“Wal, I reckon so,” replied Bennet. “Coyotes are noisy an’ they’ll come right up an’ pull at your hat, when you’re in bed.”

  “Heavens! And we must sleep on the flat ground!”

  “You might bunk up on the rock. It’ll be tolerable windy... Miss Janey, aren’t you scared and frozen stiff?”

  “Both,” laughed Janey. “But I think this is great. I love to hear those wild coyotes.”

  “No more desert for me,” sighed Mrs. Durland.

  “Bert, surely you will come back to Arizona someday?” asked Janey, curiously.

  “What for?” he asked, fixing her with gloomy eyes.

  “Of course, Janey, you’ll be coming back often to see your husband digging in that heap of stones?” added Mrs. Durland.

  “Y-yes, but not very soon,” replied Janey. “Father is coming back shortly to start the excavating of Beckyshibeta. Aren’t you, Dad?”

  “Sure. I’m going to dig a grave for myself out here,” growled her father.

  “Haw! Haw! Haw!” bawled the trader. “Did you heah that, Randolph?... Wal, folks, you’ll all come back to Arizona. I’ve yet to see the man or woman who’d slept out on this desert an’ didn’t want to come back.”

  “You all better turn in,” said Randolph. “Firewood scarce, and you’ll be called at dawn.”

  “I forgot about bed,” exclaimed Janey, giving her palms a last toast over the red coals. “Phil, where’s my couch?”

  “Here,” he replied, and led her a few steps.

  “Ugh, it’s windy. I hate to think of bed on the cold rocks,” returned Janey, trying to see in the dark.

  “Yours won’t be windy or cold or hard,” he replied, briefly. “Here. There’s a foot of sage under your blankets, and a thick windbreak. You’ll be comfortable.”

  “Oh!... You found time to do this for me?” she asked, looking up at him. The starlight showed his face dark and troubled, his eyes sad.

  “Certainly. It was little enough.”

  “Thank you, Phil. You are good to me,” she said, softly, and held out her hand.

  Randolph gave a start, clasped her hand convulsively, and strode away without even saying good night.

  Janey gazed a moment at his vanishing form. Then she plumped down on her bed. “Gee,” she whispered, “I want to be careful. He might grab me — and then it would be the end!”

  Removing only her boots Janey slipped down into the bed. How soft and fragrant of sage! Her pillow was a fleecy sheepskin, one she had seen in Randolph’s pack. Then her feet, bravely stretching down, suddenly came in contact with something hot. It startled her. Presently she ascertained it was a hot stone wrapped in canvas. Randolph had heated this and put it in her bed. Let the desert wind blow! The white stars blinked down at her from the deep blue dome above. Had she ever thought them pitiless, indifferent, mocking? The wind swept with low moans through the sage; the coyotes kept up their wild staccato barks; the campfire died out and low voices of men ceased. Tranquil, cold, beautiful night enfolded the scene. And Janey lay there wide-eyed, watching the heavens, wondering at the beauty and mystery of nature, at the glory of love, marveling at the happiness that had been bestowed upon her unworthy self.

  Next day about mid-afternoon they rode across the wide barren stretch of desert to the post, the pack train far ahead with Randolph in the lead, and Bennet trying to hold Mrs. Durland in the saddle to the last. Janey brought up the rear, so late that when she reached the last level all the others had disappeared in the green grove that surrounded the post.

  Mohave met Janey at the gate, bareheaded, respectful, but with a face of woe.

  “Why, Mohave, have you lost your grandmother — or something?” exclaimed Janey.

  “I reckon it’s worse, Miss Janey,” he replied, meaningly.

  “Oh goodness! For a moment I felt sorry for you. Mohave boy, you keep shy of Eastern girls after this. They’re no good.”

  “Most of them ain’t, I reckon. But I know one who’s an angel. An’ she’s gonna be married to a—”

  “Mohave, who told you?” interrupted Janey, as she slipped out of the saddle.

  “Thet big-mouthed, lop-eared, hard-headed Bennet. He came aroarin’ it to everybody, an’ no winter cyclone could have knocked us flatter.”

  “Mohave, honest now, aren’t you glad for my sake?” asked Janey, sweetly. She liked this frank clean-cut cowboy.

