          c 1993 Burt A. Rice
          
          
          
                      100 SECONDS TO CHARON
          
                                        by
          
                                   Burt Rice
          
          
          
               The big Turtle had not really slept for centuries:  The
          ninety-million-ton rock on its back had been grinding closer
          and closer toward the precipicex and to a drop from the
          3,000-foot summit to the valley below.  But it was February,
          1903 now; and six hundred people had come to live down there
          in the shadow of Turtle Mountain in a town they called
          Frank.
               Soon it would be spring:  There would be days of
          thawing followed by nights of freezing.  Under cover of
          darkness, ice forming deep inside crevices on the heights
          would expand, forcing the seams ever wider, pushing the
          gigantic limestone wedge to the point of imbalance.
               The people below had come together here on the southern
          spine of the Canadian Rockies to hack coal out of the
          Turtle's belly.  So far, they had chewed some 5,000 feet
          inside, ripping out caverns nine to twelve feet across.
          Occasionally, the mountain would sag a little, trying to
          squeeze the innermost tunnels shut again, and the creeping
          mass above would respond very, very subtly ...
          
               "What the devilx?"
               Loren White's mount and the pack horse following veered
          sideways, as a riderless, saddled cayuse burst from a canyon
          trail to his right and thundered past them.  In a moment its
          terror had taken it down and around a turn in the road and
          out of sight to their rear.
               Without hesitation, Loren diverted his two animals to
          the side path.
               "Someone's got to be in trouble, Fresco," he said aloud
          to the animal carrying him.
               Except for drifts, only about four inches of snow
          covered the ground, and it was not dangerously cold yet.
          But Loren White had worked as a Montana Cowboy.  He knew
          about savage winters and what even moderate cold can do to
          an injured or unprotected person.  He was aware, too, how
          rapidly mountain temperatures can plummet in February.
               It was not difficult to backtrack along the runaway
          pony's route.  Loren could have done it without deep hoof
          prints to follow, because the path was the only level,
          unimpeded passage along the rock- and conifer-cluttered side
          of the canyon.
               After a time, a shadow blocked the sun for an instant.
          Loren looked up just as a large golden eagle swooped low
          over them before circling away, wobbling on wind gusts and
          whistling in alarm.
               "Wingspan must have reached seven feet, Fresco.  Some
          day I'll try to paint him the way he looked against that
          snow-covered crag over there," Loren mused.  But then he
          paused.  "Funny thing, though.  He seemed more scared for me
          than of me."
               He laughed nervously:  "Another one of my preposterous
          imaginings, I guess."
               The trail took them around a high outcropping then
          exposed to view a wider section of level ground ahead where
          the snow was heavily trampled.  Bare earth was visible in
          spots, and there was a sharp drop-off on the gorge side.
               A man's boot was lying near the edge.
               He spurred toward the place and entered a pocket of
          bitter cold, just as both horses shied violently again,
          yawing backward and rearing.  As Loren struggled to keep
          them away from the cliff, he glimpsed a shadowy form on the
          upper hillside about fifty yards away.
               When he had calmed the pair, he dismounted and looked
          back up the slope.  He saw nothing but mountainside.  But
          all around the trampled area where Loren stoodx especially
          near the lone bootx were the unmistakable tracks of grizzly.
               Loren tethered the horses and walked close to the lip
          of the bluff where he picked up the boot and moved to peer
          over the cliff's edge.  The extreme cold had passed;
          nonetheless, he shivered.  Was the boot's owner down there
          somewhere x partly eaten?
               A red shirt flared against gray rock and winter white
          about eighteen feet below.  It covered the torso of a man
          otherwise almost buried in snow.  The figure was motionless
          and seemed to be wedged against a granite upthrust at the
          boundary of a longer, near-
          vertical drop down the canyon.
               Loren White lobbed the boot to the trail and began a
          descent backwards.  He had to negotiate a precipitous wall,
          yet its face consisted of almost a natural ladder of stone.
          By assuring himself of careful hand- and footholds, he
          reached without much difficulty the small ledge where the
          man lay.
               He turned around into another sudden cell of deep cold
          and to a loud flapping of wings.  A big vulture had swooped
          up from the canyon depths and, in a breath, had soared
          higher and out of sight.  It had come close enough for Loren
          to see its bald, red head clearly and to catch the glint of
          its eyes.
               "Damn!" he complained, as he stepped toward the fallen
          man.  "This canyon is crawling with crittersx but that one
          was the nastiest."
               The creature had wafted a foul odor directly into his
          nostrils.
               He bent over the still form and put his ear to the
          mouth.  There was shallow breathing.  It was a tiny old man
          with dirty, white hair covering almost his entire head and
          face.  There were tobacco and blood stains on his beard and
          a gash on his forehead.  He was racked with chills.
               "Hold on, Santa Claus," Loren said, brushing snow away
          from the lower body.  "We're gonna' get you out of this.
               "Hell, he looks about ninety," his mind disagreed.
          "I'll probably kill him trying to drag him up to the
          horses."
               He gasped.  The trousers, visible now, were torn and
          bloodied, and the left arm and leg were contorted
          unnaturally against the granite barrier.  Both limbs
          obviously were broken.
               "Stay unconscious, old man, because this is going to
          hurt like hell."
               In almost a single motion, Loren grasped the little
          fellow's upper, right arm, pulled him vertically, then swept
          him to his shoulders in a fireman's carry.
               There was a yodeling scream.
               "I know, I know, you poor old devil, but it's better
          than being buzzard bait."
               "Git away, gitx git away!"
               The injured man made a gagging sound, and Loren felt
          the skinny frame writhe before another cry squeezed from it.
