VOLUME ONE NUMBER FOUR (cont. 3)

“I’ll trade rooms with you, Kid,” Monte said to the saturnine strong-arm man—who for once looked rather cowed. “I never was afraid of a dead man—just so that he was really dead. I guess you’re kind of soured on that part of the house!”

“Soured is right,” mumbled the “Kid.” “Say, I wouldn’t sleep in there if you was to give me all the sparklers in New York! Just let me get my stuff out!”

As he went back toward the room from which the body had recently been removed, the “Kid” saw the mocking glance of the Strangler fastened upon him. Billy was enjoying his discomfiture. He went into the room and turned on the light—the burned-out bulb had been replaced, so that now he was able to see into all the corners. He began to gather up his property, staring nervously about him the while.

Cautiously, he approached the closet, where he had stored his bathrobe and an extra suit, a couple of pairs of shoes and a pearl gray hat. He opened the door wide and stepped back. Nothing inside. Hastily he carted the clothing out. Then he crossed over to the bureau and opened the left-hand upper drawer, in which he had placed his jewelry—some rings and tie pins.

The “Kid” drew the drawer fully open and stood looking down into it. Then a startled exclamation escaped him, and he bent nearer, staring wide-eyed.

All of his possessions were there; but in addition he saw, close to the back of the drawer, a morocco covered box of peculiar design. The “Kid” had seen that box once before!

With trembling fingers he undid the clasp and opened the lid. He could feel his heart pounding in the top of his head, and his throat seemed to contract, so that he fought for breath. The Resurrection Pendant! A single glance convinced him of that. But how had it come into this drawer?

The “Kid’s” mind deviated from the line of this natural inquiry. He could forget that for the moment—the fact was that here it was. But there was no reason why he should share this discovery with the other Wolves. This supreme good fortune had come to him, not to them! He quickly shut the lid of the case and slid the box into an inside pocket.

He removed his property to Monte’s room, hiding the jewel case under the mattress. His blood had turned to liquid fire. He had that for which they had all been searching—and it was his alone!...

Monte went on guard that evening, taking “Doc” with him: not that Monte was afraid, but he realized that the battle had now entered its final and decisive phase. And it was real war. Monte Jerome had no doubt that Martin had, in some mysterious way, been done to death in the house of Ah Wing.

“You boys better get to bed early,” he said. “Billy, you take the clock and set it for half past one. You wake the Kid as soon as you get up—we’ll stand double guard from now on!”

The “Kid” hardly heard Monte speaking. He wanted to examine the jewels again, wanted to figure out just how he was going to make the break which would free him from his comrades.

For a time, after the other two had departed, he sat around smoking and cleaning out the barrel of his pistol, which the fogs of this marshy neighborhood were corroding. He cleaned barrel and chamber and oiled the action, then replaced the clip of cartridges and slipped the gun into a side pocket.

“Well,” he mumbled, half aloud, “I guess I’ll be getting to bed. An’ I hope to God there won’t be no voices around here tonight!”

The Strangler grunted, and the “Kid” slouched off up the stairs and into the room that had been Monte’s. He closed the door carefully, crossed over to the light, and then stood listening.

The night wind was stirring around the house, whistling and moaning down the chimney; but the “Kid” had an antidote for fear tonight: he went over to his bed and fumbled for the jewels. The touch of the smooth leather-covered box started his heart to pounding.

He laid the box on the bed and opened it. The light was reflected into his eyes from a thousand sharp facets, crimson and blue and white—but perhaps the charm was wearing off: the stones did not look as wonderful to him tonight as they had in that momentary view he had caught during the afternoon.

“And that’s the bunch of sparklers men go dippy about!” the “Kid” mumbled. “Hell, I wouldn’t give two bits for the whole bunch, if I couldn’t sell ’em! There’s too many of ’em, and they don’t shine so terrible much! I saw a big buck nigger on State Street once with a solitaire on that would have made them look phoney—and it was glass! Oh, well, I should worry. I ain’t going to wear ’em—I’m going to _sell_ ’em! I’ll have to play safe—”

At the ghost of a sound from behind, the “Kid” whirled. He had left the door closed, but now it was open—and the Strangler stood inside the room, grinning.

