He only looked silently at her, and she turned her eyes from his gaze.

"See," she said, taking him eagerly to the back of the ledge and pointing, "follow that trail, the one to the east--you can't get lost; you can reach El Capitan before dark--it's very close. Creep carefully across El Capitan on that narrow trail, and on the other side there is a wide one clear down to the road--oh, do be careful on El Capitan."

"I'll be careful."

"I must watch my chance to get away from the corral with a horse. If I fail it will be because I am locked up at home, and you must hide and do the best you can. How much they will surmise of this, I don't know."

"Go now, this minute," he said, restraining his words. "If you don't come, I shall know why."

She turned without speaking and, fearless as a chamois, ran down the rocks. De Spain, losing not a moment, hobbled rapidly up along the granite-walled pa.s.sage that led the way to his chance for life.

CHAPTER XVI

A VENTURE IN THE DARK

Pushing his way hastily forward when he could make haste; crawling slowly on his hands and knees when held by opposing rock; feeling for narrow footholds among loose and treacherous fragments; flattening himself like a leech against the face of the precipice when the narrowing ledge left him only inches under foot; clinging with torn hands to every favoring crevice, and pausing when the peril was extreme for fresh strength, de Spain dragged his injured foot across the sheer face of El Capitan in the last shadows of the day's failing light.

Half-way across, he stopped to look down. Far below lay the valley shrouded in night. Where he stood, stars, already bright, lighted the peaks. But nowhere in the depths could he see any sign of life. Spent by his effort, de Spain reached the rendezvous Nan had indicated, as nearly as the stars would tell him, by ten o'clock. He fell asleep in the aspen grove. Hors.e.m.e.n pa.s.sing not a hundred yards away roused him.

He could not tell how many or who they were, but from the sounds he judged they were riding into the Gap. The moon was not yet up, so he knew it was not much after midnight. The ground was very cold, and he crawled farther on toward the road along which Nan had said he might look for her. It was only after a long and doubtful hour that he heard the m.u.f.fled footfalls of a horse. He stood concealed among the smaller trees until he could distinguish the outlines of the animal, and his eye caught the figure of the rider.

De Spain stepped out of the trees, and, moving toward Nan, caught her hand and helped her to the ground.

She enjoined silence, and led the horse into the little grove.

Stopping well within it, she stooped and began rearranging the m.u.f.flers on the hoofs.

"I'm afraid I'm too late," she said. "How long have you been here?"

She faced de Spain with one hand on the pony's shoulder.

"How could you get here at all?" he asked, reaching clandestinely for her other hand.

"I got terribly frightened thinking of your trying El Capitan. Did you have any falls?"

"You see I'm here--I've even slept since. You! How could you get here at all with a horse?"

"If I'm only not too late," she murmured, drawing her hand away.

"I've loads of time, it's not one o'clock."

"They are hiding on both trails outside watching for you--and the moon will be up--" She seemed very anxious. De Spain made light of her fears. "I'll get past them--I've got to, Nan. Don't give it a thought."

"Every corner is watched," she repeated anxiously.

"But I tell you I'll dodge them, Nan."

"They have rifles."

"They won't get a chance to use them on me."

"I don't know what you'll think of me--" He heard the troubled note in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

She began to unb.u.t.ton her jacket. Throwing back the revers she felt inside around her waist, unfastened after a moment and drew forth a leathern strap. She laid it in de Spain's hands. "This is yours," she said in a whisper.

He felt it questioningly, hurriedly, then with amazement. "Not a cartridge-belt!" he exclaimed.

"It's your own."

"Where--?" She made no answer. "Where did you get it, Nan?" he whispered hurriedly.

"Where you left it."

"How?" She was silent. "When?"

"To-night."

"Have you been to Calabasas and back to-night?"

"Everybody but Sa.s.soon is in the chase," she replied uneasily--as if not knowing what to say, or how to say it. "They said you should never leave the Gap alive--they are ready with traps everywhere. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't bear--after what--you did for me to-night--to think of your being shot down like a dog, when you were only trying to get away."

"I wouldn't have had you take a ride like that for forty belts!"

"McAlpin showed it to me the last time I was at the stage barn, hanging where you left it." He strapped the cartridges around him.

"You should never have taken that ride for it. But since you have--"

He had drawn his revolver from his waistband. He broke it now and held it out. "Load it for me, Nan."

"What do you mean?"

"Put four more cartridges in it yourself. Except for your cartridge, the gun is empty. When you do that you will know none of them ever will be used against your own except to protect my life. And if you have any among them whose life ought to come ahead of mine--name him, or them, now. Do as I tell you--load the gun."

He took hold of her hands and, in spite of her refusals, made her do his will. He guided her hand to draw the cartridges, one after another, from his belt, and waited for her to slip them in the darkness into the empty cylinder, to close the breech, and hand the gun back.

"Now, Nan," he said, "you know me. You may yet have doubts--they will all die. You will hear many stories about me--but you will say: 'I put the cartridges in his revolver with my own hands, and I know he won't abuse the means of defense I gave him myself.' There can never be any real doubts or misunderstandings between us again, Nan, if you'll forgive me for making a fool of myself when I met you at Tenison's. I didn't dream you were desperate about the way your uncle was playing; I pieced it all together afterward." He waited for her to speak, but she remained silent.

"You have given me my life, my defense," he continued, pa.s.sing from a subject that he perceived was better left untouched. "Who is nearest and dearest to you at home?"

"My Uncle Duke."

"Then I never will raise a hand against your Uncle Duke. And this man, to-night--this cousin--Gale? Nan, what is that man?"

"I hate him."

"Thank G.o.d! So do I!"