          Then it relaxed, and there was silence.
               "That's better for both of us, partner.  Stay asleep so
          I can get us up to that ledge."
               The ascent was hazardous.  Although the weight on
          Loren's shoulders seemed little more that a hundred pounds,
          it was enough to arc him back sickeningly with each slippery
          pull and step up.  Luckily, the oldster remained immobile
          all the way to the path.
               Once there, and with the inert weight still across his
          shoulders, Loren White trudged over to his pack horse and
          managed to work a pair of blankets out of the load.
          Clearing snow away from the smoothest place on the ground,
          he spread one blanket out and eased his burden down upon it.
               This brought a further cry of pain.  The faded blue
          eyes snapped open, half-
          focused on Loren, then distended in terror.  His howl now
          was like an animal's; and it was followed by a stream of
          incoherences spattered with curses and other recognizable
          words.  "Hoodoo!" and "cannibal!" were repeated often.  It
          seemed to Loren that much of the babbling, however, was in
          some other language, possibly a Native American dialect.
               The stranger accompanied all of this with vigorous
          shivering; and Loren covered him with the second blanket.
          This had an instant calming effect, and reason flowed into
          the eyes.
               "Thank ye, young feller," he said weakly.  "Reckon I
          got myself s-stove in a bit.
          Don't know who ye are, but I'm obliged."
               "Name's Loren White.  Welcome back, old timer.  You
          broke your left arm and leg, and I've got to splint them
          with something fast before you freeze.  It's gonna hurt like
          almighty hell."
               "A snort a' g-good whiskey might help."
               "Damn!  Why didn't I think of that?"
               Loren returned to the pack horse and reappeared with a
          bottle.  He raised the scraggly head.  There were three
          large gulps.
               "Aaah!  Almost better'n a white woman!  Don't even t-
          taste no chawin' tabacca 'er the like in it."
               Loren didn't understand the reference to tobacco until
          he remembered hearing how whiskey traders used to adulterate
          their stuff for Indian consumption.  They mixed in almost
          any manner of filth, including red ink for color and, yes,
          chewing tobacco.
               The younger man was pushing a boot onto a filthy right
          foot now.  This was the same piece of footwear he had tossed
          back from the cliff.
               "Keep the bottle there; you're gonna need it, Mr.x."
               "Not misterx Zeb.  Zeb C-Clanton.  Cold as h-hell out
          here."
               "Yes.  Well, we better get to it."
               Loren made a third trip to the pack horse, removed an
          axe, then walked up the hillside.  The crack of its blade
          echoed briefly throughout the canyon; then  he was back with
          several matched lengths of straight wood, each of two heavy
          pieces about twelve feet long.
               He could see that Zeb had been making liberal
          references to his anesthetic.
               Using whatever he could find from the pack for padding
          and binding, he labored at splinting both broken limbs,
          glancing repeatedly at his patient.  But the old man had
          watched the entire process almost without reaction, only
          occasionally acknowledging his discomfort by a low grunt or
          a "som'bitch!"
               "Either you're a tough old geezer, Zeb, or my whiskey
          is a lot better than I thought."
               Clanton's grin was lop-sided  "Booze is a-runnin' low.
          Shoulda' brung yer-
          yerself some."
               "Stingy old geezer, too."
               Loren turned his attention away from the cripple and
          swiftly fashioned a travois using for shafts the long poles
          he had cut.  These he secured to the pack horse and glanced
          up at the sun.
               "Not bad.  Only about nine, and we can't be far from
          Crowsnest.  Should be a doctor there ... Okay, Zeb, what do
          you think of your hammock?"
               But Zeb, his fingers still holding the neck of the
          bottle, had eased back into semi-
          consciousness.
               Loren removed the blanket covering him and spread it on
          the travois.  Then he eased his hands gently under the
          little body and lifted, wondering as he did so how such an
          aged and outwardly fragile creature could have survived the
          terrible punishment it had endured here.
               There were a few groans when White lowered his burden
          to the travois; otherwise, there was no real complaint.
          However, this action brought Loren's face close to Clanton's
          body and made him aware of something that had been just
          beneath his cognizance ever since he had hoisted Zeb to his
          shoulders down on the ledge.
               It was that foul smell.  Although no more than a
          suggestion now, it was the same stink that had surrounded
          the vulture.
               The stench continued, slight but pervading, as Loren
          began fashioning a shoulder sling to keep the patient from
          slipping down the litter's incline.
               "Yuk!  You must have been sleeping in the bird's filthy
          nest, you flea-bitten old coyote."
               "Rich," Clanton mumbled; but his eyes remained closed
          through a boozy belch.  "Richest damn ... throat-cuttin' ...
          B-Bearspaw."
               "Right, you old fossil.  Now I know why you can't die.
          Too  damned rotten-
          crazy."
               But Loren was gentle as he secured the ground blanket
          around this strange little elf of a man.
               In a moment, then, he was on Fresco's back once more,
          leading the pack horse and its trailing travois back toward
          the road.  He looked over his shoulder.  Zeb seemed to be
          quiet.
               Loren's thoughts slipped inward.
               Dad ... Dad never ceased to be a haunt, although he had
          been gone for two years.  Mama had followed barely six
          months later.  Well, maybe the old man deserved to be
          disappointed:  In the early years his only son had been his
          life.  But later, things began to change; and Loren could
          sense in him a deepening pain.  But Dad continued to lavish
          all the opportunities upon his youngster:  a rich home, a
          university education ... And then the boy had betrayed himx
          had no ambition other than to be a vagabond, cowboy artist.
