QUEENIE.

This post was planted where a small earth mound was raised upon the hill—­and word of the tribute went the rounds of the camp, where everyone else had forgotten.

The town’s excitement concerning the rush had subsided with greater alacrity as reports came back, in rapid procession—­no gold on the reservation.  The normal excitements of the mining field resumed where the men had left them off.  News that Matt Barger was not only still at large, but preying on wayside travelers, aroused new demands for the sheriff’s demonstrations of his fitness to survive.  The fact was recalled that Cayuse, the half-breed murderer of Culver, was as yet unreported from the hills.

The sheriff, who had ridden day and night, in quest of either of the “wanted” men, came back to Goldite from a week’s excursion, packed full of hardships, vigilance, and work, to renew his force and make another attempt.  He offered a job to Van.

“There’s ten thousand dollars in Barger,” he said.  “And I guess you could use the money.  There’s nothing but glory in gittin’ Cayuse, but I’ll give you your pick of the pair.”

That some half-formed notion of procuring a secret survey of the reservation line, in his own behalf, had occupied Van’s thoughts somewhat insistently, was quite to be expected.  That the work would prove expensive was a matter of course.  Money was the one particular thing of which he stood in need.  Nevertheless, at the sheriff’s suggestion he calmly shook his head.

“Thanks, old man.  Blood-money wouldn’t circulate worth a whoop in my system.  But I think I could land Cayuse.”  He held no grudge against Culver now.  Perhaps he regretted the fuss he had made on the day of Culver’s death.  “I’ll take ten dollars a day,” he added, “and see what I can do about the Indian.”

“I knew it!  I knew you’d do more than all the gang—­myself in the count,” the sheriff exclaimed in profound relief.  “I’m beat!  I own it!  I ain’t seen a trace of that black-headed devil since I started.  If you’ll fetch him in——­”

“Don’t promise more than ten dollars a day,” Van interrupted.  “If you do you can get him yourself.  I haven’t said I’ll fetch him in.  I merely said perhaps I could get him.”

“All right,” said the sheriff, bewildered.  “All right.  I don’t care what happens, if you git him.”

Glad, perhaps, to escape the town—­to flee from the air that Beth was breathing, Van rode off that afternoon.

He did not seek the Indian murderer, nor for traces of his place of concealment.  He went due west, to the nearest Indian camp, on the now diminished reservation.  He called upon a wise and grave Piute, as old as some of the hills.

“Captain Sides,” he said, when the due formalities of greeting had been gratified, “I want you to get Cayuse.  He stabbed a white man, Culver, Government man—­and you Piutes know all about it.  Indians know where an Indian hides.  This man has broken the law.  He’s got to pay.  I want your men to get him.”