With quick sympathy, the younger girl’s tears came. “It’s all my fault, Sally. I had no business to ask Pat to come.”

  “No,” Sally said flatly. “Pat had a letter from the sheriff after he was wounded, asking him to come and help him. If Pat hadn’t been afraid to show me Sheriff Ross’s letter we might have both come sooner … before the snowstorm came … before it was possible for the slide to bury them in that gulch.”

  “Pat … afraid?” Martha took her eyes from the crooked road and widened them at Sally in confusion.

  “Yes,” Sally acknowledged. “You see … I thought that Pat should give up trailing criminals when we were married … especially after we had Dock … but everybody seemed to depend on him. They kept calling on him and he kept going, with Sam and Ezra trailing him every time there was trouble. But last April, when they trailed that mob of cattle rustlers into Mexico and Pat nearly got killed, I made him promise he wouldn’t ever go after any criminals again. He … didn’t want to break his promise,” she ended gallantly.

  “I don’t blame you,” Martha said warmly. “Sheriff Ross must have let it out that Pat was coming before they killed him.”

  “I suppose so,” Sally answered, her voice listless. “Anyway, I can’t let Pat down now. I’m going to do everything I can to help you and your father. That’s what Pat and I came up here for. I can’t disappoint him.”

  Sally’s mouth tightened suddenly into a straight tight line and she gritted through her teeth, “If only I were a man, I’d take Pat’s place in the posse Mr. Sutton is making up.”

  “Do you think we could?” Martha asked, youthfully matching her strength with Sally’s. “I can ride and shoot as well as any of the old men here in the Canyon. We ought to go after those murderers,” she ended, aping Sally’s grim-voiced statement.

  “The only thing that holds me back is Dock,” Sally went on, “and I’m not sure I ought to let that stop me. If we don’t teach thieves and murderers that they can’t invade this country and take what they want by force, it won’t be safe for the children who are growing up now.”

  Martha was too young to cope with the problems of posterity. The horses were galloping along at a remarkable speed considering the depth of the snow in the rough trail. She was surprised to see landmarks near the small village of Tola so soon. She called Sally’s attention to a huge boulder ahead. “Tola is just a mile from that rock. We’re almost there.”

  As Sally bent forward to peer around the side of the buggy top, she gasped aloud. Her fingers opened her handbag as she cried out, “Look, Martha! That hooded man on that black horse!”

  “Where!” Martha strained her eyes as Sally pointed.

  Sally’s small pistol exploded toward the disappearing horseman. She said, “He’s gone. Disappeared into the spruce over there.”

  The horses lurched forward when Sally fired and raced around the boulder.

  “If you’d stop the team,” Sally said frantically, “maybe I could get a better aim’ at him. I might hit him.”

  Martha tugged at the reins, but the horses were frightened and raced on toward Tola.

  When at last they slowed at the edge of the town, Sally said:

  “It’s strange the black-hood didn’t shoot back. We made a fine target for him.”

  “If there was only one of them,” Martha said caustically, “he was probably just scouting around. They’re too cowardly to work alone. The whole gang gets together when they go after somebody. Nobody knows how many there are, but when they’re torturing a man to tell where his gold is hidden, they all join in.”

  Sally shivered violently as Martha guided the horses to a hitch-rack in front of a false-fronted building with large dusty black letters which read:

  TOLA POST OFFICE and GENERAL STORE.

  TEN

  After the storm abated, the sky remained overcast and gray, murky with the threat of more snow; and the thick pall of twilight gathered quickly over Dusty Canyon as night approached.

  Alone in the little isolated cabin after the two girls had set out valiantly for Tola, Mr. Sutton was oppressed with a sense of unease and foreboding. He moved about the cabin mechanically, bringing in firewood and filling the water pails for the night, pausing each time he passed over the threshold to stare up at the bleak snowy slopes beyond with watery eyes. His attitude was one of utter dejection, as though his thin shoulders bore a burden far too heavy for his years.

  And, indeed, the weight of three deaths upon his conscience was the heaviest burden the old miner had ever borne. Though he had maintained an attitude of cheerfulness with Sally, pretending that he didn’t believe the Indian boy’s story of seeing three men perish under an avalanche, he knew the story must be true. The Indian’s description of the men was irrefutable evidence. Besides, he had never known an imaginative Indian.