               "Go ahead, throw away your life!"  Dad had shouted once
          near the end.  "Toss it into your pile of horse shit if you
          want.  A man who paints pretty little posies on a hillside
          doesn't have the balls to do much else, anyway!"
               "... doesn't have the balls ...!"  The words would
          endure; but they had become like knives, gradually cutting
          his father's face from his memory ...
               Suddenly, they had reached the road.  Loren swung his
          little caravan east, back up the hill toward Crowsnest, a
          little coal mining settlement with the same name as the
          mountain pass where it stoodx a community sentinel on the
          border separating British Columbia from the administrative
          district of Alberta.
               Other coal towns lined the pass.  One of them was
          called Frank.  It lay on the Alberta side between the
          Canadian Pacific tracks and the Oldman River.
               Under a mountain called Turtle.
               There was a chink-chink-chink to the rear.  Loren
          turned to see the approach of a buggy drawn by a glistening,
          ebony horse.  No one was in the conveyance but the driver.
               "Just what we need!"  Loren White exulted, pulling over
          and stopping.
               "Hello!  What have you got there?" The buggy had
          halted, and its driver was walking over carrying a black
          bag.
               "An old man who broke at least an arm and a leg getting
          thrown off a cliff."
               "You throw him off?"
               Loren grinned.  "Maybe I should have.  Cantankerous old
          maverick.  Does that black bag mean you're a doctor?"
               "Yes.  Better let me have a look at him."
               The physician removed a stethoscope from the satchel
          and pulled away Clanton's blankets.  "Seems to be sleeping
          like ax."
               "Git back, you murderin' bastard!" Zeb followed this
          imprecation with a penetrating scream and tried to strike
          out with his splinted arm.  But he fell back, groaning and
          slavering, then lapsed again into non-resistance and
          unintelligible mouthings.
               The doctor was unruffled.
               "Nasty gash on the head.  Going to need a few stitches.
          Ummm ... yes, and a lot of bruises and abrasions.  No broken
          ribs ... Good job on the splints.  We'll leave them until
          ... Nice, strong heartbeat, and the lungs are clear.
          Surprising.  Not in shock."
               "Might be some internal damage, Doctor.  I had to get
          pretty rough bringing him up from the cliff."
               "Possibly.  We'll find out later."  He straightened up.
          His face was red.  "What kind of rot-gut booze have you been
          feeding him?  Smells like a distillery in a mortuary."
               "Some of your best Canadian stuff, Doc.  Mix it with a
          buzzard's armpit, though, and something gets lost in the
          translation."
               "Who is he?"
               "Calls himself Zeb Clanton.  Some kind of mountain man,
          I guess.  His runaway horse flew out of the woods and passed
          right by me a while ago.  I back-tracked it to where it
          apparently threw him off over a cliff.  He's been  half in
          and out of his head."
               "Good thing you happened by.  Must have been within
          minutes of the accident, because there is no serious
          hypothermia.  But he wouldn't have survived a night in the
          cold
          ... We'd better get him into my buggy."
               The two men removed Zeb from the travois and carried
          him to the four-wheeler where they bundled and tied him in.
          The little man's ravings intensified.
               "I can't understand why he's carrying on like this,"
          the doctor frowned.  "Of course, I haven't been able to
          examine him thoroughly, but there's no fever, no visible
          physical cause for such aberrant behaviorx even considering
          the whiskey."
               "No physical cause?"
               "That's what I'm afraid of.  By the way, I'm Dr.
          Edwardson.  Unhook that travois and tie your horses behind
          the buggy.  You can ride up front with me."
               "Thanks, Dr. Edwardson, I'll do it.  I'm Loren White."
               They shook hands.
               "We'll have to take him into Frank," the doctor said as
          they moved out shortly afterwards.  "This is Sunday.  None
          of the intervening medical people will be available.  We
          have a rotating agreement for weekends and holidays.
          Besides, I have a rather well-
          equipped little hospital in Frank.  It's a small but
          surprisingly modern and thriving community."
               "Is it far?"
               "Maybe twenty-some miles.  I'm not good about
          distances, though.  Anyway, your friend seems to have
          quieted and appears to be warm and reasonably comfortable
          now.  We'll keep a careful eye on him, of course.  Your
          patch-up work was done rather well.  Where did you learn
          your first aid?"
               "Well, I punched cattle for a time in Montana.  Gets a
          bit rough sometimes:  You learn some things."  He turned his
          head and grinned at his companion.  "That buzzard whiskey
          probably did Zeb more good than anything."
               "You don't talk much like a cowhand."
               "I grew up in San Francisco.  San Franciscans never did
          learn to talk like real people."
               They turned a corner, and a magnificent, alpine peak
          seemed to rise directly in front of them.
               "God didn't spare the beautiful when he made this part
          of Canada," Loren marveled.  "Makes you want to stop at
          every turn in the road and drag out your paint brushes."
               "You're an artist, too, then?"
               "I try to be; and I've always been lured by this kind
          of country.  When we reach the summit, I'll wait around for
          warmer weather then follow north along the backbone of the
          divide as far as it will let me."
               "Painting as you go."
               "Yes."
               "What a marvelous way to  live!  That's why we brought
          our practice to Frank.  The beauty, I mean.  I could prosper
          in the big prairie settlementsx Calgary or Edmonton,
          perhapsx but I wouldn't have this."  Dr. Edwardson made a
          sweeping motion with his arm.
               "Fer th-thet toothless squaw?  Why you f-flea-bitten,
          greasy heathen, this bottle oughter git me both a' them two
          young f-fat ones there, at least!"
               The men in the front of the buggy, startled, jerked
          their heads around to stare at their cargo.  Zeb was
          motionless, his eyes closed.
