of the valley and see the mountain where Coyote Number Twenty-eight was to have done its work, and as he looked he gripped the window-sill so fiercely that the nails of his fingers were bent and broken against the wood.  And in his brain the same words kept repeating themselves over and over again.  Mortimer FitzHugh was not dead.  He was alive.  He was Culver Rann.  And Joanne—­Joanne was not his wife; she was still the wife of Mortimer FitzHugh—­of Culver Rann!

He turned again to the mirror, and there was another look in his face.  It was grim, terribly grim—­and smiling.  There was no excitement, nothing of the passion and half-madness with which he had faced Quade and Rann the night before.  He laughed softly, and his nails dug as harshly into the palms of his hands as they had dug into the sills of the window.

“You poor, drivelling, cowardly fool!” he said to his reflection.  “And you dare to say—­you dare to think that she is not your wife?”

As if in reply to his words there came a knock at the door, and from the hall Blackton called: 

“Here’s MacDonald, Aldous.  He wants to see you.”

Aldous opened the door and the old hunter entered.

“If I ain’t interruptin’ you, Johnny——­”

“You’re the one man in the world I want to see, Mac.  No, I’ll take that back; there’s one other I want to see worse than you—­Culver Rann.”

The strange look in his face made old Donald stare.

“Sit down,” he said, drawing two chairs close to the table.  “There’s something to talk about.  It was a terribly close shave, wasn’t it?”

“An awful close shave, Johnny.  As close a shave as ever was.”

Still, as if not quite understanding what he saw, old Donald was staring into John’s face.

“I’m glad it happened,” said Aldous, and his voice became softer.  “She loves me, Mac.  It all came out when we were in there, and thought we were going to die.  Not ten minutes ago the minister was here, and he made us man and wife.”

Words of gladness that sprang to the old man’s lips were stopped by that strange, cold, tense look in the face of John Aldous.

“And in the last five minutes,” continued Aldous, as quietly as before, “I have learned that Mortimer FitzHugh, her husband, is not dead.  Is it very remarkable that you do not find me happy, Mac?  If you had come a few minutes ago——­”

“Oh, my God!  Johnny!  Johnny!”

MacDonald had pitched forward over the table, and now he bowed his great shaggy head in his hands, and his gaunt shoulders shook as his voice came brokenly through his beard.

“I did it, Johnny; I did it for you an’ her!  When I knew what it would mean for her—­I couldn’t, Johnny, I couldn’t tell her the truth, ’cause I knew she loved you, an’ you loved her, an’ it would break her heart.  I thought it would be best, an’ you’d go away together, an’ nobody would ever know, an’ you’d be happy.  I didn’t lie.  I didn’t say anything.  But Johnny—­Johnny, there weren’t no bones in the grave!”