VOLUME ONE NUMBER FOUR (cont. 4)

“We will drink to the health of our guest,” he said evenly.

Automatically, Ross lifted his glass. The others did likewise. For an instant the four glasses were held aloft, the lights playing on their sparkling depths. Then the elderly man turned to Ross with a rather elaborate low bow and said in a voice that was like gray steel:

“Mr. Waring, allow us to drink to your most excellent good health——_for tomorrow you hang_!”

The words were like an icy blast. Up to that moment the whole affair had been rather ludicrous to Ross. He had realized that he was in danger at times, but that this danger would involve the loss of his life he had not for a moment imagined.

Now he realized that his very life was at stake; more than that, unless he could find some way to extract himself from his predicament, that he was sure to forfeit it. There could be no denying the import of the toast. Ross did not know why, but he did know that this tall, lean stranger with the mad eyes meant to kill him as sure as he stood there.

For a moment, the young New Yorker lost his complacency. He stood with the glass poised in his hand, his brain whirling. But this was only for a moment. In a second he had regained his poise. Raising the glass to his lips, he drained it to the bottom and turned to his host.

“Thank you, sir,” he said carelessly, “for your kind wishes for my good health. I hate to dispute you, but I _don’t_ believe you will hang me in the morning. And my name is not Waring, either. It happens to be Ross.”

“As you will, Mr. Waring, as you will. Any name would do as well. And I assure you I shall have the pleasure of hanging you in the morning. Let me warn you, too, Mr. Waring, not to attempt anything. I want this dinner peaceful. It is an engagement dinner,” turning with an exaggerated bow to the girl, “the occasion of the betrothal of my dear niece to Mr. Beebe here. I _know_ you will be interested in that, Mr. Waring. But just to forestall any idea you might have of providing any unnecessary entertainment I have stationed my friends, Mr. Garfin and Mr. Poole, at the door with instructions to shoot if you get unruly. Now, let us eat.”

Ross glanced over his shoulder to find Garfin lounging in the door by which he had entered, a malignant smile wrinkling his face. In an opposite doorway lounged another individual fully as ugly looking as Garfin. This was evidently Poole. Both had guns. It was obvious that for the present no break for liberty was possible.

For the most part, that dinner was a nightmare to Ross. Afterward he wondered how he had managed to get through it.

After the first effusion, the elderly man made no effort to include Ross in the conversation. Glad of this respite, Ross attempted to collect his wits and to form some estimate of his predicament and of the people with whom he had to deal.

The elderly man carried on a continuous animated conversation, mostly with the man whom he had designated as Beebe. Several times he addressed himself to Ross, but always in such a manner that it was obvious no answer was expected. A number of times he included the girl in his conversation, but the only time she made reply was to answer a question, and then it was merely to say, “No, Uncle Arthur.”

Once or twice Beebe addressed the elderly man as “Mr. Ward,” so Ross concluded that his name was Arthur Ward. The girl’s identity he was not able to learn, except that her first name was Virginia.

Beebe ignored Ross and by his attitude seemed to be currying favor with Ward. As for the girl, she remained silent, her eyes downcast, palpably holding herself aloof. Once or twice Ross caught a fleeting message from her eyes. It seemed to him that she was in utter terror, yet in perfect control of her nerves.

In those flashing telegrams from her eyes Ross was sure he caught a mute appeal for help. If this was a betrothal dinner Ross felt sure that the betrothal was without the consent of one of the parties concerned, and he was determined then and there not only to effect his own escape but to aid the girl as well.

The food was excellent and perfectly served by the Chinese, yet Ross could not have told a single item, and he thought the dinner never would end. The presence of Garfin and Poole was mute evidence that for the present he could do nothing. When the meal finally came to an end and Ward pushed back his chair, it brought a feeling of distinct relief to the young man. Now at least was the beginning of the end.

“Now, Mr. Waring,” said Ward suavely, “we will repair to my study, where I have a few things to say to you before we break up this very pleasant little party. I hardly think my niece will care to accompany us.”