               "As I said, a marvelous way to live," Dr. Edwardson
          grunted.
               Loren was looking shocked.  "Now I know why that
          vulture smelled so bad.  He got too close to that old man."
          He looked over at Edwardson and saw a twinkle in his eyes.
               They both burst into laughter.
               The snort and thud of the horses, the music of the
          traces, the crunch of wheels on snow, and the hypnotic
          squeak of the buggy held sway for some minutes.
               "I wonder how this pass through the mountains was ever
          discovered," Loren ventured at last.
               "Buffalo."
               "Buffalo?"
               "Yes, indirectly.  Two men looking for gold traveled
          through this area back in 1873.  They didn't realize they
          had gone through to the east side without climbing over a
          mountain range until they saw buffalo hair on the trees."
               Edwardson laughed.
               "They were disappointed, though, because they had found
          no goldx only coal, coal everywhere they turned.  And, of
          course, coal is why Frank and all the other towns along
          Crowsnest Pass came into being."
               Zeb slept quietly throughout the rest of the journey.
          It was dark when they reached Frank.  Loren was surprised to
          see the settlement glittering with electric lights. They
          moved part way up the main street, a dirt thoroughfare lined
          with wooden sidewalks and false-front businesses.  It was
          called Dominion Avenue.
               There were people everywhere, and they all seemed to
          know the doctor.  Most of them had greetings.
               "Hey, Doc!" a swaying fellow trying to stay upright in
          front of a hotel called out.  "Did th-that feller in back
          there s-succumb ta m-modern med'cine?"
               "That's Tony Slink. Must have started early tonight,"
          Edwardson chuckled.  "No, Tony, he's dead from the same
          stuff you've been pouring into your belly!" he shouted.
               They passed a post office, a bank, and a drug store,
          among other enterprises, before the doctor pulled sharply
          around.
               "Couldn't resist showing you a piece of the town," he
          said proudly.  "Newcomers are always amazed.  We have most
          of the luxuries of any eastern city.  All permanent
          residents are served by the electric light plant and the
          waterworks system.  We have a two-
          story school, our own concert hall, a new railroad station,
          the Sulphur Springs Sanitorium, andx."  He laughed.  "Well,
          enough of that.  You'll be seeing for yourself."
               In a few moments they halted before a residence with
          lights shining cheerfully from its windows.
               "The hospital ward is beside my home, there, Loren; but
          I've had to use my living room for overflow, because we've
          had a bit of a flu epidemic.  It's about over now, though."
               They stepped from the buggy and walked back to remove
          Clanton's restraints.  Their touch, however, immediately
          sent the mountain man into a torrent of cursing and howling.
               "Simmer down!  Easy, old feller; we're your friends,"
          Loren tried, patting the little man's good arm.
               But Zeb threw off the hand and began struggling against
          his bonds, accompanying his flailings with animal-like
          noises.
               A small silhouette materialized across from Loren and
          beside Dr. Edwardson.
               "Hush, dear; hush, baby," a soft, feminine voice
          soothed.  Although the light was dim, Loren could see her
          hand caressing the matted hair.  "There, there, now.  You're
          safe, you're home."
               Zeb calmed instantly.
               A door to the ward opened, flooding the buggy with
          light.  Two women hurried out, leaving the door open.  The
          taller one carried a lantern that transformed the silhouette
          before Loren into a delicate-appearing young woman with
          short blonde hair.  She was very pretty.
               "Bring the stretcher, please," Edwardson said to the
          women from the hospital, "then make sure there's a bed ready
          for him in the isolation room."
               The men had Zeb's tie-downs removed by the time the
          stretcher arrived.  They placed him on it, lifted, and
          started to move inside; but a voice stopped them.
               "Wait."
               It was Zeb.  He was holding out his right hand to the
          blonde girl.  "Thank ye, young lady," he said very properly.
               "You're quite welcome.  Please get well soon."
               She stepped back into the shadows and melted away.
               Loren White and Dr. Edwardson carried Clanton into a
          little room at the rear of the ward.  A boy of about
          thirteen had entered the building behind them.
               "Want me ta take the rig and the horses ta the liv'ry
          stable on my way home, Doctor?"  the youngster asked, as the
          patient was being lowered to his bed.
               "Yes, please, Lester."  He glanced at Loren.  "Can you
          get by tonight without your gear?"
               "Sure.  And I saw a hotel on the way in ... Here, son."
          He handed the boy a coin.
               "Thanks, mister."
               The teenager went back outside.
               At this point the mountain man went berserk again, and
          it required everyone's help to place him back in restraints.
          Edwardson then administered a sedative.
               When Zeb had quieted, the doctor sighed heavily and
          straightened up.  But when he looked at Loren, his eyes were
          sparkling.
               "Ladies, the gentleman responsible for this debacle is
          that tall fellow there.  His name is Loren White.  He likes
          to splint geriatrics with tree trunks.  He's a cowboy-artist
          x a Yankx and if he hadn't decided to save a wild man's life,
          we would have enjoyed a peaceful Sunday evening with our
          families."
               The two women were smiling at White's reddening face.
               "Loren, these two fine young nurses whose weekend you
          have shattered are," Edwardson indicated the smaller woman
          first, "Miss Landy and Mrs. Allen."
               "So very nice to meet you," Miss Landy responded
          simply.
               But her companion became very animated:  "An artist;
          how fascinating!  And a cowboy, too.  What a rare
          combination!  Do you specialize in - in painting western
          subjects?"
               Loren was sure he had never seen a more beautiful and
          vibrant woman.  "N-no, Mrs. Allen," he stammered, "I do
          that.  But landscapesx mountains, too."