  “Wal, Miss Janey, since you tax me — yes, I am, seein’ I cain’t have you myself,” he replied, with reddening face. “I never liked thet kidnapin’ stunt an’ didn’t understand. Shore, if we’d known you was engaged all the time there’d never been such a mix-up. Poor old Ray, he was the hardest hit, I reckon.”

  “How about him, Mohave?” asked Janey, anxiously.

  “Gone. An’ mighty shamed of himself. Asked me to tell you he’d plumb lost his haid. An’ wanted you to know it wasn’t the first time.”

  “Well!! What did he mean?”

  “I reckon Ray figgered thet if you knowed he’d made a fool of hisself over a gurl before, you wouldn’t feel so bad aboot what you did to him.”

  “He was man enough to confess his weakness. I call that square of him, don’t you, Mohave?”

  “It shore is. Wal, Ray was a good sort, when he wasn’t loco over a gurl, or full of licker.”

  “How are the other boys?”

  “They wasn’t so bad, till this news came. Reckon now they’re down at the bunkhouse drownin’ their grief. They shore left the work to me an’ the boss.”

  “How funny! What did they say?”

  “Wal, I can’t recollect all, but one crack I’ll never fergit. Tay-Tay busted out like this. ‘W-w-w-what the h-h-hell you think of thet grave robber? He’s s-s-s-stole our gurl an’ he’s got a face like a sick c-c-cow!’”

  “Well, I never,” laughed Janey. “Mr. Randolph ought to look well and happy, oughtn’t he?”

  “He shore ought. I reckon, though, he feels turrible bad aboot your goin’ East an’ him havin’ to stay on account of Beckyshibeta. Bennet told us. You can jest bet, Miss Janey, no cowboy would let you go off alone.”

  For once Janey was startled, but she maintained her outward air of coolness. Somehow she had forgotten that the cowboys would wonder why she did not stay here with Randolph until his plans were complete. To let Mohave or any of the others guess her secret would upset all her plans.

  “I fancy not,” she said, quickly. “But you mustn’t think ill of Mr. Randolph. The discovering of the pueblo has upset all our plans. It’s very important. I’m hoping to persuade him to go East with us for a few weeks, but I have some very urgent business reasons for going back immediately with Father. Please regard that as confidential, Mohave. And tell the boys we’ll be leaving early in the morning. I wouldn’t want to miss saying good-by.”

  When Mohave had left Janey breathed a sigh of relief. Her excuse had been a lame one, but the honest cowboy had apparently swallowed it without a second thought.

  Janey then went on into the house, first encountering Mrs. Bennet, to whose warm greeting she responded. The Indian maid showed shy gladness at Janey’s safe return. Bennet came bustling in with Endicott, both of them blushing and coughing. Janey thought her father looked much better and she guessed why. The Durlands were evidently in their rooms, and Randolph was not in sight.

  “Mr. Bennet, we shall want to leave early in the morning,” said Janey.

  “Aw, Miss Janey! One more day,” he entreated.

  “I’m sorry, but we must go. Some other time we shall come and stay longer ... Dad, I’ll change and pack now. Will you please tell Phil I want to talk to him presently. Say in an hour. Tell him to knock at my door.”

  “All right, star-eyed enigma,” returned her father, with puzzled glance upon her.

  Janey rushed to her room, and lost no time in bathing. She put on her most fetching gown, one of those scant creations that Randolph had hated, yet could not resist. How swiftly her blood ran! What a glow on her face! Indeed her eyes were like stars. Would Randolph see — would he be proud and wretched at once — would he betray himself? While she packed her mind whirled, keeping pace with her racing pulse. If she had not conceived a grand finale to this desert romance she was a poor judge of wit and humor. Her father would be completely floored, and, best of all, won forever. Randolph? But no stretch of imagination could picture Randolph as she hoped to see him.

  A tap sounded on the door. It startled Janey. She caught her breath and her hand went to her breast. She glanced at her mirror and the image she saw there quickened her agitation. But as quickly she recovered her composure.

  “Come in,” she said.

  But the door did not move, nor was the rap repeated. Janey went swiftly and opened it. Randolph stood there. She had not seen him like this.

  “Oh, it’s you, Phil. I’d forgotten. Come in. I want to talk to you.”