“So, that was the game!” he cried. “You’re a slick one, Kid, but you ain’t slick enough. I been watching you all evening. You ain’t yourself, old timer. You’re getting nervous. But I don’t wonder! You grabbed the sparklers, but how you done it I don’t know. And you was going to hold ’em out, was you? Well, well—”

The “Kid’s” lips jerked up into a wolfish smile, but he forced himself to go slow. He needed to think this thing out. He knew the Wolves well enough to be sure they would hold this affair against him, and sooner or later would try to play even. No use to try to explain—they wouldn’t understand.

The Strangler was watching him through chilly eyes. Casually, the Kid’s hand stole toward his side pocket. Instantly the man standing before him acted: with a bellow of rage he jerked out his own hand, which he had been holding under his coat: swinging it up he fired, then struck at the light globe with the smoking barrel.

To the “Kid” there came the sensation of suffocation and of darkness. His own gun was out, but his enemy had disappeared—and he himself was sprawled across the bed. That instant of falling had not registered in his consciousness: he had been standing, and now he was down; that was all he knew.

And he was fighting for breath—a great weight seemed to be crushing in his chest. He raised his left hand and gropingly explored the front of his shirt: it was already saturated, and from a hole to the left of his breast bone more blood was coming in a pulsing current.

“The dirty dog!” muttered the “Kid” thickly, pulling himself erect by grasping the foot of the bed. “He’s croaked me—”

Then suddenly the “Kid’s” whirling senses cleared. Billy the Strangler had done for him; but he would send Billy on ahead, to tell St. Peter he was coming! His yellow teeth came together. He felt something welling up in his throat and spat out a mouthful of blood.

“Not—much—time—left!” he muttered.

He dropped to his knees and for a moment everything went blank. Then he mastered himself, by a superhuman effort: and began to crawl stealthily along toward the dimly-lighted panel of the door. The Strangler had run out there after firing—now, undoubtedly, he was waiting till it should be safe for him to come back for his booty!

Slowly, the dying crook dragged himself across to the door and out into the hall. The training of a lifetime stood him in good stead now: he was as soundless as a shadow. He reached the top of the stairs and paused, leaning for a moment against the banisters—everything was going black before him. Then he pulled himself together with a disregard for his own suffering that in a better cause would have been heroic.

Inch by inch, he drew himself forward till he was sitting on the top step of the stair. He peered down into the lighted rooms below. Ah! There he was! The Strangler stood beyond the big chandelier in the front room, the “Kid” could see him plainly through an open door. His face was smiling, the crooked smile of a shark.

Resting his automatic across his bent knees, the “Kid” took steady aim at the man who had done for him.

“A little higher than the pockets!” he told himself, repeating the old gunman’s formula for a killing shot.

Next moment the pistol roared; and the man standing down there in the light jerked up his hands and staggered backward. Greedily, the “Kid’s” fast glazing eyes drank in every detail of the Strangler’s agony. He knew what that look meant—

Billy the Strangler began to pivot on his heels, staring with blind eyes into space.

“Where is he?” he cried. “Damn your soul and body—you—”

He pitched forward to his face. And the “Kid,” leaning peacefully back, felt himself snatched up into a great red cloud that has descended out of the roof upon him.

* * * * *

In an upper room in the house of Ah Wing, the Chinaman sat at an instrument that resembled a telephone switchboard. There were on its surface eight little globes, each with a plug socket beneath.

Ah Wing had an operator’s head-piece in position, and he seemed to be listening attentively to something that came to him over the wires.

There had been voices, loud and angry. He heard the Strangler denouncing the “Kid.” Then came the shot—and silence.

Ah Wing waited an appreciable time, then shifted the plug from socket to socket. Not a sound from any of the rooms in the distant cottage. He returned the plug to its central position and waited.

Presently another shot sounded, and a scream. He heard the Strangler curse his enemy.

Without a word, Ah Wing removed the head-piece and glanced up at a chart fastened to the wall before him. It contained the names of five men, against one of which a black cross had been inscribed.

Now he picked up a pencil and filled in two additional crosses.

There were but two of the Wolves left!