               "Please call me Melody.  This is still something of a
          frontier town.  Formalities and coal dust don't mix toox."
               Zeb cut her off with a low groan.
               She looked at the doctor.  "Oh, that poor old man."
               "Yes," he said guiltily.  "We'd better get back to him.
          Loren, you can watch, if you want.  Who knows?  We might
          need your help again, anyway."
               "Thanks, Doc, I'd like to stay."
               "Eau de carrion, ladies," Dr. Edwardson shuddered;
          "Obviously our most life-
          threatening problem.  Lots of soap and water, if you
          please."
               The cowboy-artist watched a rush of coordinated
          activity.  First, Clanton was scrubbed, then the doctor
          examined him again very thoroughly while materials for
          casting the broken bones were prepared.  Next, the "tree
          trunks" were removed from the patient's left arm and leg and
          the two limbs were gently cleansed.  Finally, casts were
          emplaced, the head cut was stitched, and other wounds were
          tended.
               Throughout, Dr. Edwardson and Nurse Landy spoke only
          when necessary.  Melody Allen, however, tempered her
          competence with a shower of quiet endearments:  "little
          daddy," "sweetie," "honey," and so on.
               Loren was captivated.  She was an unbelievable
          combination of beauty and compassion.  She was an angel.
               He could not help notice, however, that Miss Landy
          would register an occasional look of irritation in response
          to Melody's cooing.  Loren attributed this to fatigue or ill
          temper.
               At last, they left the sleeping Clanton to his little
          room and moved forward together to a kitchen area.  The
          nurses started tea; but Dr. Edwardson brought out brandy and
          two glasses.
               "It's been a long day," he said wearily, handing a full
          glass to the younger man.
               "A long hard day, Doctor.  Thanks."
               They all sat down around a small table.
               "Who was that marvelous young woman, Doc?  The one who
          came out of the shadows and transformed Zeb into a pussy
          cat?"
               Melody sniffed, but Miss Landy shot her a silent
          reproof apparent only to the two nurses.
               "Oh, that was Gina Olson.  Isn't she a sweetheart?
          I've seen her work that magic before, but it's usually with
          animals.  Ordinarily, she's very shy and unassuming.  Works
          at the post office.  Her father is a retired barrister from
          Victoria.  Fine people."
               "From what I've seen so far," Loren said earnestly,
          "this town is full of fine people.  Which reminds me:
          What's the prognosis for the little broken man?"
               "I tell you, I'll never understand it.  How far did you
          say he fell down that cliff?"
               "I'd guess about eighteen vertical feet.  But his fall
          probably was broken somewhat by intervening rocks.  He would
          have tumbled three times as far, if he hadn't stopped
          against a boulder at the brink of a little ledge."
               "Our bantam rooster back there is about seventy years
          old."  Dr. Edwardson shook his head.  "And yet the broken
          bones, cuts, and scrapes seem to be the absolute extent of
          his injuries ... Prognosis?  When those bones heal I expect
          him to be fit as a fiddle."
               "That's wonderful.  I was afraid I might have done some
          terrible damage slinging him over my shoulders to carry him
          up to the horses."
               "Well, Loren, there is something else we're probably
          going to have to face," Edwardson said grimly.
               Everyone stared at him.
               "Unless I'm totally misreading the signs, that old man
          is violently insane."
          * * *
               The painter-cowhand removed a pipe and two pouches from
          his jacket then lay down fully clothed on the hotel bed.
          The pillow kept his back partially raised.  From the first
          pouch he removed a pinch of tobacco and tapped it inside the
          bowl of the pipe.  Then he took a small dark-brown object
          from the second leather container and dropped it into the
          opening as well.  At last, he filled the remaining space in
          the pipe with more tobacco and lit the mixture, inhaling
          deeply.
               Loren closed his eyes, puffing languidly, coaxing the
          magic forth, as his thoughts centered on the day's
          happenings:  From the moment he had diverted to the canyon
          path this morning, he seemed almost to have entered a
          different dimension, a world of contradictions.  He
          shivered, remembering those sudden pockets of cold along the
          trail.  What had caused them, and why had they seemed to be
          infused with something sinisterx even evil?  But how could
          evil co-exist with grandeur?
               He shook himself.  Imaginings, always imaginings.
               He began to feel nauseous; but he sucked in more smoke,
          knowing the unpleasantness would be replaced quickly by a
          gentle peace, a solitude behind a sort of foggy door.
               Zeb was contradiction personified, too.  One could see
          humor, amiability, stoicism.  But there were terror and
          violence as well.
               And there was corruption.
               A pretty young face drifted up on the haze before him.
          It had a seraphic quality; the short golden hair was a halo
          crowning innocence.  She had calmed what seemed like a rabid
          animal with no more than a light touch and a whisper.  What
          did Doc say herx?  Oh, yes, Gina.  Gina Olson.
               Another comely likeness wafted up and expelled the
          first ... Melody.  A perfect name!  She was a melody of
          friendliness, tenderness, and grace.  Loren White signed
          contentedly.  Mrs. Melody Allen ... What was her husband
          like?  It would take an extraordinary man to deserve such a
          lady.
               The fire died in the bowl.  Trembling slightly, he put
          the pipe on the night stand, then folded his hands on his
          abdomen, and let the magic wrap him in a fuzzy mist ...
          
          
          
          
          
          
          II.
          
               "Glad to see you, Mrs. Allen," Dr. Edwardson said as
          soon as Melody appeared for duty Monday morning.  "Our Mr.
          Clanton is still irrational, and I'd like to look him over
          again while you're around.  You and Gina Olson seem to have
          a calming influence on him.  We can do without another of
          his violent outbursts."