  He did not make any move to enter and apparently he was dumb.

  “Well, you’re very reserved — and considerate, all of a sudden,” she said sarcastically. “Pray don’t be shy about entering my bedroom now... Please come in.”

  Randolph entered reluctantly. There was no bully about him now.

  “What do you want? Was it necessary to ask me here?”

  “Yes, I think so. The living room is not private. And I want to ask a particular favor of you. Will you grant it?”

  He went to the window and looked out. Then presently he turned with an almost grim look.

  “Yes — anything.”

  “Thank you, Phil,” she went on, going close to him, quite closer than was necessary.

  Every moment made Janey more sure of herself. There was a strange and magical sweetness in this sincerity of deceit. Yet was it deceit? She risked a great deal, trusting to his mood, his humility. It was a woman’s perverse thrilling desire to tempt him. But if he should seize her in his arms! Even so, she would carry out her plan.

  “Before I ask the favor, I want to tell you that I would rather have had this otherwise.”

  “Ha! Maybe I wouldn’t!” he exclaimed. “But what do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to say. Partly, I’d like to have spared you this.”

  “Never mind about me. What’s the favor you’d ask?”

  “Phil, you are going to marry me — aren’t you?”

  “Certainly. Unless you change your mind.”

  “Everybody knows it. Everybody thinks we’ve been engaged.”

  “That appears to be the way Bennet and your father have spread it on,” he replied, in bitterness.

  “What is the object of this marriage?” she asked, proudly lifting her head.

  “Your father says — and you say — to save your reputation.”

  “Yes. My honor!... And I fear your sacrifice will fail if you continue to look and act as you do. You are no happy bridegroom to be. Tay-Tay said you had a face like a sick cow. You certainly look wretched. If you don’t cheer up and change — act and look like a lover — the Durlands will guess the truth. So will the cowboys. Not to mention those in Flagerstown with whom we come in contact. It is a tremendous bluff we are playing. I can do my part. You see that I look happy, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” he answered, miserably. “And so help me God, I can’t understand you. Always you seem a lie.”

  “All women are actresses, Phil. I shall not fail here. And I ask this last favor of you. Look and play the part of an accepted lover. For my sake!”

  “My God! — Janey Endicott, you can ask that of a man whose only crime has been to love you so well?... And who must lose you!”

  “Phil, if you loved me that well you could die for me.”

  “I could, far more easily than do what you ask. It is almost an insupportable ordeal you set me. I was never much at hiding my feelings.”

  “Phil, the Durlands and the cowboys must not guess this marriage is a — a fake.”

  “I grant that. And I know I look like a poor lost devil. But I thought that’d seem natural to everybody. They all heard I was not going East.”

  “You don’t know women, my desert friend. Mrs. Durland is keen as a whip. If you can deceive her — make this engagement seem real and of long standing, you will stop her wagging tongue. Then after I get to New York I can find ways socially to please her. Right here is the danger.”

  “Perhaps you see it more clearly than I,” Randolph said, mournfully. “Anyway, I’ll accept your judgment.”

  “Then you will grant my favor?” asked Janey, beginning to succumb to repressed emotion.

  “Favor! I call it the hardest job ever given me. Marrying you will be nothing, compared to this damned hypocrisy you ask.”

  “I do ask, Phil. I beg of you. Now at the last I confess I’m not so brazen. I’m afraid of scandal. Nothing bad ever has touched my name yet. All this modern stuff about freedom, independence, license is rot. Face to face with the truth, I beg of you — do this thing for me. At any cost.”

  “Yes — Janey,” he gulped, and leaned against the window.

  Janey’s reserve strength had oozed out in expression. She waited in suspense. She saw his lean jaw quiver and the cords set in his neck. He turned to transfix her with accusing eyes.

  “On one condition,” he said.

  “Condition! — What?” she whispered.

  “This, then, is the last time you and I will ever be alone together?” he asked, huskily.

  She was past falsehood and could only stare mutely at him.

  “Of course it must be. Well, my price for your favor is that you let me ... No! I will not bargain... You lovely heartless thing — you’d only refuse. I’ll take what will give me strength to do your bidding!”