_This Fascinating Story Has An Amazing Climax. It Will Be Concluded in the Next Issue of WEIRD TALES. Tell Your Newsdealer To Reserve Your Copy._

Snatched from the Grave, Woman Tells of Death

A weird adventure befell Mrs. Rafaela Mercurio, an Omaha woman who, after apparently dying, awoke in the land of the living instead of the spirit world. After her physician had pronounced her dead, her life was restored by an injection of adrenalin, administered by Dr. W. A. Gerrie.

To all outward appearance, she was quite dead. There was no indication of breathing or heart action. Prayers for the dead were started in the bed chamber where her body lay.

Then Dr. Gerrie injected the gland extract in her heart, and after several days she showed signs of returning life. Upon regaining consciousness, she was confused and puzzled, uncertain, it seemed, whether she was alive or dead. Later she described her strange experience.

“I could feel death pulling me,” she said. “I was slipping. I tried to find something to hold to, but could not. I felt far away and alone, yet it seemed there was something I must do before I slipped entirely away.

“I had just a few minutes. I must straighten out in bed. I must cross my hands on my breast. I must smile. My children must know that I died in peace. From far away there seemed to be people around me. But their voices grew more distant.

“Then there seemed to come to me the comforting words of a priest. They added to my peace and content. I was ready for death. I smiled, I think. I know I wanted to. It was the last thing I remember.”

And then, days after the first injection of adrenalin, the “dead” woman regained consciousness. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

“I shall never forget that hour,” she said. “I heard the clock strike four times—and I realized I was a living person in a living world.”

_A Fanciful Novel of the Red Desert Complete In This Issue_

DESERT MADNESS

_By_ HAROLD FREEMAN MINERS

_CHAPTER ONE_

THE GIRL AND THE HANDCUFFS

For a long moment the man surveyed with tired eyes the queer cleft in the canon wall and the beaten trail that led into it.

Finally he addressed the nearest of his two burros in a listless, half humorous voice:

“Well, Archibald, it looks interesting—what say we try it?”

Archibald made no reply. Archibald was asleep. Immediately upon the halting of the little cavalcade the burro had sunk into a state of dejection more apathetic than usual and had promptly gone to sleep. In fact, it is doubtful if Archibald had not been asleep the greater part of the afternoon.

“You don’t care, eh, Archibald? Well, for that matter, neither do I. But let’s consider this matter, old timer. For the last hundred years, more or less, we’ve been strolling around this accursed desert, and we have made the acquaintance of a few cottontail rabbits, one or two coyotes, and a rattlesnake. The rabbits showed their distaste for our society by running away; the coyotes did nothing but deride us with mournful voices; the rattlesnake certainly showed no desire to be friendly. We’ve met no human being; we’ve discovered no fabulously rich gold mine; we’ve had our fill of scenery.

“There lies a well-beaten trail, disappearing into the face of solid rock. At its end lies mystery, adventure. Possibly romance. Also, possibly, cattle rustlers, who may greet us with anything but enthusiasm. In which case we’ll throw in our lot with them, and I’ll ride you across the desert to eternal glory. The idea intrigues me, Archibald. I think we shall investigate.”

At this moment an over-industrious flea must have launched a determined attack on one of the few vulnerable parts of Archibald’s anatomy, for he suddenly nodded his head vigorously.

“Ah, you agree with me? I knew you would. We will now follow the trail to adventure—or a sheep herder’s camp. Let’s go!”

Percy, the second burro, was with difficulty herded into the narrow trail. Archibald followed him with great reluctance, but finally the man succeeded in driving his tiny pack train into concerted action, and they slowly trudged up the narrow defile.

Stanley Ross had been exiled to the desert country because certain eminent New York doctors had come to the conclusion that he had contracted a disease which yields itself to treatment most readily in the dry desert uplands.

Ross had not been breathing the dry air of the desert for a month before he was as healthy as a prize fighter. The fact was that Stanley Ross had over-indulged in a certain pastime known as “reading the tape,” and Nature had gone on a strike. The New York doctors had provided the first step toward recovery; the desert had done the rest.

But there had been another hurt that had not healed so readily—or at least Ross had so convinced himself. Stanley Ross fondly believed that he was heart-broken. The cause was a blonde bit of New York femininity who had fancied Ross for a while, but in the end had fancied the millions of an oil man more.