They rose from the table, and Ross was ushered into an adjoining room which was even more striking in its way than either of the others he had been in that evening.

A brisk fire burned on a wide hearth from above which looked down a magnificent ram’s head. Other trophies of a similar nature adorned the other walls. Interspersed with these were guns, Indian weapons, horsehair lariats—in fact, every accoutrement and trophy of the old-time West. It was a rather remarkable collection, one which under different circumstances would have deeply interested Stanley Ross.

Instantly he knew where those curious antiquated shackles, which had bound the girl, had come from. Here were several similar pairs.

Ross was directed to a chair in front of the fire. Ward took another, facing him, while Beebe sat down on a wide bench on the far side of the fire. Ross waited expectantly.

Ward offered his guest a cigar. Selecting one for himself, he clipped its end very deliberately and lit it with aggravating leisure. Finally he leaned back in his chair and gazed steadily at Ross with his mad eyes. A tiny smile, cynical and cruel, crooked around his thin-lipped mouth.

“I could have had you killed at once, Mr. Waring,” he said deliberately, his voice soft and well-modulated, yet biting, burning, “but I did not choose to do that. Instead, I wanted to bring you here this evening so that you could fully realize just what a serious thing it is, and how useless it is to buck Arthur Ward. And then, too, I wanted my niece to know that I am to be obeyed absolutely.”

“I suppose, Mr. Ward,” asked Ross, “that it would be quite useless to tell you that my name is not Waring at all; that I do not even know any one of that name, or that I have never seen your niece, until last evening?”

“Quite useless, I can assure you, Mr. Waring. I am absolutely certain of your identity. I do not make mistakes.

“Mr. Waring, I never forget an injury. I remember forever, and my one bad trait is the fact that I always have revenge. I would have got you in the end, Waring, anyway, but your fool stunt of following my niece here saved me a lot of trouble. Waring, you should have known that of all people on earth you would have the least chance of marrying my niece.

“Tonight you can have the extreme pleasure of reflecting that you will hardly be dead before Virginia will be the wife of Beebe.”

“And suppose she refuses?” asked Ross.

“We are a hundred miles from anywhere, Waring. Things could happen that would make Virginia glad to marry Beebe—or any one.

“One more thing, Waring, and then we will terminate this interview,” Ward went on dispassionately. “I want you to know that this is only the beginning. I shall not be satisfied until I have exterminated your entire family. It may take me years, but I shall certainly have the pleasure of killing your brother and your father. It does not pay to do injury to Arthur Ward.

“You will have tonight to reflect on what might have been. In the morning I shall hang you.

“That is all I have to say, and since it will be quite useless for you to say anything you may as well return to your room. Mr. Garfin and Mr. Poole will see that you have safe conduct.”

Ross knew that for the present he would have to submit. Resistance would be useless just now. He was one against four. The odds were too great. He could only wait, hoping that the night would bring opportunity.

However, before he went he could not resist a last display of bravado—bravado which he did not by any means feel.

Rising from his seat, Ross bowed low to Ward.

“Good-night, Mr. Ward. Thank you for a most excellent dinner and a most entertaining evening. And let me assure you that you will _not_ hang me in the morning.”

Turning on his heel, Ross passed out of the room.

_CHAPTER SIX_

A FORLORN HOPE

When Ross stepped out into the darkness his first thought was that he would make a dash for liberty. This hope died almost before it was born, though, for he felt the muzzle of a revolver pressed close to his ribs and Garfin’s rasping voice growled into his ear:

“Make just one move fer a break an’ I’ll plug ya. The boss says he’s goin’ to hang ya in the morning, but I’d like to save him tha trouble.”

Ross knew that Garfin was not indulging in idle words. The gunman would gladly kill him. Then, too, out in the shadows another form kept them close company. He knew this was Poole and that should he succeed in worsting Garfin his chance of escaping the second gunman’s bullets was very remote. No, the time was not yet.

The three trudged back to Ross’s one-room prison, and it was only a minute or two until the door had slammed on him, the bolt had fallen into place and the lock snapped its vicious message.

He was once more a prisoner.

