Black Mesa. Zane Grey

of letters, from his parents, lawyers, bankers, and employees. Paul had quite forgotten that he owned a thousand-acre farm, huge wheat elevators, a store, an apartment house and other property.

      “Wess, can you compose business letters, pound a typewriter, add columns of figures, and perform other secretarial duties?” queried Paul calmly.

      “My Gawd, boss, I swear I cain’t hardly write my name. An’ as for figgers, say, I could add up a column one hundred times an’ come out with one hundred different answers.”

      “How on earth will you be my right-hand man, then?” protested Paul, for the fun of seeing Wess’s confusion.

      “Wal, I can fork a hawse, sling a diamond—hitch, rope an’ hawg-tie a steer—an’ throw a gun,” declared the cowboy somberly. “Reckon thet’s aboot all you’ll need round heah.”

      “I was kidding you, Wess. . . . Did you buy the books?”

      “Say, thet bookman near dropped daid. Said he had only a few on yore list, but would send for the others.”

      “Okay. Let’s rustle my bags and see if I can turn around in my room afterward.”

      It required four trips for each of them to unload the wagon, and on the last one, when Paul staggered into the long corridor behind the overburdened cowboy, he saw Louise Belmont standing in the doorway at the other end. She smiled at Wess. And after he had stumbled into Paul’s room she smiled at Paul too, and said: “Looks as if you were going to stay awhile.”

      “This load does—indeed,” panted Paul, halting at his door to set down three heavy bags.

      “I am—glad,” she added hesitantly.

      “Thanks. The same goes for me—too,” replied Paul constrainedly. It was impossible not to meet her eyes. And this time he met them fully and penetratingly, with a freedom he had not before permitted himself. He was to see the gladness she had confessed—a shining lovely light—dispel that dark and haunting shadow which had seemed so apparent a moment ago. Paul sustained a distinct shock, not so much at the loveliness of the eyes, but at the subtle intimation that his presence there for an indefinite period could cause such a transformation.

      “It’s so terrible here. . . . I hate . . .” She checked her speech. Instantly Paul realized that she was not a child, that she was not afraid or shy but passionately candid. But his surprise, his pause, his piercing gaze, which no doubt forced her to think of him as a young man, a stranger, different, sympathetically and impellingly drawn to her, brought a flush to her pale face.

      Paul wanted to say that perhaps he could make it a little less lonely and hateful for her there—that he had books, magazines, music. But something inhibited him. This moment did not seem one for kindly courtesy. He did not know what it called for, but he knew it was not the time.

      Her lips parted, her gaze drooped, and she turned away with the red receding from her cheeks.

      Paul must have worn a strange expression on his face when he entered his room, for Wess, after one gray glance at it, threw up his hands.

      “Say, cowboy, I didn’t tell you to stick ’em up,” declared Paul testily.

      “Not in so many words, pard,” drawled Kintell, and sat down amidst the baggage.

      “All right. How’d I strike you?”

      “Wal, pard, can I talk oot straight?”

      “Kintell, you need never be afraid to tell me what you think. You can bet your life that if I don’t like it, I’ll say so,” said Paul, shutting the door.

      “Don’t get sore, then, Paul,” returned the cowboy earnestly. “We’re bucked into somethin’ oot heah an’ it’ll take us both to beat it. . . . I seen the little lady look at you with them strange eyes an’ I seen their effect on you when you come in jest now.”

      “Okay. They are strange, and they sure nailed me. . . . But I don’t know how,” returned Paul with a laugh.

      Kintell made a significant gesture with his brown hand toward the cabin outside the window.

      “Peach?” he drawled.

      “Who? The little lady that looked at me. . . ? Yes, come to think of it, she is.”

      “Pard, I reckon you an’ me are a couple of doomed hombres,” went on Kintell, lowering his voice, and wagging his hawklike head.

      “Doomed!” echoed Paul. “I don’t get you, Wess.” But he did understand only too well.

      “I shore was stumped when I seen thet girl,” rejoined the cowboy, ignoring the meaning of his employer’s statement. “She come up to me the other day with a list of things she wanted me to fetch from Wagontongue. An’ while she was aboot it she hinted thet I should block the cattle deal, but not to give her away to Belmont. I was plumb stumped.”

      “Well!” exclaimed Paul, astounded. “But just now she said she was glad it looked as if I meant to stay awhile.”

      “Correct. I heahed her. Wal, so long as I didn’t block the deal she could be glad you’d come, couldn’t she?”

      Paul nodded thoughtfully. No doubt Kintell’s reaction to this place and situation was much like his own.

      “Paul, I never looked into such strange eyes in all my life. Beautiful, shore! But it wasn’t thet so much. They hurt me like hell.”

      “They hurt me too,” returned Paul.

      “Thet girl is sufferin’ wuss than heartbreak. Jest a kid, for all her full-breastedness. But thet’s the baby. I feel so damn sorry for her thet I’m sore at myself. What am I so sorry aboot? Becawse she’s a kid, married to thet big-haided ham. . . ? Nope, it’s becawse of them eyes. . . ! Queer situation, this, an’ don’t you overlook it, Manning. This Belmont is deep, slick, hard as nails, crooked as a rail fence. I saw him chuck the Indian girl—the pretty one—under the chin. She hissed like a viper. I cain’t figger oot who this ‘Sister’ dame is. Not his real sister, believe me. An’ she hates the girl like pizen. I got thet pronto.”

      “Wess, what I got is that the girl hates Belmont worse than poison,” whispered Paul.

      “Why wouldn’t she? Natural. She’s shore not his class, nor the ‘Sister’ dame’s either. . . . An’ this is yore deal, boss! What have we rode into?”

      “I don’t know. But I’m glad,” returned Paul with strong feeling. “If that poor kid is glad—then so am I.”

      “Yeah?” drawled Wess, with an eloquent glance. “Pard, you shore had a sweet time with the last female you got mixed up with—an’ she wasn’t even married.”

      “That’s not what I mean—and you know it!” flashed Paul angrily. “Do you want to lie down on me and run out of Bitter Seeps?”

      “Say, bozo, you don’t savvy yore man,” declared the cowboy scornfully.

      “All right. Let’s lay off the heavy stuff awhile. . . . Where are you going to hang that six-gallon bonnet?”

      “I’ve a tent ootside in the cedars. It has a board floor. Okay till fall.”

      “Get busy here, then. . . . Let me see. It’ll take some job to make this room habitable. Wess, your boss is going to be a luxurious cuss.”

      “Like hell he is! Did you happen to observe, pard, thet yore room is sometimes under water?”

      “Belmont said a little water ran in during summer floods. But he’d remedy that.”

      “Ah-huh. We won’t risk it. I’ll make some low stands to keep yore bags off the floor. . . . You’ll want a long box to store firewood in. These nights will be cold clear into July. An’ what else?”

      “Shelves to go here. A table to set here under the window.”

      “So