So he had stayed on in the West. A healthy restlessness had driven him out to explore the uncharted wastes of the vast Red Desert, and the ever changing wonders of rock, and sand, and sky, of sagebrush and cactus, of sparkling night-heavens had beckoned him on. For months now he had been wandering up and down this immeasurable wonderland, obeying every vagary of mind, exploring every nook and cranny that caught his itinerant fancy, his only companions the two burros which he had so whimsically named.

Mirages had beckoned. Colors so bizarre that no artist had dared to give them to canvas had soothed his soul. Grotesqueries of rock and sand and canon had intrigued him.

Ross still believed that the old hurt was still present in his bosom. Actually he had been having a capital time for months, and the girl no longer mattered. However, he had allowed himself gradually to fall into a state of whimsical melancholy. What he needed was adventure. He was bored, but had he known what lay at the end of the thin twisting trail before him his boredom might not have been so acute.

The rock defile, through which the trail led, was narrow, and the walls were nearly perpendicular. The passage was twisting, but a tiny trickle of water gave promise of a broader canon farther up. The trail, while very narrow, was well-defined and worn deep. It looked as though it had been in constant use for years.

Ross had progressed along this strange passage for about a quarter mile when his attention was suddenly arrested by something on the canon wall. Involuntarily, he stopped. Instantly the burros halted as though their motive power was automatically turned off whenever their master stopped walking.

“Great Horned Toads!” ejaculated Ross in a low voice. “Archibald, do you see what I see, or has the sun gone to my head? Has the world slipped back three centuries, or is it actually nineteen-twenty-three? ’Tain’t possible, Archibald, but nevertheless I see what I see!”

There, not thirty feet distant, was a girl—a pretty girl—and she was shackled to four great iron rings, fastened in the canon wall, by means of handcuffs, ankle fetters, and four heavy chains!

_CHAPTER TWO_

BROKEN SHACKLES AND A MYSTERY

Ross stood spellbound. He could not believe his own eyes.

That he should meet a human being in this vast waste of rock and sand and cactus was possible. That he should find a girl chained to a rock, like a felon of the black ages, was nothing short of incredible.

There was no denying the girl’s existence, however. She was there, and she was in need of help.

His incredulity shattered, Ross was beside the girl in a bound. Even a cursory glance showed her to be undeniably pretty, and it also showed her to be quite as undeniably in a state of total exhaustion.

At Ross’s approach, the girl raised her head with difficulty. Her eyes opened and she smiled slowly. Then her whole body suddenly fell forward against the chains that held her. She had fainted.

No stranger situation could be imagined than the finding of a beautiful girl chained to a rock in the midst of the great Red Desert. This, however, was a matter for future consideration. The girl needed immediate attention, and Ross’s first thought was to release her.

When he examined her shackles Ross realized that release was not going to be easy. The four rings to which the chains were fastened were secured to the canon wall by means of heavy iron staples driven deep into fissures in the rock. A test of strength showed that nothing short of a charge of dynamite would ever loosen them.

The chains were comparatively heavy and well forged. A file was the only solution—and Ross did not possess a file.

Not till he examined the handcuffs did he see any hope of releasing the girl. These were not of the ordinary type. They were not the steel manacles of the sort used today, but were about two inches wide, heavy in construction and made of cast iron. The locking device was old-fashioned. They were a type of handcuff that had been obsolete for nearly three quarters of a century.

Having satisfied himself that they were really made of cast iron, Ross at once realized that it would be a comparatively easy task to free the girl. Securing a small rock for a hammer, he braced the girl back against the canon wall and held her wrist against the rock. A few well directed blows with the improvised hammer easily cracked the rusty cast iron and the handcuff fell away in two pieces.

The girl’s wrist had been freed without more than slightly bruising the skin. The second handcuff was broken quite as easily. Ross gently lowered the girl to the ground.

Releasing her ankles was more difficult. The anklets were of heavier construction and harder to break without injuring the girl. However, by placing a rock under the anklet and being careful, Ross finally managed to shatter the cast iron without more than bruising the girl’s slender ankles.