Ross sought in the darkness for the crude chair and threw himself down into it. He knew that for the time being there was no chance of escape, so he gave himself up momentarily to a contemplation of his plight.

Who was this strange girl whom he had rescued, only to have her vanish into the night? Why had she not spoken tonight? Why had she given him no hint of action? Who was Beebe, that he would accept a betrothal which was obviously odious to the girl? And, lastly, who was Ward with his mad eyes?

Who was Waring, and what had he done to merit such malicious vengeance on the part of Ward?

These and many other questions Ross asked himself, but he had no satisfactory answer to any one of them. Only a jumble of baffling mystery presented itself. His brain seethed with impossible solutions, but he had to admit that actually he was completely at sea.

Only a few facts stood out which could be accepted as a basis on which to work.

He, Ross, had been taken for another man, Waring by name. Ward evidently hated Waring intensely and was determined to put him to death for a wrong, either fancied or real. There could be no doubt, too, that Ward was, in a degree, insane.

What part Beebe was playing Ross could not determine, beyond the facts that he was in favor with Ward and that he wanted the girl and would take her on whatever terms he could get her.

The girl was obviously in great peril. It could be seen that she hated Beebe, but at the same time was powerless to resist any order of her uncle. Ross could readily see that she was in a position where death might well be preferable to what she was facing.

And, undeniably, there was the fact that he, Ross, was sure to meet death in the morning unless he could devise some way out of his dilemma.

The night was far gone when he had finished considering these things. It was then that a plan of action first suggested itself to him. As it matured in his mind he realized that it was a forlorn hope; but his circumstances were so utterly desperate that there seemed nothing to do but give it a trial. He knew that its success would depend entirely on the element of surprise.

Having once settled in his mind what he should do, Ross threw himself down on the crude table and was soon sound asleep.

It was hardly daylight when he awoke, but he did not allow himself to drop back to sleep again. He was going to be ready.

It was fully three hours later that he heard approaching footsteps. Slipping quietly across the room, Ross flattened himself against the wall beside the door and waited.

The footsteps drew nearer and nearer. A key grated in the lock. It clicked. The bolt was raised. Slowly the door swung on its hinges.

Like a flash, Ross slipped from his hiding-place and darted through the doorway. The only human within sight was Garfin. Like a mad thunderbolt Ross bore down upon him.

Taken by surprise, Garfin barely had time to fire before Ross was upon him. Too startled to take definite aim, his bullet went wild. With a force that was terrific Ross struck him with the full impact of his body. The two went down in a tangled heap. Garfin’s gun was knocked from his grasp and went spinning a dozen feet away.

Garfin was not without courage of a kind, but all his life he had depended on a gun to enforce his arguments. Physical combat had not been one of his long suits, and now he found himself no match for his younger antagonist.

Stan Ross was far from a weakling physically. Long months afoot in the desert had made him as hard as nails. Not so long ago he had been known as a football player of some note. Now he used that knowledge of rough-and-tumble combat to the fullest extent.

Taking Garfin by surprise, Ross had the initial advantage, and when the two went down he was on top. Striking, kicking, using the crushing force of his body, he went at the gunman in a demoniacal storm. For an instant it looked as though he would beat his enemy into insensibility before he could offer any material resistance.

But Garfin was fighting for his life and he knew it. He was not to be vanquished so easily. In a moment the two men were threshing and rolling on the ground in a fierce struggle.

Youth, however, was not to be denied. Those sledge-hammer blows were having a telling effect. Garfin was weakening. Gradually Ross was wearing him down.

Ross sought the throat of his enemy. Garfin’s breath came in gasps. His eyes were bulging. Gradually Ross brought his knee up until it pressed into Garfin’s stomach. A final effort would end the struggle. Slowly Garfin’s head bent backward. Then—

A crashing, blinding blow caught Ross on his head. For a brief instant a million fires flamed before his eyes. Then utter blackness.

He slumped forward across the body of his antagonist.

_CHAPTER SEVEN_

WONG INTERVENES

When Ross returned to consciousness it was with a sense of bewilderment. His head seemed alive with shooting pains: his eyes burned intensely; his body was sore and stiff.