               Melody's spirits sagged.  She had hoped for minimal
          contact today with the disgusting old man.  She had had
          difficulty sleeping last night.  Images of the wrinkled
          face, the slavering mouth, kept recurring.  And that foul
          odor!  Even after they had scrubbed the ugly little body, a
          residual stench remained in her nostrils.  It seemed to be
          there still.
               "Oh, the poor old dear!"  Melody exclaimed.  "I tossed
          and turned worrying about him all night.  We must find out
          if he has family.  They would be worried sick."
               "Yes, whenever he can respond coherently, please see if
          you can draw him out.  I don't think he's going to be
          competent enough to care for himself when his wounds heal;
          and he can't stay here forever.  Without family to watch
          over him, he may end up in a mental hospital."
                "Oh, no!"  Melody objected.  "An institution?  We just
          can't allow such a thing after all he's been through."
               There was a tiny cough.  A rush of fury tightened
          Melody's jaw muscles.  Evelyn Landy had walked up in time to
          overhear enough of the conversation to launch another of her
          stealthy reproofs.
               "Ugly little bitch," Melody thought.  "Too plain to
          catch a man.  Thinks she's special just because she's the
          full-time nurse."  Aloud she said innocently:  "Good
          morning, Evie. That cough?   Are you getting the flu, too?
          Perhaps Doctor shouldx."
               "No, Melody," the little woman responded evenly.  "It's
          just an irritant, a simple little environmental irritant."
               Dr. Edwardson, entirely oblivious to the flash of red
          on Melody's cheeks, turned toward the isolation room.
               "Come on, ladies.  Perhaps we'll find that to be all of
          Zeb's trouble, too."  Then to Melody Allen he added:  "But
          he's in restraints again.  I can't just keep him sedated;
          and yet I can't have him injuring himself, either."
               The three entered the room to a deluge of curses.  Zeb
          was rage in a mass of writhing bandages.
               "Good morning, Mr. Clanton," Dr. Edwardson tried.  "Are
          you about ready for some breakfast?"
               "Hah!  Thet outfit don't fool me none, ya' murderin'
          savage," Clanton hissed very distinctly.  "I know who ya'
          are."
               "Of course you do, Mr. Clanton.  I'm Dr. Edwardson, the
          man who patched you up last night, remember?  You had a
          nasty fall, but those broken bonesx."
               "Nipuhao!"  the mountain man rasped venomously.
               The physician jerked back.  "Well, then, we don't have
          much choice, do we?"  He nodded to Miss Landy who hurried
          off.  In a moment she returned with a syringe which
          Edwardson administered, despite renewed howls and
          convolutions.
               They waited until the contortions and swearing subsided
          into silence.
               "Whatx what was that he whispered?  Evelyn Landy asked
          nervously.  "It sounded like a voodoo incantation."
               "Nonsense!"  Melody chided. "I'm sure it meant nothing
          at all.  Don't you realize the pain that poorx?"
               "Oh, it meant something, all right," Edwardson said
          grimly.  "And I doubt if pain had much to do with it."
               "What was it, Doctor?"  Miss Landy persisted.
               "It was a Cree word.  It means 'kill'."
               Once again Edwardson examined the old man with extreme
          care.  When he was finished, he looked at the two women
          resignedly.
               "Well, I suspected it would be a waste of time, and it
          was.  The patient may look frail, but he's living inside a
          surprisingly sound body."  He paused and placed a gentle
          hand on the little fellow's tangle of hair.
               "There's nothing left but psychosis.  We'll have to
          leave the restraints in place and keep him isolated."
               "Oh, let me stay with him a while then, Doctor," Melody
          begged.  "When the sedative wears off and he finds himself
          still in restraints, he'll be terrified.  I'll talk to him,
          try to find out about family."
               Edwardson looked at Miss Landy.  She wore just the
          trace of a smile.
               "No problem, Doctor.  I can handle all the other
          patients."
               But as they walked away leaving Melody and Zeb alone,
          Doctor Edwardson was quietly impressed again, as he had been
          so many times before, by the sweetness of this strikingly
          handsome woman whose selflessness compelled her to remain
          back there alone with a pitiful but utterly foul human
          being.
               Melody's thoughts, however, had not quite registered on
          "utterly foul," much less on "human being:"
                You're like a hideous toad soiling a human's bed, Zeb
          Clanton.  You're a shriveled-up stench of a man, you horrid
          little beast.  But as long as you stay unconscious, you're
          better than emptying bed pans.
               He groaned.
               Oh, no!  Could he be coming out of it already?
               "There, there, little daddy.  Mama's right here with
          you.  Sleep, sleep, tiny one," she murmured aloud.
               Good.  He's quieting again ... Loren White.  Nice,
          straightforward name.  Handsome and very athletic looking.
          Tall ... What is there about tall men?  Seems a little shy;
          and I know he was taken with me.  Almost wet his britches
          stammering and gawking there ... An artist and a cowboy?
          Like oil and water, almost.  But he doesn't smell like a
          barnyardx or a grimy coal miner ... Wonder what it would be
          like ...?
               "Where's t'other good-lookin' one?"
               The question came from a relaxed mouth in a snowy head
          set with faded, blue eyes.  They were rational now, even
          twinkling, those eyes; and he looked like any child's doting
          grandfather.
               The words had jolted into Melody's reverie.
               "Who, the other nurse?  Evie?  That shortx?"
               "No, the yeller-haired one in the lantern light."
               "Oh, her.  She's not a nurse.  Works in the post
          office.  Feeling better?"
               "Some.  Why am I trussed up like a horse thief?  An'
          what place is this?"