In an instant he had jerked the pack from one of the burros and spread his blanket roll out on the ground. Picking up the unconscious girl, he placed her on the blankets and improvised a pillow from his coat.

Almost opposite where the girl had been chained the tiny trickle of water had formed a miniature pool in the rocks. Seizing a tin cup from his camp outfit, Ross hurried to this pool, scooped up a cup of water, and in an instant was kneeling at the girl’s side.

Dipping his fingers in the water, he flicked it across her face, then carefully bathed her forehead, and then set to chafing her wrists.

It was fully ten minutes before the girl showed any evidence of returning consciousness. Then her eyelids began to flutter. Finally she sighed deeply, and her eyes slowly opened.

Stanley Ross thought he had never seen such a look of abject terror as now appeared in the girl’s eyes. It was as though she had just awakened from a terrible dream and was still laboring under its terrorizing influence. Such a look might have appeared in the eyes of a slave girl when Nero ruled in Rome.

For a moment, consciousness battled with that nightmare that had been seething through the girl’s brain and finally won. Her eyes opened wide. A half smile slowly crossed her face. Whatever might have inspired her terror, the girl evidently recognized in Ross a friend.

Her lips, dry and parched, moved with difficulty, but Ross saw that they framed the word “Water!”

Lifting her head, he dampened the girl’s lips from the cup and then allowed her to drink her fill. But weakness still held sway over her body, and she sank back on the blankets, exhausted. Her eyes closed again.

“Don’t try to talk,” advised Ross. “You just lie there and rest until I fix something for you. Then you can tell me about this thing.”

For once in his life, Ross was glad that he had taken another man’s advice. When he had started his desert pilgrimage an old prospector had advised him to include a few cans of soup in his outfit. Ross had demurred, seeing no use in packing superfluous weight, but the old desert rat had insisted.

Ross had included the soup. So far, he had had no use for it, but now it was to show its worth.

Collecting a few dry sticks from the stubby willows that grew around the pool, Ross soon had a tiny fire going. Opening a can of soup, he heated it over the fire and carried a cup of it to the girl.

“Oh, that’s so good!” she murmured after she had drained the cup. “Thank you.”

“Do you feel like talking?” asked Ross.

For a moment the girl regarded him with frank eyes. Then she shook her head wearily.

“Not—not just yet—please. I’m—so—tired.” She sank back onto the blankets.

Realizing that, for the present, rest was the most important thing for her, Ross covered the girl with a blanket and set about his camp duties.

He finished unpacking his burros and turned them loose to pick at the scanty tufts of grass that grew along the seeping stream. This done, he set about preparing his own meal.

It was already dusk, and by the time he had cooked and eaten his supper darkness had settled down over the little canon. Washing his few dishes in the pool, Ross set them aside and turned his attention to finding enough firewood to keep the fire going.

In the darkness this was somewhat of a task, and Ross was absent from the camp for some little time. When he returned he saw that his strange guest had evidently fallen asleep.

Ross threw some wood on the fire and sat down with his back against a rock. Filling his pipe, he lighted it and leaned back to contemplate the events of the afternoon and evening.

His first mental reaction on finding the girl had been one of intense rage that any one, no matter what the cause or conditions, could be so utterly inhuman as to perpetrate such an act. He was still angry now, but he had cooled off to the extent that he could consider the affair calmly.

There seemed to be no off-hand explanation whatever. As far as Ross knew, there was no human habitation in all this desert waste, yet this trail up the little canon had been used frequently and recently, so somewhere up the winding trail must lie a solution to the mystery. But what it could be, or whether he could ever solve it, Ross could not imagine.

The whole affair was grotesque, bizarre. Why any one should chain a young girl to a rock wall in the midst of a heat-scorched desert was utterly incomprehensible. The girl was not gross or criminal-looking. On the contrary, she was pretty, delicate, and obviously refined. Her clothes bespoke a far different environment. How any one could be so inhuman as to subject her to such treatment was unfathomable.

Sitting there, smoking and watching the girl, mulling the strangeness of the affair over in his mind, Ross could offer himself no explanation. The only thing to do, apparently, was to wait for the girl to awaken and then wait for her to talk.

At any rate, the adventure which he had craved seemed to be at hand. Where it would lead him he had no idea.