Gradually he fought the fog from his brain and opened his eyes. He was dimly aware that he was back in his prison room, stretched out on the table. Painfully he sat up.

And then he saw that he was not alone. There was another person in the room. As his eyes pierced the semi-gloom he was aware that the man before him was Arthur Ward.

Instantly his brain cleared, and he swung himself around to face his jailor.

Ward was standing in the center of the room, his feet wide apart, his hands behind his back. A sardonic smile disfigured his face.

“Well,” he inquired, “so you decided not to die?”

“Yes, I decided not to die,” said Ross. “I might remind you, too, that it is no longer morning and I have not been hung.”

“No, and you’re not going to be, either. I have prepared a much more pleasant death for you.”

“Thanks!”

“Don’t waste your thanks,” replied Ward. “Before you’re through you’ll be far from thanking me. You see, Waring, your little outbreak this morning set me to thinking. If you had taken things quietly I would have hung you, and it would all be over now. But you had to try to escape and that set me to thinking that hanging was too pleasant for you. It would be over too quickly. There would be no time for reflection. So I devised something really fitting for your case.”

While Ward was speaking the man Poole had entered, carrying a wooden box which he deposited gingerly in one corner and then quickly withdrew. He seemed afraid.

“Yes, Waring,” Ward went on, “I’ve planned a death for you that I like much better than hanging. And, damn your rotten soul to eternity,” he snarled, “you’ll know what real torture is before you go out!”

With a sudden movement, he whirled, kicked the lid from the box, darted through the doorway, and had crashed the door shut before Ross fairly realized what he was doing.

Half bewildered, it was a moment before he could attach any meaning to Ward’s action. Then it dawned on him that there was a deep significance to the box which Poole had brought in. Some sinister portent lay in that box of wood.

Fascinated, Ross sat watching the box, realizing that it held his fate, scarce knowing what to expect, and certainly not expecting what developed.

For a long minute nothing happened. Ross grew nervous with the strain. Then a faint buzzing came from the box. Silence. Again came that strange sound. And again. A slithering rustle as of stiff silk rubbed together.

And then Ross’s scalp prickled with horror and his blood fairly froze in his veins, for over the edge of the box appeared a hideous, swaying head! There came a second! A third! And then a fourth!

_They were huge diamond-back rattlesnakes!_

As Ross recognized the big diamond-backs he knew instantly that he was trapped. To step down onto the floor meant death, a horrible, grewsome death. To remain on the table—

Instinctively, he drew his feet up onto the table as the big reptiles left the box, one by one. He counted eight in all.

Ross gave himself up to black despair. Down there on the floor awaited a fate too hideous for words....

* * * * *

It must have been fully two hours later, and dusk was already settling down and darkening the room, when Ross heard footsteps.

They approached his prison. For a moment his heart leaped within him at the possibility of rescue. But the door did not open. Instead, he heard the taunting voice of Ward from outside:

“Oh, you’re safe enough so far, Waring. They can’t get you as long as you stay on that table. I planned that. Wasn’t it kind of me to be so thoughtful? But there won’t be any food and there won’t be any water, and all the time you’ll be going through hell. I planned that, too. And then there’ll come a time when you can’t stand it any longer. You’ll either fall from the table from weakness, or you’ll go mad and step down onto the floor. They’ll always be waiting, Waring. And then they’ll get you, damn you!” The voice, rising to a shrill crescendo of passion, ended in a burst of wild maniacal laughter.

Receding footsteps told him that Ward had gone away.

As the gloom deepened into utter darkness it seemed to Ross that he would go mad. His brain seethed with wild impulses. A hundred times he pictured himself lying there on the floor, a bloated, blackened thing. A hundred times he went through death. Only that hope which “springs eternal” kept him from stepping down onto the floor and making an end of it.

Gradually Ross quieted. He finally settled back against the wall in a state of apathy, little knowing or little caring when the end would come.

An hour passed.

