On the edge of the abyss was a spruce root. It looked dead, wedged deep between two rocks; but with all her strength she could not pull it out. Sobbing, breathless, she tied her blanket rope to this, threw the other end over the cliff's edge, and, not giving herself time to think, lay flat, grasped the knotted line, swung off. Knot by knot she went down. Half-way her naked feet brushed the needles. She looked over her shoulder, behind and down. Then, teeth clenched, she lowered herself steadily as she had learned to do in the school gymnasium, down, down, until her legs came astride of a pine limb. It bent, swayed, gave with her, letting her sag to a larger limb below. This she clasped, letting go of her rope. Already, from the mountain's rocky crest above, she heard excited cries. Once, on her breakneck descent, she looked up through the foliage of the pine; and she saw, far up against the sky, a white-masked face looking over the edge of the precipice. But if it were Quintana or another of his people she could not tell. And, again looking down, she began again the terrible descent. * * * * * An hour later, Trooper Stormont of the State Constabulary, sat his horse in amazement to see a ragged, breathless, boyish figure speeding toward him among the tamaracks, her naked feet splashing through pool and mire and sphagnum. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed as she flung herself against his stirrup, sobbing, hysterical, and clinging to his knee. "Take me back," she stammered, "-- take me back to daddy! I can't -- go on -- another step----" He leaned down, swung her up to his saddle in front, holding her cradled in his arms. "Lie still," he said coolly; "you're all right now." For another second he sat looking down at her, at the dishevelled hair, the gasping mouth, -- at the rags clothing her, and at the flat packet clasped to her breast. Then he spoke in a low voice to his horse, guiding left with one knee. * * * * * Episode Four A Private War * * * * * I When State Trooper Stormont rode up to Clinch's with Eve Strayer lying in his arms, Mike Clinch strode out of the motley crowd around the tavern, laid his rifle against a tree, and stretched forth his powerful hands to receive his stepchild. He held her, cradle, looking down at her in silence as the men clustered around. "Eve," he said hoarsely, "be you hurted?" The girl opened her sky-blue eyes. "I'm all right, dad, ... just tired. ... I've got your parcel ... safe ..." "To hell with the gol-dinged parcel," he almost sobbed; "--did Quintana harm you?" "No, dad." As he carried her to the veranda the packet fell from her cramped fingers. Clinch kicked it under a chair and continued on into the house and up the stairs to Eve's bedroom. Flat on the bed, the girl opened her drowsy eyes again, unsmiling. "Did that dirty louse misuse you?" demanded Clinch unsteadily. "G'wan tell me, girlie."