The fire gradually burned low. The girl slept on. Ross removed the pipe from his mouth. His head nodded. In half an hour the campfire had wasted to an ember.

The man’s head had sunk forward onto his breast; his body had relaxed comfortably against its support. He, too, was asleep.

Hours crept by....

With a start, Ross awoke. The first faint glow of dawn was creeping down into the little canon. It was morning.

Sheepishly, Ross rubbed his eyes, aware that he had allowed the healthy fatigue of a day in the desert to conquer his senses and bring sleep when he had intended to watch throughout the night.

Gradually the events of the evening before came back to him, and he looked across to where he had wrapped the girl in his blankets. The bed was empty!

_The girl was gone!_

_CHAPTER THREE_

ADVENTURE WITH A VENGEANCE

In an instant Ross was on his feet, the sleep fog automatically cleared from his brain.

One glance was enough. The dawn was far enough advanced so that he could see both up and down the canon. It was patent that the girl had vanished during the darkness.

The whole affair was so utterly impossible, so unreal, so like an Arabian Nights adventure, that Ross was almost prone to believe that it had been merely a dream, a desert hallucination. Not until his eyes again sought the canon wall did he convince himself that he had not been laboring under some mental aberration.

There could be no denying his eyes, though. There were the four heavy chains fastened to the canon wall, and there were the four broken shackles, mute evidence that he had stumbled onto a situation as exotic as one of the desert’s own mirages.

No, there could be no question that the girl had actually existed. Nor could there be any question that she had disappeared. The only living thing in sight was Archibald, who stood with head bowed over the dead embers of last night’s fire in his usual state of ignoble dejection.

At first thought it seemed impossible that the girl could have left camp, unaided, and it seemed quite as certain that no one could have taken her away by force, without rousing Ross.

As he considered it, however, Ross realized that exhaustion would come quickly to one chained to the rock and exposed to the sun without food or water. Recuperation would probably come quite as quickly. The girl had had both water and nourishment the evening before, and it would have been quite possible for her to have gained sufficient strength to leave, had she so chosen. There seemed to be no other explanation.

“Well, Archibald,” said Ross, falling into his whimsical habit of addressing the burro, “when I started this trip I thought that you and Percy were the only asses in the party. Now I am convinced there are three of us. Here I have just been craving adventure for months. Yesterday I blundered right onto the craziest kind of a mystery, and then I go to sleep and let the whole thing get away from me! Fools can’t think, but I suppose they’ve got to eat,” he finished to himself.

He set about preparing his breakfast, meanwhile pondering the affair. The more he pondered the more mysterious it became.

Breakfast finished, he washed his dishes and then stepped over to gather up his bed-roll. Instantly he stopped short. There before him, scratched in the level sand of the canon floor, was a message:

“_Please go away. There is only great danger if you investigate further._”

There could be no denying the sincerity of that message. Coupled with the silent testimony of the inhuman shackles, it meant that the girl, whoever she might be, was in real peril.

Regaining her strength, she had quietly slipped away in the night, but before going she had left behind a warning to the man who had released her. It was evident that she did not wish to draw a stranger into a danger which she considered hers alone.

The warning, however, reacted on Ross like a red rag on a bull. It was a challenge to his manhood, to his thirst for adventure. Somewhere up that narrow canon was mystery; and somewhere, too, was a girl in unknown danger, a girl who patently enough needed assistance and a friend.

It took but a few minutes to round up the burros and rope on the packs.

“We will now proceed to rescue the fair maiden.”

“Stick ’em up, an’ do it quick!”

Ross whirled at the sound of the gruff voice—and found himself looking squarely into the muzzle of an ugly six-shooter. Behind it, was the most villainous-looking countenance Ross had ever seen.

“Come on! H’ist ’em up!” again jerked out the owner of the gun.

The situation was too unreal to be taken seriously.

“Ah, Archibald, the plot thickens! First we meet Beauty; now we meet the Beast. Point that gun the other way, my friend. It might go off and frighten my long-eared friend here. He’s delicate, and I don’t like to have his nerves shocked.”

“H’ist them mits before I drill ya!”