Suddenly Ross became aware of an unusual sound. From somewhere in back of him came a low “_Hist!_” so low as hardly to be heard. Stealthily, he raised himself to the height of the barred window and peered into the darkness.

Dimly he could make out a head outlined against the sky. A low, whispered voice spoke:

“_You take!_”

Unmistakably it was the voice of Wong. There was a grating sound as of something being passed between the bars.

Ross reached out his hand and it closed over cold steel.

An automatic!

“_You take!_” again came the whispered voice.

This time Ross found his hand closing over a cartridge belt.

“Me bring Ga’fin. _You shoot!_”

Like a ghost, the form at the window was gone without a sound.

With the feel of that cold steel in his hand Ross’s spirits rose like a tide. All his waning confidence returned. He was instantly his own man again, confident, cool, without fear.

Quickly he buckled the belt around his waist. With sure fingers, he made certain that the gun was loaded. Slipping off the safety, he knelt on the table, facing the door, and waited.

Ross did not know whether he would ever leave that room alive, but he did know that the first men to open the door would die.

_CHAPTER EIGHT_

“YOU’LL SETTLE WITH ME”

Arthur Ward stood with his back to the big living-room fire, his feet wide apart, hands crossed behind his back, head lowered, eyes peering from beneath shaggy brows. It was a characteristic attitude and one which peculiarly expressed the man’s calculated cruelty.

Beebe was seated on the wide fireplace bench, his feet stretched far in front of him. He was slowly smoking, his whole sprawling attitude one of indolent approval. Things were shaping themselves quite to the liking of Larson Beebe.

The girl, Virginia, was seated in a chair somewhat in front of her uncle. The wild look of her eyes and her agitated face told that she was going through an ordeal that was breaking her bit by bit.

“But, Uncle Arthur,” she burst out, “surely you can’t mean to do this terrible thing. Why, I don’t love Mr. Beebe at all. I scarcely know him, and I don’t want to marry anyone.”

“My dear niece,” replied Ward evenly, “love has no part in my scheme of things. Hate rules the world, and hate is my creed. Love makes people soft and indolent. Hate is the great inspirator. Hate makes the world go ’round.

“Sentiment has no place whatever in this marriage. It is entirely a marriage of convenience. Your personal inclinations have no weight whatever. I wish you to marry Beebe; therefore you will do it.”

The girl’s color had heightened as she listened to her uncle’s ultimatum. As he finished, a grim expression of defiance settled on his face.

“Well, I won’t!” she answered crisply.

“As you will, Virginia, but if you do not consent to marry Beebe within twenty-four hours I shall leave you here alone with him. I imagine after a couple of weeks of that you’ll be quite willing to marry him.”

“Oh, you beast!” For an instant, as Ward’s full meaning became clear to her, it looked as though the girl would faint.

Then, like a wild beast at bay, she turned on Beebe in a burst of blazing fury.

“And you, Larson Beebe, what have you to say? Are you going to be a party to this? Are you as much a beast as my uncle?”

Beebe regarded her tolerantly for a moment out of his piggish eyes before he spoke. A catlike smile of satisfaction curved his lips. He answered slowly, indolently:

“Virginia, I am wild about you. I want you, and I am going to have you. As long as you refuse to love me I’m not at all particular how I get you. One way suits me as well as another.”

The girl turned back to her uncle. Her hands went out in an imploring gesture. For an instant she seemed about to plead. Then she evidently thought better of it.

“I suppose you understand, Uncle Arthur,” she asked in a low cold voice, “that I will kill myself before I will let this happen?”

“My dear Virginia, you do not seem to understand the situation at all. You are absolutely in my power. You cannot kill yourself because I will not permit it. I will not give you the chance. You will do exactly as I say.”

“_Not yet, Ward! First, you’ll settle with me!_”

Stanley Ross stood in the doorway. But it was not the Stanley Ross, urbane, bored, carefree, who, a few days before, had whimsically sought adventure up an unknown canon trail. He had found adventure now, and it had used him roughly. His face and hands were grimy. His clothes were dirty and torn. One sleeve had been almost rent from his shoulder. His hair was riotously disheveled and clotted with blood. Down one side of his face extended a great splash of dirty dried blood.