  Mr. Sutton felt a measure of relief when Sally had gone with Martha to Tola, for it was not easy for him to look her squarely in the eyes which she turned on him as levelly as a man’s. She was the most amazingly courageous woman he had known since his own wife lived and fought the cruel hardships of the West. Sally’s faith in her husband’s ability to avoid death was at once pathetic and a miracle of strong resolve which had been broken only by his certainty that the men could not have escaped alive.

  It was all his fault. Mr. Sutton saw that clearly now. He should not have urged Martha to write the truth to Sally and Pat. He should not have been a stubborn old fool all these years, hoarding his gold dust and refusing to leave the canyon until the last bit of color was panned from his claim.

  It was too late now for anything more than horrible regret. That was the tragic part. Three fine men had already given their lives in payment for his stubbornness. And now two girls were planning a perilous risk for themselves in a reckless attempt to get the gold … his gold … to safety in the Denver mint.

  He slammed the cabin door shut behind him as he entered with his last armload of firewood and stalked to the big wooden box beside the fireplace where he dumped the wood into it.

  “Damn the gold,” he muttered in a thin, shaky voice, then glanced around quickly at the empty, shadowy corners of the room as his words seemed to echo mockingly.

  It was too late to damn the gold now; too late to bring Pat and Sam and Ezra back to life. He turned slowly away from the fireplace and sank into his old familiar rocking chair.

  If there was only something he could do … some way he could get rid of the curse of the yellow stuff for which men had been murdered since the beginning of time.

  But he knew, even as he rocked gently back and forth, that he would do nothing, even if he could. The taint of gold was in his soul. Greed for the stuff had mastered him as it had mastered thousands before him, and all those who lived around him. Now, after three men had made the supreme sacrifice in an effort to save his hoard from the black-robed murderers, he could not do less than his part to see that the sacrifice had not been made in vain.

  He tried to convince himself that he had hoarded the gold for Martha’s sake, for as he stared into the fire and tried to think of the future, he knew that the things it would buy in Denver meant nothing to an old miner like himself. He was no better than a miser.

  But Martha was different. She was young. She had endured privation and fear ever since she was old enough to understand.

  He sank into a queer sort of reverie as the logs burned and eerie shadows licked at the walls. Martha’s face became that of his wife, young and gay, unbelievably beautiful. She had had such faith, had dared so much with him. She had never lost faith that some day he would strike it rich. Her full-lipped rounded face was there in the flames, nodding encouragement to him, pleading with him to carry on for Martha’s sake.

  He didn’t turn his head when he heard the doorknob turn, but remained bent forward staring into the fire when the door creaked open and he felt a cold draft on his back. He thought it was the girls returning from Tola, and it was not until a brusque voice barked, “Hello there, old man,” that he realized an intruder was inside the cabin.

  He jerked his head around and his jaw sagged open at the sight confronting him. His pipe thudded to the floor unnoticed.

  The man who stood just inside the door was clothed wholly in black, with a hood of black cloth covering his face like a sack with a drawstring, with three small slits to fit the eyes and mouth.

  The eyes that glittered behind the slits seemed black, and the brusque voice came again from behind the hood.

  “Jest set where you are, old man.” The masked man’s arms were folded beneath the cape, and the muzzles of two guns showed menacingly, pointing toward him.

  “Damn your soul to hell!” Mr. Sutton growled, leaping to his feet, his aged face contorted with honest rage. “I ain’t afeard of you nor both your guns.” He jumped forward to the mantel where a hunting rifle hung on wooden prongs, but the intruder snarled deep in his throat and stepped toward him, flailing out with the heavy muzzle of a Navy .44, bashing it against the side of Sutton’s head.

  The old miner staggered back under the impact, went to his knees, where he crouched like a cornered animal, a whimper of rage and frustration drooling from his thin lips.

  The masked man laughed harshly and backed toward the door. “I’ll drill yuh through th’ guts next time,” he warned. “If yo’re smart, you’ll be good an’ mebby won’t git hurt.”

