frame of mind. They were making the rafters ring with "Arizona Boys and Girls," with now and then a gun shot to punctuate the rhyme. Lilly, crouched on the floor, opined they must have found a quart of whisky somewhere to induce all the hilarity.
"The boys in this country, they try to advance By courtin' the ladies an' learnin' to dance— An' they're down, down, an' they're down!"
"You'll shore be down if ever I get out o' this mousetrap," muttered Lilly, enraged. "A fine specimen, I am! Supposed to be protectin' the gal an' here I sit, of no more use than two-bits worth of canary seed!"
He waited until the crew had embarked on another verse of the song before butting the door with his shoulders. It gave slightly and he tried it a second time, hearing the hasp grate against the lock. Someone moved outside and he stopped quickly, gathering himself in a corner. As before the sound vanished, leaving him perplexed. Were they guarding him? And what about Jill? Were they keeping watch over her? Lilly had a vision of Trono smiling in his tight-lipped, sardonic manner; smiling at the girl with his immense shoulders humped forward. He would ride his victory high, this one-time foreman, would probably exult in his dominion over the possessions of old Jim Breck. He was dangerous—dangerous because of the uncertainty of his temper and of his mind. There was no telling when he might take it in his head to use violence; Lilly had read the ruthlessness, the killer's instinct in the green eyes and he well knew that a time might come when Trono would tire of playing safe.
The thought moved Lily around in his black cubicle and set him to exploring again. He dug his fist down into the vent hole at the bottom of the house. This was the flue by which smoke was sent into the place from a near-by oven. If he could enlarge it—dig his way through to the outside. A few attempts at crumbling the hard-packed ground discouraged him. It would take hours to make any impression and unless he mistook his man very much, Trono would be up and doing before long. Probably the burly one was mulling over the situation now in his clumsy mental processes. Lilly stepped back a pace and hurled himself at the door once again. There was a long groan of the hasp and a sharp splintering of a board, followed by those soft, shuffling steps outside. This time they came nearer and stopped. Someone was fumbling with the lock and as Lilly crowded himself in a corner, ready to spring at whoever crossed the sill, he heard the hasp give way. The door came open, inch by inch. As he poised on his toes the soft, guttural voice of Pattipaws floated in. "Huh. You come now."
He slid outside, to be met by the Indian's outstretched hand. Gun and gunbelt was there, not his own, but one that did quite as well and felt extremely satisfying as he strapped it about his waist. The Indian whispered. "You go get girl. I fin' horses. Put 'em by barn. Hyak."
The singing had diminished. Of a sudden the light streaming from the bunkhouse was shut off by an emerging figure. A figure that rolled unsteadily along for a brief time on the path of the yellow beam and then turned directly toward the smoke house. Pattipaws dissolved in the shadows, leaving Tom Lilly rooted in his place. The advancing puncher stumbled over his own high heeled boots, swearing immoderately and presently he was directly before the house, swaying a little, his tall, lanky figure but an outline in the night. Lilly tarried, not quite sure of his future course. But here was a temptation too great to be passed by. Thus, when the man stretched his arm forward and put one hand on the open door Lilly drew his gun and reversed the butt, lifting it high. It was a moment of uncertainty until Lilly heard the puncher's breath whistling inward as if preparing to send out a cry of discovery. That cry was never uttered; Lilly crossed the intervening space at one stride; the gun came down, not with full force, but heavily enough to send the wandering puncher to the ground senseless.
