The quirt came up slowly; then it sang through the air. “You dog, you! Dick the Devil is your true name! And I thought—” The man, shouting an oath, dragged his mount backward. The lash descended, missed his handsome face, but seared the horse across its neck. Squealing, the animal leaped to one side—to the verge of the out-thrust lip of the Overhang. The gambler wheeled him again, seeking to save himself. “Do you want to murder me—you wildcat!” he cried angrily. There was a sudden crack, like the slapping of one board upon another. Between the plunging horse and the girl a gap yawned in the earth. Frost, the early rains, or perhaps time itself, had weakened this bit of the Overhang. A patch no larger than a good-sized dining table broke away and slid outward. The scrambling, wild-eyed horse and the shrieking, white-faced man disappeared with it. The girl held in her own mount with a firm hand. The flare of insane anger faded from her blue eyes. But her countenance settled into a harsh and unlovely expression. Yet she slipped down from her saddle, quieted her horse with a word, and stepped recklessly to the crumbling edge, trying to see down the face of the cliff. She could mark no trace of horse or rider. She could no longer hear the rumble of the falling débris. An icy horror gripped her. He was gone! Finally she drew back from the brink. She looked about at the landscape, but there was not a human being to be seen. She slowly mounted her horse again. Something besides a terrible disaster had happened here at the brink of the Overhang. Something had happened to Nell Blossom so great, so soul-racking, that she would never be altogether the same girl again. It is a dreadful thing for one so young to find its love-idol shattered. After a little Nell started her mount, but she did not ride back toward Canyon Pass. CHAPTER II—DISCONTENT AT DITSON CORNERS The Reverend Willett Ford Hunt read twice these closing words of the long letter. ... and so, my dear Willie, to use your own way of expressing it, I am steering straight for the devil—and enjoying the trip immensely. Wishing you were with me, Willie, I am, even after your rather bitter castigation, Sincerely your friend, Joe Hurley. He laid the missive on his desk with a full-bosomed sigh. Nor was that sigh wholly because of the reprobate Joe. Joe’s flowers of speech did not much ruffle the parson’s spirit. Joe Hurley might be gay, irresponsible, reckless, even downright wicked; but he never could fail to be kind. Two years of close contact with the blithe Westerner—those final two years at college before Hunt went to the divinity school—had assured the latter that Joe Hurley owned a heart of gold. The gold might be tarnished, but it was true metal nevertheless.