In his right hand was an ugly-looking automatic, and in his face and eyes was a look of savage fury.

At the sound of Ross’s voice, Ward whirled and whipped out a gun. But he was too late, for Ross, with a steadiness and coldness belied by the savagery of his face and figure, had fired. A look of unutterable amazement overspread the face of Arthur Ward. He wavered on his feet for a moment, and then, when a spot of red began to widen on his shirt front, he toppled backward, lifeless.

Almost at the same instant a hatchet hurtled through the room and buried its blade deep in the wall beside Larson Beebe, missing his head by the merest fraction of an inch. Wong was going into action. Beebe slid forward from his seat and ducked to temporary safety behind the table.

Ward had not had time to aim, but he had instinctively pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Ross on the head and cut a long shallow furrow just above his left temple. The wound itself was not serious, but for a moment it blinded Ross. That moment was fatal, for as he roused himself from the shock he knew that he had forgotten Poole.

Instantly Ross whirled to face the other doorway, but was too late. The heavy bullet spun him half around. For an instant he fought to retain his balance. Then he pitched forward onto the floor.

Painfully, with almost a superhuman effort, Ross raised himself with one hand and deliberately shot Poole through the chest.

Then, mercifully, consciousness was blotted out.

_CHAPTER NINE_

VIRGINIA EXPLAINS

When Ross returned to consciousness it was to a blurred, feverish, pain-wracked world.

He did not know where he was or what had happened. He only knew that his head was bandaged and splitting with pain; that his shoulder was stiff and sore, incapable of being moved even the fraction of an inch, and that it pained with a dull, throbbing hurt; that his eyes burned and blurred; and that his entire body burned with ten thousand fires.

Of one thing more was Ross conscious. That was the girl. When she saw that Ross had temporarily come out of the fog she hurried to his side and answered the unasked question on his lips by holding a cup of cold water to them. She seemed to have been waiting for ages to do just that.

Ross drank gratefully, but when he would have questioned her she laid her finger across his lips and said;

“_Sh-h-h-ush!_ Not now. We’ll talk when you feel better. Just now you need sleep more than anything else.”

And Stanley Ross obeyed. In an instant he was asleep, a wild, feverish sleep that brought no rest.

There followed days of half consciousness, half nightmare; days when Ross neither knew nor cared what happened, when wild delirium alternated with painful reality.

He was far too ill to make any inquiries about anything that had happened. In fact, he was only conscious of the fact that whenever the fog lifted the girl always seemed to be present—a ministering angel who brought cooling draughts, and soothing applications for his head and shoulders.

Finally there came a day when Ross awoke to a sane world. The fever fog had departed from his brain. His head no longer throbbed and beat like a thousand devils. His shoulder was sore and stiff, but it no longer was filled with maddening pain. He was weak, very weak, but the world was once more interesting and he was acutely aware of a most prodigious appetite.

Ross was aware that he was in the room to which he had been conducted by Garfin on the night of the strange dinner. Beyond that, he was not interested. He was aware that the girl was still acting as his nurse.

At meal time the Chinese, Wong, came in with a tray. He was still too weak to care as to the whereabouts of the others, or what had happened on the night of the fight.

He did learn that the girl’s name was Virginia Carver, but that was all.

In less than a week he was sitting out on the long veranda every afternoon. With returning strength came returning curiosity. He wanted to know the story of this strange habitation in the desert and to learn just what had happened on the night Wong had aided him to escape.

Several times he broached the subject to the girl, but each time she put him off with the statement that he was not yet strong enough to talk. The excuse was obviously becoming threadbare, however, as his health improved.

One afternoon, while Ross was sitting on the veranda, the girl came out and took a seat opposite him. It was patent that the time for explanations had come.

“I suppose, Mr. Ross,” began Virginia Carver, “that you have been wondering just what this whole thing is about, and you certainly are entitled to an explanation. I don’t know how I am ever going to thank you for what you have done for me. You were very brave.”