Lilly worked quickly. He untied the man's neck piece and gagged him. With his own handkerchief he tied the fellow's hands. Then he lifted him into the smoke house and closed the door, propping it shut with a stray piece of wood. This was all makeshift, he well knew; at the most he had no more than fifteen minutes to warn the girl and effect an escape before the puncher would rouse himself and struggle free. Turning, he tiptoed across the yard to the house, coming to a halt at one end of the porch. He had meant to save time and enter by one of the front doors, but the gleaming tip of a cigarette told him he would have to circle around to the rear. He could not see the man, but it took only half a guess to surmise who sat in Jim Breck's rocker. Trono. Trono mimicking the habits of the old man and flattering his own vanity by the performance. Temptation beset Lilly once more; this time he shook it off. The odds were too much against him. Possibly he might surprise and take Trono stowing him away as he had the fellow in the smoke house. But there were a good dozen men in the bunkhouse and he could not hope to dispose of them in the same manner. So, foregoing the pleasure, he retreated, circled the house and came to the kitchen door. It stood ajar, leading into a darkened room. Listening for a moment, he finally groped through it and opened an inner portal; this was a hallway leading he knew not just where. But he could hear the creaking of a rocker out on the porch and presently a man coughing. Nowhere could he see a light until he turned about and looked at the other end of the hall; then he made out a faint yellow beam creeping beneath a doorway. On his toes he crept toward it, listening. No sound.
Undoubtedly it was the girl's room since all the rest of the house was dark. She was in there, waiting for trouble to break, grieving for what the day had seen. Well, it was a poor time to spend in grief. Right now self-preservation was foremost. He put his hand on the knob, very much wanting to announce himself but afraid of having her challenge him and thus arouse Trono. Half turning it, he felt the latch give and at a single movement opened the door, swung himself inside and closed it, coming face to face with Jill.
She was in a chair and she had a gun trained directly on him. The color had partly left her face, but he was never to forget that flash of eye which fell fully upon him and then, after what seemed a long, long time, fade before relief. She had been expecting someone else—had posted herself there to stop that someone. Lilly put a finger to his lips and crossed the room. "Fix up. We're pullin' out. Quick now."
She nodded, keeping the silence, and rose. Whatever of resentment Lilly had felt against her for withholding trust in him vanished. She was a thoroughbred! She asked no silly questions, wasted no time. A small bundle of papers went into her coat pocket, papers she had no doubt salvaged from her father's office. Then she clapped on a battered hunting hat and turned to him as if asking his approval. And for the first time he saw friendliness in her face. The color had returned; something moved in the depths of her eyes as she held out her hand, offering him her gun. He shook his head and beckoned. Together they stepped into the hall, closing the door behind, crossing to the kitchen and threading its cluttered space to the back. The night breeze struck Lilly's face and the fresh, sage-scented air was as a call to adventure. Up above, the sky was metal black, pricked by a dozen dim stars. Beyond this cluttered yard and its garrison of lustful, over-weening men was freedom. Southward stood the shadow of the pine forest. Lilly felt the girl's hand slip into his; with a swift upthrust of reckless pride he closed his calloused fists about her small fingers and led her across the yard toward the corrals, venturing a husky phrase.
"We'll beat 'em, my girl. Don't you forget it."
They had only passed the smoke house when a strangled cry emerged from it—a cry that woke every echo on the ranch. Boots struck the bunkhouse floor, the hum of speech ceased. Trono's bull voice boomed across the area. "Who's that?"
"Shucks," grunted Lilly. "I didn't hit that hombre nowise hard enough. Comes o' bein' chicken-hearted. Now we've got to leg it. Hold tight, girl."
The crew rushed pell-mell out of their quarters and directed by another muffled cry, bore down upon the smoke house as Lilly and the girl slipped away from the yard and circled the corrals; Pattipaws waited somewhere ahead, obscured by the heavy shadows. Fury was behind. The crew had found and released the imprisoned puncher. Lilly, chuckling softly, observed he hadn't impaired the man's voice. It rose toward the sky in outraged accents. "—An' I gits a strangle holt on 'im an' he breaks it like I was a leetle chil'. Belts me acrost the coco a terrible wallop! Boys, I'm all busted up! Somebody gimme a drink! Oh, Gawd that was a dirty blow! I'll rake him across his face with m' spurs! Yeh, I will! Say, gimme a drink!"
"Pattipaws," breathed Lilly, coming to a halt. They were behind the corrals, groping into a small hollow. "Injun, where are you at? By the Lord Harry,