One soft, still evening, not a week after the tragic events of that rueful night, Captain Rawlins sat by the lieutenant's side, reading aloud some letters just received from department headquarters. Major Sherrick had been in a state of dismay ever since the news of the death of Staines had reached him, but his dismay changed to wonderment, even gratitude, as he learned the true character of the man. It was Sonora Bill himself, beyond doubt. “What a blessing you left that note for me to see!” said Rawlins. “How came it you never saw it was a forgery, Phil? Had she never written to you before?” “Never a line, nor have I seen her to thank her. By Heaven, Rawlins! why am I forbidden?” “You are not--now, Phil,” was the smiling answer. Perhaps an hour later, Adriance limped slowly out of the room and down the narrow passageway to the side door. Yonder stood the little summer house “in the gloaming,” and he was right--he had heard women's voices there--Dolores and her daughter. There were tears in the maiden's words, and he could not withstand the longing of his heart. He would have hobbled thither, but suddenly there came the sound of rustling skirt and a tiny footfall. It was she--his dark-eyed, dark-haired sweetheart, hastening toward him, her face hidden in her hands. One instant more and he had torn the hands away and had clasped her to his breast. “Isabel! darling! I have found you at last! No, you shall not go--you shall not until you promise--promise to be my wife! “O, senor, you cannot--you do not mean it,” she sobbed, Struggling to be free. “Do not mean it! Why, sweet one, you do not dream how I love you--how I long for you! Not mean it? Isabel, look in my eyes. Look for yourself.” He laughed low and happily. He was brimming over with hope and gladness, for now at last without a struggle she nestled on his heart. Despite his grizzled beard old Rawlins was best man when that strange, very quiet, yet very happy wedding came off in the Old Mission Church at Tucson early in the spring. Pedro was not there to give the bride away. With considerable escort and much reluctance he had traversed “Cutthroat Crossing” some months before. He went to Yavapai, and Yavapai--we have his own words for it--was “too damn close to 'ell.” The rancho passed within the year to other hands. It, too, had taken on another name--a grewsome one--_Rancho del Muerto_. A MIGHTY HUNTER BEFORE THE LORD, By Virginius Dabney. [Illustration: 0066] FIRST PART |THE man unacquainted with the joys of the chase would be surprised if told, as he sauntered through some city market, that there was far more pleasure in hunting those plump little brown birds hanging in bunches around the stalls than in pursuing that imposing beast whose antlers reach the pavement. Yet it would be true.