“Well, suppose you forget about the thanks, Miss Carver,” said Ross, visibly embarrassed. “I _would_ like to know all about this queer affair, though. I thought Arabian Nights were ancient history, but I’m about ready to believe anything.”

“In order for you to understand I’ll have to take you back about seven years,” explained the girl. “At that time my uncle, Arthur Ward, was one of the biggest operators in Wall Street. All his life he has been a very peculiar man; eccentric; always doing queer things for which there seemed no explanation, and never taking any one into his confidence.

“In the Street he was known as a plunger. He made a great deal of money. Just how much I have no idea beyond the fact that he was always very generous with my mother, his sister. But at one time he must have been very wealthy indeed.

“Seven years ago it seems that he plunged too heavily and got caught. His fortune was practically wiped out. When everything was settled up he was still a wealthy man—that is, he was probably worth a half million dollars—but the great bulk of his fortune was gone.

“He fought fiercely to keep from going under. There were days and nights at a time when I don’t think he slept at all. He was like a wild man, but the combination against him was too great and he went under.

“At first we thought he was going to lose his mind. For weeks he acted very queer. Finally he seemed to get a hold on himself and he appeared rational.

“He settled up his business, and then suddenly disappeared. He left no word where he was going—just dropped out of sight. That was seven years ago, and for two years we heard nothing from him. Five years ago I got a letter from him asking me to visit him here. I came and found things just about as you see them now.

“He seemed perfectly rational and contented. Of course, he was queer and erratic, but he had always been that. He seemed to have forgotten Wall Street entirely and spent most of his time making a collection of the accoutrements of horse and man of the old-time West. I doubt if there is a finer collection in existence.

“He did a lot of entertaining, too, for his old friends, inviting them out for long visits. Here his eccentricity cropped out, for he insisted on going to great lengths to have everything just as it would be in New York. There must be fifteen dress suits in the house, and he always asked every one to dress for dinner. He imported wines and foods. Wong has been with him ever since he has been here and he is an excellent cook.

“I came out every year. He was always very kind to me and has made every effort to entertain me. I thought he acted a little more queer each year, and I often wondered if he was not a little unbalanced mentally.

“When I came out this year there was a great change. I saw at once that he was quite mad. He imagined that he was being persecuted by the Warings, and kept Poole and Garfin, New York gunmen, to protect him. The Warings were the people who engineered his defeat in Wall Street, and Uncle Arthur hated them intensely. He not only imagined they were persecuting him, but he also imagined that the younger Waring, whom I have never seen, was trying to marry me. This seemed to be an obsession with him.

“When I got here I found that Larson Beebe was Uncle Arthur’s guest. I had met Mr. Beebe in New York several times, and I detested him. I had good reason to. He—well, I have always despised him.

“Just what his hold or influence on Uncle Arthur was I haven’t the slightest idea, but I had hardly arrived before Uncle Arthur began to insist that I marry him.

“Of course, I refused, and it was then that Uncle Arthur’s insanity came to the surface. He had always been kindness itself, but now he suddenly became the very incarnation of cruelty. While there was no question but that he was entirely mad, yet in his madness his brain was as shrewd and cunning as ever.

“When I refused to marry Beebe he began to practice his cruelties on me in an effort to break my will. I was utterly at his mercy, for there was no way that I could escape. All I could do was submit.

“The culmination of his indignities was to chain me to the rocks where you found me. Whether he would have left me there till I was dead I hardly know, but I think not. His brain was so unbalanced that it would be hard to tell.

“I ran away that night because I knew he would kill you if he found you with me. Evidently he had Garfin watching me, or he would not have learned that you had released me. He was obsessed with the idea that you were the younger Waring.

“The rest of the story you know. I dare not think of what would have happened to me if you had not come to my rescue, Mr. Ross.”

“But what really happened the night I escaped?” asked Ross.

“Well—you shot both Uncle Arthur and Poole,” she replied hesitatingly.

“Did I—did I—” he floundered helplessly.

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “Providence helped your aim that night. Wong buried them both. No, Mr. Ross,” she finished, as she noted the look on his face, “don’t feel that way about it. If you hadn’t killed them they would have killed you, and I would have suffered a fate worse than death. Under the circumstances I cannot feel sorry.”