Ross felt the muzzle of the gun jammed into his ribs, and a practised hand quickly searched his body. His automatic, carried for the sole purpose of exterminating rattlesnakes, was transferred to the other’s pocket.

The vicious attitude of the gunman was far too real to be taken lightly. There was no doubt that he meant business.

“Ya can let ’em down now,” said the gunman, stopping back.

Ross turned and surveyed his captor.

“If you don’t mind telling me,” he asked coldly, “to whom am I indebted for this early morning call?”

“Stow the flip gab. All I know is tha big boss said to bring ya in, an’ I’m bringin’ ya.”

“Then I’m to understand that I’m a captive?”

“Understan’ anythin’ ya please. Now git travelin’.”

Resistance was hopeless. His air of reckless bravado gone, boiling inwardly at the indignity forced upon him, Ross swung and trudged off up the canon trail.

For perhaps a quarter of a mile the narrow canon cleaved straight through the rock. Then it suddenly began a series of intricate turns, as though it had attempted a passage and had been baffled and forced to take a new direction about every fifty feet.

For a while, Ross stalked on without speaking. Suddenly he turned his head and spoke.

“Just where are you taking me, and who is the ‘big boss’?”

“Never mind askin’ dam’ fool questions. Keep movin’!”

After another quarter mile of sharp turns, the canon suddenly broadened, and Ross found himself looking out into a basin bounded on all sides by high, perpendicular rock walls, smooth and straight.

The basin was oval in shape, and near the center was a group of ’dobe buildings, five in number. Toward these the captor directed their progress.

As he advanced, Ross looked keenly for signs of life, but though he sought every possible nook and cranny with his gaze, he could see neither man nor beast. The place seemed to be absolutely deserted.

At the first building, a small ’dobe structure that stood somewhat apart from the others, Ross was ordered to halt. Opening a heavy door, the man motioned with his gun for him to enter. Ross stepped over the threshold, and instantly the door clanged shut behind him.

He heard the heavy bolt drop into place. Then he heard his captor walking away.

Then, for the first time, it dawned on Ross that he was actually a prisoner, and that he had been captured with some definite object in view.

The room in which he found himself was about twelve feet square. The walls were of ’dobe; the floor was of the same material, hard packed and smooth. There were two small windows, but both were heavily protected with thick iron bars, set deep in the hard-packed ’dobe. The furniture consisted of a crude table and chair.

A single test of strength showed Ross that he could never hope to open the door. A crowbar or an axe would be necessary for that, and there was no implement of any kind in the room. The walls were fully eighteen inches thick. Under the fierce heat of the desert the ’dobe had grown as hard as cement. Unless he received help from outside, there seemed to be no possibility of escape.

Time passed. Finally he ceased his idle wandering about the room and sank into the chair.

His pipe and tobacco still remained in his pocket. He took out his pipe, lighted it, and fell to considering his strange predicament.

It seemed that ages had passed before he detected approaching footsteps. The bolt was raised. The heavy door swung on its hinges. His captor stood outside, gun in hand. Behind him was a Chinaman, carrying a tray on which was food.

The Chinese entered the room, placed the tray on the table and arranged the food. As he was performing this service, he said in a low whisper, so low that his companion could not hear, “Missee say Wong flix good dlinner.”’

“Come on, Chink, make it snappy!” snapped the man with the gun.

The door slammed. The bolt fell into place. Ross was alone again.

Dubiously, he surveyed the food. The words of the Chinese came back to him, “Missee say Wong flix good dlinner.”

So the girl knew that he was a captive. Well, all he could do was wait. But who was she? And what did his imprisonment mean?

In the meantime there was no reason for wasting a good dinner. Ross was hungry, and in twenty minutes the last scrap of food had disappeared.

Settling back in his chair, he again filled his pipe and prepared to await developments with as good grace as possible.

It was hours later that he heard footsteps nearing his prison.

_CHAPTER FOUR_

ROSS IS INVITED TO DINE

Ross heard a key in the lock, and a moment later the heavy door swung open. It was the gunman again. He was evidently not mindful to take any chances with his prisoner, for he again was holding his revolver ready.

“Come on out!” he barked, motioning with the gun for Ross to step out of the room. “Tha big boss wants ya.”

