The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine

      "His wife and children." Melissy recalled the smoldering admiration in his bold eyes. She laughed shortly. "That finishes him with me. He's married, is he? Well, I know the kind of husband he is."

      Jack flashed a quick look at her. He guessed what she meant. But this did not square at all with what his friends had told him of O'Connor.

      "Did he ask for me?"

      "No. He said he preferred to play a lone hand. His manner was unpleasant all the time. He knows it all. I could see that."

      "Anyhow, he's a crackerjack in his line. Have you heard from your father since he set out?"

      "Not yet."

      "Well, I'm going to start to-night with a posse for the Cache. If O'Connor comes back, tell him I'll follow the Roaring Fork."

      "You'll not go this time without a gun, Jack," she said with a ghost of a smile.

      "No. I want to make good this trip."

      "You did splendidly before. Not one man in a hundred would have done so well."

      "I'm a wonder," he admitted with a grin.

      "But you will take care of yourself--not be foolish."

      "I don't aim to take up residence in Boot Hill cemetery if I can help it."

      "Boone and his men are dangerous characters. They are playing for high stakes. They would snuff your life out as quick as they would wink. Don't forget that."

      "You don't want me to lie down before Dunc Boone, do you?"

      "No-o. Only don't be reckless. I told father the same."

      Her dear concern for him went to Jack's head, but he steadied himself before he answered. "I've got one real good reason for not being reckless. I'll tell you what it is some day."

      Her shy, alarmed eyes fled his at once. She began an account of how her father had gathered his posse and where she thought he must have gone.

      After dinner Jack went downtown. Melissy did some household tasks and presently moved out to the cool porch. She was just thinking about going back in when a barefoot boy ran past and whistled. From the next house a second youngster emerged.

      "That you, Jimmie?"

      "Betcherlife. Say, 've you heard about the sheriff?"

      "Who? Jack Flatray! Course I have. The Roaring Fork outfit ambushed him, beat him up, and made him hit the trail for town."

      "Aw! That ain't news. He's started back after them again. Left jes' a little while ago. I saw him go--him 'n' Farnum 'n' Charley Hymer 'n' Hal Yarnell 'n' Mr. Bellamy."

      "Bet they git 'em."

      "Bet they don't."

      "Aw, course they'll git 'em, Tom."

      The other youngster assumed an air of mystery. He swelled his chest and strutted a step or two nearer. Urbane condescension oozed from him.

      "Say, Jimmie. C'n you keep a secret?"

      "Sure. Course I can."

      "Won't ever snitch?"

      "Cross my heart."

      "Well, then--I'm Black MacQueen, the captain of the Roaring Fork bad men."

      "You!" Incredulity stared from Jimmie's bulging eyes.

      "You betcher. I'm him, here in disguise as a kid."

      The magnificent boldness of this claim stole Jimmie's breath for an instant. He was two years younger than his friend, but he did not quite know whether to applaud or to jeer. Before he could make up his mind a light laugh rippled to them from behind the vines on the Lee porch.

      The disguised outlaw and his friend were startled. Both fled swiftly, with all the pretense of desperate necessity young conspirators love to assume.

      Melissy went into the house and the laughter died from her lips. She knew that either her father's posse or that of Jack Flatray would come into touch with the outlaws eventually. When the clash came there would be a desperate battle. Men would be killed. She prayed it might not be one of those for whom she cared most.

      CHAPTER IV

      THE REAL BUCKY AND THE FALSE

      Number seven was churning its way furiously through brown Arizona. The day had been hot, with a palpitating heat which shimmered over the desert waste. Defiantly the sun had gone down beyond the horizon, a great ball of fire, leaving behind a brilliant splash of bold colors. Now this, too, had disappeared. Velvet night had transformed the land. Over the distant mountains had settled a smoke-blue film, which left them vague and indefinite.

      Only three passengers rode in the Pullman car. One was a commercial traveler, busy making up his weekly statement to the firm. Another was a Boston lady, in gold-rimmed glasses and a costume that helped the general effect of frigidity. The third looked out of the open window at the distant hills. He was a slender young fellow, tanned almost to a coffee brown, with eyes of Irish blue which sometimes bubbled with fun and sometimes were hard as chisel steel. Wide-shouldered and lean-flanked he was, with well-packed muscles, which rippled like those of a tiger.

      At Chiquita the train stopped, but took up again almost instantly its chant of the rail. Meanwhile, a man had swung himself to the platform of the smoker. He passed through that car, the two day coaches, and on to the sleeper; his keen, restless eyes inspected every passenger in the course of his transit. Opposite the young man in the Pullman he stopped.

      "May I ask if you are Lieutenant O'Connor?"

      "My name, seh."

      The young man in the seat had slewed his head around sharply, and made answer with a crisp, businesslike directness.

      The new-comer smiled. "I'll have to introduce myself, lieutenant. My name is Flatray. I've come to meet you."

      "Glad to meet you, Mr. Flatray. I hope that together we can work this thing out right. MacQueen has gathered a bunch that ought to be cleaned out, and I reckon now's the time to do it. I've been reading about him for a year. I've got a notion he's about the ablest thing in bad men this Territory has seen for a good many years."

      Flatray sat down on the seat opposite O'Connor. A smile flicked across his face, and vanished. "I'm of that opinion myself, lieutenant."

      "Tell me all about this affair of the West kidnapping," the ranger suggested.

      The other man told the story while O'Connor listened, alert to catch every point of the narrative.

      The face of the lieutenant of rangers was a boyish one--eager, genial, and frank; yet, none the less, strength lay in the close-gripped jaw and in the steady, watchful eye. His lithe, tense body was like a coiled spring; and that, too, though he seemed to be very much at ease.

      With every sentence that the other spoke, O'Connor was judging Flatray, appraising him for a fine specimen of a hard-bitten breed--a vigilant frontiersman, competent to the finger tips. Yet he was conscious that, in spite of the man's graceful ease and friendly smile, he did not like Flatray. He would not ask for a better man beside him in a tight pinch; but he could not deny that something sinister which breathed from his sardonic, devil-may-care face.

      "So that's how the land lies," the sheriff concluded. "My deputies have got the pass to the south blocked; Lee is closing in through Elkhorn; and Fox, with a strong posse, is combing the hills beyond Dead Man's Cache. There's only one way out for him, and that is over Powderhorn Pass. Word has just reached us that MacQueen is moving in that direction. He is evidently figuring to slip out over the hills during the night. I've arranged for us to be met at Barker's Tank by a couple of the boys, with horses. We'll drop off the train quietly when it slows up to water, so that none of his spies can get word of our movements to him. By hard riding we'd ought to reach Powderhorn in time to head him off."

      The ranger asked incisive questions, had the topography of the country explained to him with much detail, and decided at last that Flatray was right. If MacQueen