               "It's a hospital, Mr. Clanton.  You had a terrible fall
          out in the mountains somewhere.  A good man happened along
          just in time to save your life."
               "Yeah.  Nice young feller.  I'm obliged ta him.  Be
          obliged, too, if ye'd untie me."
               "I can't yet, Mr. Clanton.  See the casts on your arm
          and leg?  Broken bones.  Badly broken.  The restraints are
          to restrict your movements so those bones can get a start at
          healing properly.  Only the doctor can remove the tie-
          downs."
               "Got any whiskey?"
               "Not allowed in a hospital."  She leaned forward
          conspiratorially.  "But if you're good, Mr. Clanton, I might
          be able to sneak some in soon."
               He grinned.  "Not Clantonx Zeb."
               "Oh, how sweet.  Zeb!  And please call me Melody.  I'm
          sick of all this stuffy Mrs. Allen nonsense."
               "Melx Melody."  His eyes were misty.
               They're all the same, these men.  Even broken-down
          cadavers like this one.  They cling to their erotic little
          dreams.
               "Zeb, honey.  Where are your people?  We need to tell
          them where you are and that you're safe."
               "Hah!  People?  Got no people a-tall.  Ain't had none
          since the old man got took out at the Gouge Eye.  Back in
          '53 I think it were.  Californy gold fields ... weren't no
          loss."
               "Oh, I'm sorry.  No wife or children?"
               "None thet Ix."  He suppressed a half-formed leer.
          "No.  No livin' kin a-tall."
               "Well, never mind.  We'll take care of you just fine."
               The old eyes misted again.  "Thank ye, ma'am.  Sure
          would like ta git these hobbles off, though."  He grinned
          wickedly now.  "An' taste some good whiskey ... an a plug ta
          chaw on."
               "Yes, yes.  Be patient, we'llx."
               "Oh, yes, Mr. White."  It was Miss Landy's voice.
          "He's still in the back.  Mrs. Allen isx."
               Melody's head swiveled toward the front, but she
          couldn't hear the remaining conversation.  In a moment,
          however, Loren entered the room.  His face brightened when
          he saw her.
               "Good morning, Mrs. Allen.  It's good to see our
          patient in such competent hands.  How is he?"
               "Well, he's just fine today.  But why don't you ask
          him?"
               "Hello there, young feller.  Ye ain't gonna drag me
          across no more mountains, are ye?"
               "Why, you old fossil!"  White laughed delightedly.  "I
          knew you were too mean to kill."
               "Powerful thirsty, though."
               "Thought you'd be."  Loren reached inside his jacket
          but paused and looked at Melody inquiringly.
               "I'll never tell," she chuckled.
               Loren removed a flask and handed it to Clanton.  "Just
          a coupla' pulls.  This one you can't keep."
               Clanton swallowed three or four times before returning
          the container.
               "Now thet's real med'cine.  If them doctors had any
          sense ...  Say, young feller, I been meanin' ta ask ye ..."
          His eyes grew suspicious, hawkish.  "Did ye find anything a'
          mine back there where I got throwed?"
               "Only your boot.  But I shoved that back on your foot,
          remember?"
               "My boot?"  Ye didn't find nothin' else a-tall?"
               "Afraid not.  Your saddle horse probably ended up in
          Cranbrook, the way he was moving.  Something really spooked
          him.  But your saddle bags might still be on him.  Of
          course, someonex ."
               The mountain man's face had darkened.
               "Them filthy heathens.  Mebbe they got it."  Then, as
          if remembering something terrifying, his eyes bulged and he
          began to tremble.  "Gimme thet flask agin, son.  I-I feel
          somethin'."
               Loren complied, and the old fellow took three more long
          pulls before his head fell back to the pillow.
               "Devils!  Devils!"  His voice was becoming shrill.
          "Ever'where.  Ye can't git awayx aaah!"  His fearful eyes
          were fixed on the ceiling.
               "I'd better go," Loren whispered.  "Shall I find the
          doctor?"
               "No, I can handle him.  Thanks for coming."
               He turned to walk out.
               "Mr. White?"
               "Yes?"
               "Please come again."  She dropped her eyes demurely.
          "He likes you."
               "I will.  Thank you."
               Loren White departed with his head full of her perfume.
               When she returned her attention to Clanton, she saw
          with satisfaction that his eyes were closed and that he had
          calmed considerably.  Now there were just jerky movements
          and indecipherable growlings.
               Melody remained close until the patient had relaxed
          into quiet sleep.  Then she scowled and stood up.
               Why don't you just die, you old reprobate?  That would
          solve everyone's problems.
               Throughout the following day, Zeb slept most of the
          time.  Melody hovered about, only half aware of the
          patient's off again, on again hallucinatory outbursts.  She
          had almost grown accustomed to his maniacal laughter, his
          shrieks, his cries about hoodoo, hexes, spells, demons, and
          the like.  Finally, however, the old man yodeled out a
          single, one-syllable word that galvanized her into absolute
          attention.
               "Gold!"  he screeched.  "Gold!  Gold!"
               Gold!  Is that what the old fool hasx?"
               "Never seed a strike so rich!  Lookit thet!  It's
          durned near pure gold!"  His cries ceased.  There was only
          hard breathing and a twitching right hand.
               She wanted to shake more out of him:  Go on, go on,
          Zeb!  What gold?  Where?
               "Yeller an' black fires?  Don't know whatx git away
          from mex git away!"
               "Zeb, Zeb, sweetheart.  It's all right.  They can't
          hurt you.  I'm here."  Melody caressed his cheek.  "Gold,
          Zeb.  Where is the gold?"