  He jerked the door open and whistled shrilly. After a moment he was joined by another figure dressed in black, a broad-shouldered, hulking man whose eyes gleamed red behind the slitted mask.

  “Jest the ol’ man here by hisse’f, huh? That’s sorta too bad. I hoped mebbe …”

  “Shut up,” the first man grated. He shut the door and barred it. “You know the boss said the gals wuz in town. We want this old devil’s gold … nothin’ else.”

  “Mebbe that’s all you want,” the other said brutally, “but me, I cud shore …”

  “Shut up.” The taller man whirled back on Sutton. “All right. Where’s yore dust hid?”

  Mr. Sutton was still crouched back in the corner. The dancing flames flickered over the strained whiteness of his face, over the grimly set lips and the sunken eyes that gleamed back defiantly.

  When he made no answer the second man strode forward eagerly. “Lemme at ’im. I know how tuh jar these old codgers loose from info’mation. ’Member how Jake Hargrove begged us to take his gold a’ter I worked ’im over?”

  He stopped in front of Sutton on wide-spread legs, huge hands dangling open almost level with his knees. “Come on, ol’ man. Start talkin’ afore I choke it out o’ you.”

  Sutton bared his yellowed teeth in a snarl. He shook his head doggedly and his wispy gray hair glinted like silver in the dancing flames.

  The heavy-set man chuckled with brutish anticipation and cuffed the miner lightly on the side of his leathery face. Behind him his taller companion warned, “Don’ hit ’im too hard, Grizzly. Knockin’ him out ain’t gonna find us no dust.”

  “Shore, I don’ aim tuh hurt ’im none. I’ll jest squeeze his goozle a leetle.…”

  The big man made a grab for Sutton’s scrawny neck. The miner jerked his head sideways and sank sharp teeth into the broad palm that sought to encircle his throat.

  The big man yelped with pain and outraged anger. He jerked his hand away and drove the other fist into Sutton’s face. The old man went down to the floor in a crumpled heap and the leader swore angrily:

  “God dammit, Grizzley, I tole you to watch how you handled him. Now you’ve done knocked ’im out cold. The boss ain’t gonna like that a-tall.”

  “What the hell could I do? He snapped at me like a mad coyote. Wouldn’ s’prise me none if them dirty teeth o’ his’n was pizen an’ I ketched lockjaw er sompin.” The big man drew back, sucking on his lacerated palm, while the other strode forward, got a pail of water, and threw it in Sutton’s face.

  The old miner moaned when the cold water struck him, but made no other movement. The tall man disgustedly kicked him in the ribs, and when that elicited no response from their unconscious victim, he ordered briskly:

  “Find an ax and start rippin’ up the floor. Nine outta ten of these old codgers hide their dust under the floor-boards. I’ll be lookin’ in the kitchen and through the beddin’ an’ in all them places.”

  He went into the big clean kitchen and began jerking pots and canned goods from the shelves, piling them indiscriminately on the floor and cursing loudly when he failed to find any trace of the cache.

  At the same time there was the sound of chopping and the ripping of boards in the front room, and when the tall hooded man had reduced the kitchen to a wreck of its former neatness, he stuck his head through the door and got a disgusted shake of the black mask inside.

  “Got ha’f thuh floor pulled up an’ ain’t found narry a sign,” the second man reported. “Found some loose boards that looked like they mighta been pulled up afore, but not a smidgen o’ dust.”

  “Keep tryin’,” the tall man ordered. “Prod the old man with yore toe ever’ time you get close to ’im. We’d make ’im tell mighty quick if we could get ’im to wake up.”

  “Shore. I been proddin’ ’im. But you know how old men is.”

  The tall man nodded morosely and strode across the torn floor planking to the bedroom on the left. Unmindful of the daintiness of the room which was Martha’s, he began tearing it savagely apart, jerking out the drawers of the homemade dresser and dumping the contents on the floor. He tore the mattress to pieces, dumping the filling on the floor.

  From Martha’s room he went into the smaller room on the right, and with even more thoroughness proceeded to demolish and empty everything that might possibly serve as a hiding place for the treasure they sought.