“What happened to Beebe?” asked Ross, curious as to the fate of that dubious individual.

“That’s a mystery. He simply disappeared that night and we have not seen him since. Wong just barely missed him that night with a hatchet. I think he is deathly afraid of Wong. At any rate, he is gone. And now, Mr. Ross, I want to ask you a question: How did you manage to escape from your prison that night? Wong won’t tell me a thing. He just grins when I ask him, and I suspect I owe a great deal to Wong.”

“You surely do, Miss Carver,” answered Ross fervently. “That Chinaman is a wonder. In some way he got hold of my automatic and cartridge belt. He passed them to me through the window, and then, under some pretense, got Garfin to come and open the door. Then—well, Garfin won’t ever bother us again.”

_CHAPTER TEN_

A NEW DANGER

With the passing days, Ross found new strength and new interest. His head was already healed and his shoulder, beyond being stiff, no longer bothered him. While still somewhat weak, he was able to walk about as he pleased.

He found it very pleasant to pass the afternoons away on the long veranda. Here he was often joined by Virginia Carver, and the two spent hours together that were very pleasant. In fact, Ross suddenly became acutely aware that he was taking more than a passing interest in this girl.

Virginia Carver was exceedingly lovely. Moreover, she was of a type and personality that particularly appealed to Stanley Ross. While she was nursing him through his illness he had found her presence very pleasing. Now that he was nearly well, her companionship was becoming even more delightful, and he realized that, as far as he was concerned, friendship was ripening into something more definite. As he continued to improve he knew that the time was fast approaching when they would have to leave this desert oasis.

He found his mind continually recurring to Larson Beebe. How had he managed to disappear so completely that night? Where had he gone? What was he doing now? Ross could not dismiss the idea that they would hear from Beebe again, and that when they did it would mean trouble.

This conviction was the more firmly fixed in his mind by the actions of Virginia Carver. Ross felt sure that the girl was deeply worried over something; she seemed anxious and nervous; she appeared to be continually watching and listening for something. Intuition told Ross that the cause of her perturbation was Beebe.

Intuition again told him that perhaps Wong could throw some light on the situation. The next time that the Chinese appeared on the veranda Ross stopped him.

“Wong,” he said, “Miss Carver seems to be worried about something. Do you know what it is? Is it about Beebe? Do you know where he is?”

Wong’s face betrayed not a single glimmer of comprehension.

“No savvy,” he said.

“Yes, you do savvy, too. What’s wrong here? Where’s Beebe?”

Wong glanced hurriedly up and down the veranda as though he feared some one would overhear him. Then he jerked a meaning finger toward the mouth of the little canon.

“Him there,” he said in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Him hide in canon. Kill all we go out.”

“We don’t have to go out that way.”

“No other way can go,” explained Wong.

“What! You mean to tell me that’s the only way out of this place? Why can’t we go out over the cliffs?”

“No can do,” replied the Chinese, and was gone before Ross could question him further.

So that was it! The canon was the only way out of the basin, and Beebe was hiding down there, waiting to pot them as they came out. Quite a neat little idea! So that was why Virginia Carver was carrying that worried look.

Ross went straight to the girl. He found her in the dining-room.

“Miss Carver,” he asked, “why didn’t you tell me that Beebe was down in that canon?”

“Well, I couldn’t see any use worrying you with that while you were so ill,” she replied, smiling. “And then, too, Mr. Ross, I think you are a little inclined to do impulsive things, and it seems to me you have ran risks enough on my account.”

Ross ignored this last.

“Then he really is there?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Ross, he is, and I am afraid that we are in rather a bad way. He has all the advantage.”

“But isn’t there any way out of this place except through that canon?”

“None at all. Uncle Arthur selected this place for that very reason. There was a trail up the cliff, but he dynamited that away. Unless we develop wings we’ll go out through that canon or not at all.”

Ross pondered for a moment. Finally he asked, “I wonder why he hasn’t tried to kill Wong and me at night?”