  Janey backed against the wall, her hands against her breast, as if to ward him off. But when like a whirlwind he seized her in his arms he never knew those trembling hands locked round his neck. Mad with grief and unrequited love, he crushed her to his breast and pressed wild unsatisfied kisses upon her closed eyes, her parted lips, her neck. And releasing her as suddenly, he staggered to the door, like a blinded man, and leaned his face against it, sobbing: “Janey! Janey!... Janey!”

  He did not turn to see her outstretched arms, her convulsed face. And as Janey could not speak he bolted out in ignorance. Janey closed her eyes, slowly recovering.

  “I thought — that was — my finish,” she whispered, pantingly. “Poor boy — he never looked at me!... Well, it’ll only be — all the sweeter!”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE SUN HAD set when the car entered the heavy forest of pine that skirted the mountains. Snow was blowing. The wind was bitter cold, and moaned in the trees. How the car hummed on! Night fell, and the forest was black. The headlights cast broad gleams into the forest at the curves of the road, making specters of the dark pines.

  Soon, then, the street lamps of Flagerstown terminated that wonderful ride.

  In the hotel lobby, Janey, indifferent to loungers there, held frozen ungloved hands to the open fire. She had learned the real good of fire, its dire necessity, as she had begun the learning of many other things.

  As Janey turned, she saw a tall stoop-shouldered man, rather lean and scholarly, rise from a chair to accost Randolph.

  “How do you do, Mr. Elliot,” replied Randolph, constrainedly. “How are you? This is my friend — and patron, I may add — Mr. Endicott, of New York.”

  “Ah! How do you do, Mr. Endicott,” returned Elliot, rather slowly, extending his hand to meet Endicott’s. “Patron? Of what, may I ask?”

  “Hardly patron, just yet,” replied Endicott. “Randolph is a little previous, naturally.”

  “Yes, he is, indeed,” returned the doctor, not without sarcasm. “Overzealous, I may say, in estimating things. Dreamy when he should be scientific. Witness the ridiculous rumor just phoned in from Cameron.”

  “Rumor? What was it?” asked Randolph, tersely. Janey liked the lift of his head, and grew interested. No doubt this was the museum director who had discharged Phillip.

  “Some nonsense about your having discovered Beckyshibeta,” replied Elliot, with a dry laugh. “It was telephoned in to the newspaper by a chauffeur. Annoying to me, to say the least.”

  Randolph glanced at Endicott and said, “We stopped at Cameron for gas.”

  “Must have been Driver Bill,” replied Endicott, sprightly, with a shrewd eye upon Elliot.

  “Yes, Dr. Elliot, it was — rather previous,” said Randolph in as dry a tone as the director’s. But there was fire in his eye.

  “Ahem! — I’m waiting here for two of our men due from New Mexico. Expect to put them on the job from which I removed you. I trust Mr. Bennet, the trader, informed you of this move.”

  “Yes, Bennet told me you had fired me. Mr. Endicott here will corroborate it.”

  Endicott nodded in reply to the doctor’s questioning look, but he did not speak. Janey knew the gleam in her father’s eye. He would say something presently.

  “Randolph, I was very sorry indeed to remove you,” went on Elliot blandly. “There’s no need to repeat my reasons. You’ve been advised often enough.”

  “Dr. Elliot, you need not distress yourself over doing what you considered your duty,” rejoined Randolph. “It certainly doesn’t distress me. In fact it was the only lucky thing that ever happened to me since my connection with the museum.”

  “Indeed. Excuse me if I fail to see any good fortune in that for you,” replied Elliot, stiffly.

  “You never could see much about me. Perhaps you will when I tell you that after you removed me I discovered Beckyshibeta.”

  “What!” exclaimed Elliot, incredulously.

  “I discovered Beckyshibeta,” repeated Randolph, forcefully, truth clear in his paling face and piercing eye. “Probably the greatest of all pueblo ruins. I have my proof. Mr. Endicott and his daughter can substantiate my claim. Bennet, the cowboys, and a Mrs. Durland with her son were all there.”

  Speechlessly Dr. Elliot turned to Endicott for corroboration of this astounding assertion.

  “Fact,” said Endicott, shortly. “I’m about to wire Dr. Bushnell, head of the museum. Also Jackson, a good friend of mine. Want them to know that I stand behind Randolph. It remains to be decided whether we shall let the museum in on the excavation work.”