  His companion had finished ripping up the floor boards and was prying up the rocks of the hearth with a rusty crowbar when the taller man stepped back into the living room.

  Mr. Sutton still lay crumpled in a heap in the corner, breathing gently and unevenly, his eyes closed and his thin mouth lax.

  “Goddam ol’ bastard,” the heavy man muttered, throwing the crowbar aside and darting a venomous glance at the relaxed figure. “We done damn nigh es much work lookin’ es he done pannin’ that thar gold. Got me all tired an’ sweaty. ’Tain’t no way fer uh man tuh do with his gold.”

  “That’s jest too bad,” the tall man mocked. “There orta be a law that miners shouldn’ hide their dust where we can’t find it easy. But we ain’t through with ’im yit.” His voice was cold and authoritative. “Put ’im on yore shoulder an’ carry ’im out to yore haws. We’ll take ’im on uh little trip.”

  “To the hideout, huh?” The heavy man’s voice drooled with pleasure. “Where we kin work ’im over good ’n proper ’thout no interference a’ter he comes to.”

  “That’s right. The boss’ll be there tonight an’ he allus gets a kick outta seein’ ’em squirm. If we put on a good show fer the boss he won’t be near so likely tuh give us hell fer not gettin’ th’ gold first off. Heave ’im up an’ let’s get goin’. No tellin’ how soon them gals’ll be back from town.”

  “Thass right.” The big man paused with his hands gripping Sutton’s shoulder preparatory to lifting him. “Couldn’ we wait a leetle while fer the gals tuh come? Mebbe they know where thuh gold’s hid at. It’d be real fun to muss ’em up an’ make ’em tell.”

  “You know the boss’s orders. We’ve stayed healthy this long by leavin’ the women folks alone. Killin’s bad enough, but there’s other things.…”

  “There’s other things the boss mebbe don’t know ’bout,” the short man boasted. “Whut he don’ know don’ hurt ’im.”

  “Shut up,” growled the tall man. “H’ist ’im up an’ le’s go.” He turned and led the way to the cabin door, opened it cautiously and peered out.

  Outside, the misty gray of dusk was swiftly turning to dark. When the man was satisfied that the way was clear he stepped out and went hurriedly to a clump of spruce back of the cabin where their mounts were tethered. His companion followed with the light, prostrate body of Mr. Sutton tossed carelessly over his shoulder.

  They tied the old miner behind one of the saddles and mounted, then rode straight down to the bottom of the canyon where a little-used path wound around through thickets of bare willows that screened them from the view of any of the other cabins dotting the bleak side of the canyon.

  For half an hour they rode steadily eastward, and the thick darkness of night was closing in when the leader turned to the right along the bottom of one of the numerous small ravines which were like fissures in the wall of the main canyon.

  This was a narrow, rocky defile, deep enough to conceal the heads of the riders, and it was crossed by a narrow wooden bridge carrying the stage road directly over their heads.

  It climbed sharply beyond the stage road, gradually widening out and flattening just beneath the ledge trail over which Pat had led Sam and Ezra that morning.

  They pressed directly up the side of the canyon after crossing the ledge trail, came at last to a deep crevice that yawned in front of them, then turned abruptly to the right and sloped steeply down to intersect the larger gulch into which the pursuing trio had been decoyed into the path of the avalanche.

  When it debouched finally into the larger ravine it was at its blind end against the canyon wall, a small sheltered park with corrals and sheds perfectly hidden away in the isolated gulch, and now rendered twice as inaccessible as before by the blocking of the main ravine caused by the snowslide.

  A bearded man came to the door of the largest slab structure when the two black-robed men pulled up in front. He grunted with surprise at sight of the limp body of Mr. Sutton strapped behind the saddle.

  “’Nother tough un, huh? Bring ’im in an’ we’ll thaw ’im out an’ git ’im ready fer thuh boss. He’s due right after dark an’ he’ll find a way tuh make him talk if any hooman bein’ kin.”

  Rough hands untied the straps binding Sutton’s limbs and his unconscious body was tossed inside the large untidy room to thaw out and await the pleasure of the mysterious boss of the hooded bandits.