fully realized the cruelty of his course.  He knew that the future his future was to be given up to the pursuit of a terrible revenge.  And he knew that, in linking herself with him, she would perforce be dragged into whatever wrong-doing his contemplated revenge might lead him.  And yet he dared not pause.  It all seemed so plain so natural that they should journey through the crooked, paths of the future together.  Was she not equally determined upon a terrible revenge?

He waited in patience for his answer.  Suddenly she looked up into his face and gently placed her hands in his.  Her answer came with simple directness.

“Do you really, Bill?  I am glad yes, glad right through.  I love you, too.  Say, you’re sure you don’t think badly of me because because I’m Peter’s sister?”

There was a smiling, half-tearful look in her eyes those expressive eyes which, but a moment before, had burnt with a vengeful fire as she asked the question.  After all her nature was wondrously simple.

“Why should I, dear?” he replied, bending and kissing the gauntleted hands which rested so lovingly in his.  “My life has scarcely been a Garden of Eden before the Fall.  And I don’t suppose my future, even should I escape the laws of man, is likely to be most creditable.  Your past is your own I have no right nor wish to criticise.  Henceforth we are united in a common cause.  Our hand is turned against one whose power in this part of the country is almost absolute.  When we have wrested his property from him, to the uttermost farthing, we will cry quits ”

“And on the day that sees Lablache’s downfall, Bill, I will become your wife.”

There was a pause.  Then Bill drew her towards him and they sealed the compact with one long embrace.  They were roused to the matters of the moment by another whinny from Golden Eagle, who was chafing at his forced imprisonment.

The two stood back from one another, hand in hand, and smiled as they listened to the tuneful plaint.  Then the man unfolded a wonderful plan to this girl whom he loved.  Her willing ears drank in the details like one whose heart is set with a great purpose.  They also talked of their love in their own practical way.  There was little display of sentiment.  They understood without that.  Their future was not alluring, unless something of the man’s strange plan appealed to the wild nature of the prairie which, by association, has somehow become affiliated with theirs.  In that quiet, evening-lit valley these two people arranged to set aside the laws of man and deal out justice as they understood it.  An eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth; fortune favoring, a cent, per cent, interest in each case.  The laws of the prairie, in those days always uncertain, were more often governed by human passions than the calm equity of unbiased jurymen.  And who shall say that their idea of justice was wrong?  Two “wrongs,” it has been said, do not make one “right.”  But surely it is not a human policy when smote upon one cheek to turn the other for a similar chastisement.

“Then we leave Golden Eagle where he is,” said Jacky, as she remounted her horse and they prepared to return home.

“Yes.  I will see to him,” Bill replied, urging his horse into a canter towards the winding ascent which was to take them home.

The ducks frolicking in their watery playground chattered and flapped their heavy wings.  The frogs in their reedy beds croaked and chirruped without ceasing.  And who shall say how much they had heard, or had seen, or knew of that compact sealed in Bad Man’s Hollow?