“No, sir, I’ll not. You understand, boys. This here’s my wife’s father and I want to keep this here little transaction quiet.” “We’ll not peep, Iry, not one of us,” his companions assured him. Cyrus put out a feeble hand and Ira clasped it in his strong ones. “Tell Lou I didn’t mean----” the breath came shorter, then presently there was a new effort. “Pike knows--Steve----” And that was the last word. It was a subdued and serious group that carried Cyrus Sparks, now dignified by death, to the nearest shelter. This happened to be Pedro’s cabin where Blythe Van Dorn lay wounded badly, but not dangerously it was hoped. Here John and his sisters, with Louisa, had attended to the young man’s wounds and he was fairly comfortable. Ira and his friends laid their lifeless burden outside on the grass and called John, telling him of what had happened. Then Ira faced his next duty. “I’d like to see Lou,” he said. “John, you send her out to me, and you boys go off fer a while.” He waited with folded arms till the girl appeared. “You wanted me, Ira?” she said, coming up and slipping her hand in his. “Yes, my gal. I’ve got a hard somethin’ to tell ye.” He drew her close to him. “It seems right mean that I’ve got such a thing to say on our weddin’ night, but, my gal, that there’s yer dad.” He looked down at the quiet figure, with face covered, lying there at their feet. Louisa gave a startled scream and hid her head on his breast. Ira stroked her hair gently. “He was tryin’ to save my life, Lou. He kep’ Pike from shootin’ what he thought was me on Hero, Steve’s hoss, an’ Pike turned on him in a rage at bein’ interfered with. Your dad had time to say a few words to us. He thought about you an’ spoke your name at the very last. He knowed he was a-goin’ an’ he died with his hand in mine. Thar, gal, thar.” Louisa was shaking with sobs. “Poor father, poor dad,” she murmured. “Mebbe he wa’n’t a saint, Lou, but he died tryin’ to save another; I reckon the Marster up in heaven’ll understan’ thet. Thar’s somethin’ in the good book about a feller layin’ down his life fer a fren’, ain’t they? I reckin he’ll git leave to jine yer mother yit. Lou, my gal, my pore little gal.” And Louisa, with a sudden sense of a new and beautiful love enfolding and protecting her, received such comfort as never before had been hers. The next day Cyrus was buried by those who strove to hide his faults from the world, and who turned from the lonely grave with reverence and sincere pity, but who sternly vowed vengeance against his slayer. Those last words of Cyrus’ brought a gleam of hope to Christine, but there seemed little chance of there being more discovered, for, though the men scoured the country, there was no sign of either Pike or Hero.