“Oh, he does?” returned Ross. “Maybe I’ll find out now what all this is about.”

“You’ll find out all right. Mebbe find out more’n ya want.”

“You know, I don’t think I’m going to like you at all. I shouldn’t be surprised if I had serious trouble with you yet. But lead on!”

Ross’s persiflage was far from pleasing to the gunman. He glared malevolently at Ross for a moment, as if half minded to inflict physical punishment, finally thought better of it, and then jerked out, “I ain’t leadin’; I’m followin’. Git movin’!”

Ross was conducted to the largest of the group of ’dobe buildings, evidently used as a dwelling, and was ushered directly into a bedroom.

He had expected anything except what he now saw. The room was such as might have been found in a brown-stone mansion on Fifth Avenue. The floor was covered with a deep soft rug. There was a mahogany bed, with a spotless white spread, and a dressing-table of the same wood. To one side of the latter stood a full-length plate mirror.

“The big boss said ya was to shave, an’ then ya was ta dress fer dinner. Yo’ll find all tha togs there on that bed.” The gunman directed Ross’s attention to the bed with a flourish of his gun.

Ross looked. The garments on the bed comprised a complete evening outfit, from studded shirt to patent-leather pumps.

He was surprised to find that the clothes fit him well. The pumps were a trifle tight and the suit was a bit snug, but a half hour later, when he surveyed himself in the long pier glass, he was well satisfied.

“All right, keeper, let’s be on our way. I’m curious,” he said.

His captor conducted him down the long veranda, and a moment later he was ushered into a large room where a table was laid for dinner.

_CHAPTER FIVE_

A STRANGE DINNER

By this time Ross was prepared for almost anything, yet the room that he now stepped into was even more astounding than the bedroom.

In the center stood a table arranged for four. It fairly sparkled with glassware, silver and spotless linen. At one side of the room stood a huge buffet. Its top was well covered with glasses, liquor shakers and sundry bottles, the contents of which were obvious.

The occupants of the room chiefly held his attention, though. They were three, two men and a woman. Here, at last, he was to know the meaning of the strange events of the preceding twenty-four hours.

The two men were standing close together and had evidently been conversing. Both were in faultless evening dress. The girl stood apart; aloof, so it seemed. Despite her evening dress, Ross instantly recognized her as the girl he had found in the canon.

One of the men was young and exceedingly well built. His wide, heavily muscled shoulders suggested out-of-the-ordinary strength. His hair was wiry and red; its color was amply reflected in his ruddy complexion. The face was strong and would have been attractive but for one feature—the eyes. The eyes were small, deep-set, and far too close together. They might have been said to be piggish. The dull glint in them was not reassuring. Ross knew at once that he did not like this man.

It was the second of the two men, however, who was really striking. He was, in fact, an amazing figure. His stature was above the average height, over six feet, and he was thin to emaciation. Ross thought he had never seen so tall and yet so slender a man. He was so thin as to be ludicrous, yet there seemed to be a remarkable whipcord strength about him.

His face was narrow and as lean as his body. A thin, high nose divided a pair of piercing black eyes. It was the eyes that struck instant attention. Their everchanging lights fairly gleamed. They seemed to be alive with a thousand fires.

The impression was instantly registered with Ross that here was a man who was possessed of unusual personal power, or who was stark mad. Those eyes could allow of no other conclusion.

As Ross was ushered into the room it was this strange individual who instantly stepped forward.

“Ah, our guest has arrived,” he said. His voice was soft as velvet, yet it carried an irritating quality that was thin-edged and biting, and scarcely concealed. “Step right up, Mr. Waring; dinner will be served at once. Wong, the wine.”

From somewhere the Chinese, Wong, had glided forth and, drawing out a chair, indicated Ross’s place at the table. Immediately he had filled the glasses with a sparkling liquid. Ross recognized it as champagne.

There was no chance to reply. In fact, Ross was too bewildered to think of anything adequate to say. In a moment he would be himself again, but just now his wits were all at cross purposes.

As the elderly man greeted Ross, the girl and younger man took their places at the table as if they had only been waiting his arrival to proceed with the meal. As Ross stepped forward, at the servant’s indication, his host reached out and lifted the wine glass at his plate.