               "French.  Musta' belonged ta French.  Stupid savage ...
          fer a bottle ... fer a bottle a' pizen!"
               "Tell me about the gold, Zeb.  You're safe here.
          You're safe now."
               His eyes snapped open.  They were shot with lunacy.
          "Lemon's.  The lost mine.  Hee!  Hee!"  Then just as
          suddenly, the eyes focused, registering fear once more.
          "Git out.  Leave me be.  Ain't tellin' nobody nothin.'  Yer'
          all conivin' thieves.  Don't know nothin.'  Didn't findx
          didn't find nothin' ..."
               He slipped back into his void.
               Melody sat down almost in shock, her eyes still on
          Clanton's face.  She looked at the isolation room door
          fearfully.  It was slightly ajar.
               No, Miss Prissy wouldn't have heard:  She's buried in
          her beloved papers up front, and there aren't any other
          patients close to this room ... But gold!  What else did he
          say?  That he had never seen such a rich strike?  Yes!  And
          Lemon, the lost Lemon Mine.  Could he have?  Could he
          possibly have?
               She grappled with the immensity of the  thought.
          Everyone had heard the legend:  About thirty years ago two
          shady characters named Blackjack and Lemon had stumbled upon
          a fabulous vein of gold somewhere in this part of the
          Rockies.  That night Lemon went berserk and killed his
          partner with an axe, but a pair of Stoney braves had
          secretly witnessed the murder.  When Lemon departed, the
          Indians destroyed all traces of the strike, as well as
          landmarks leading to it.  No one, apparently, including
          Lemon, had ever been able to find it again.
               Yes, that was it.  No, there was more ... Think,
          Melody, what else?  Louis Malfin, that other crazy mountain
          man down by the river, he's always full of tales about the
          Lemon Mine.  French!  French, that's it!  He claims someone
          named Lafayette French was supposed to have located it, and
          Clanton just mentioned a person with that name.
               Zeb grunted, and Melody's gaze centered upon him once
          more.  He fully looked the part of an asylum inmate.
               You're in another world, aren't you, wild man?  You're
          a blithering schizoid.  You're nothing but a hollow shell
          ... Yes, Melody, yes.  But you don't have to be sane to fall
          into a pot of gold.  Gold, Melody!  What harm will it do to
          keep your ears open?
               Miss Landy, of course, could not hear her colleague's
          thoughts; but she didn't seem to be concentrating on her
          paper work at the moment, either.  Instead, her pencil was
          making a nervous little tapping motion against the counter
          top, and there was a troubled expression on her face.
               She was staring back toward the isolation room door ...
               And so it came to pass that the beautiful young woman
          and the shrunken old man entered into a more intense
          relationship:  Melody could not have been more solicitous:
          She was at his bedside at every opportunity; and whenever
          the patient cried out, she swept to his side, comforting him
          and smothering him with endearments.
               Dr. Edwardson watched the growth of her possessive
          attachment with sympathy.  "I wonder if she lost her own
          father under tragic circumstances?" he conjectured at one
          point.  "She clings to that old man in an almost unnatural
          way.  It worries me just a little."
               "Melody is in no danger, Doctor," Evelyn Landy
          responded stiffly.  "I'm sure Zeb Clanton is the one who
          deserves our concern."
               "I beg your pardon?"  The physician looked at her in
          astonishment.
               "Well, Doctor, as you pointed out, the patient is
          insane; and he seems to be worsening."
               "Oh.  No, he is unstable, but his periods of lucidity
          appear to be lengthening.  We don't have all the answers,
          Miss Landy.  Perhaps, with such loving care, he may surprise
          us all one day.  She is a most remarkable woman, you know."
               Dr. Edwardson managed to understand the ensuing little
          sniff this time.  He raised an eyebrow.
               "Jealousy?  Can there be an undercurrent of jealousy
          here?"  he asked himself.  "I hope not.   Miss Landy has
          been a real professional ... but one could understand it ...
          She
          is rather plain."
               By Wednesday, Zeb was starting his third day in the
          hospital; and his mental state was much improvedx so much
          so, in fact, that the doctor had removed all restraints.
          This, in turn, had a further salutary effect, especially
          since the old prospector could now spend most of his time in
          a wheel chair.  He was unable to manipulate it, however,
          because of the cast on his left arm.
               But Melody was beside herself.  Clanton had said no
          more about gold; and she saw no prospect of drawing him out
          if he continued to rally.  Moreover, the more she dwelled
          upon this unfortunate circumstance, the more convinced she
          became that Zeb had indeed chanced upon a new El Dorado; and
          it infuriated her to know that it was just beyond her reach.
               "Well, now, Mr. Clanton, I cannot explain your sudden
          improvement any other way," the doctor had enthused earlier
          that morning:  "It has to be because of Mrs. Allen here.  Do
          you realize she has hardly left your side since your
          arrival?  I have never seen such a dedicated display of
          nursing."
               "Nobody never fussed over me before," Zeb acknowledged,
          flashing Melody a gummy smile before pointing to his
          shoulder-length hair.  "An' nobody never curried me before,
          neither."  Then, almost inaudibly, he said:  "Don't deserve
          none a' it, but I'm ... I'm obliged."
               "Oh, you two!"  Melody exclaimed with a convincing
          display of discomfiture.  Then she seemed to pump up new
          courage:  "But Ix I never had a sweeter, more deserving
          patient."
               With that, she had whirled away, as if too embarrassed
          to remain .
          * * *
               You won't get away with it, you addled old bone-bag.
          I'll think of something.  Ah, but you're a sly little fox,
          aren't you?  You think nobody has an inkling about your big
          secret.  But Mama does, Mama does ...
               She watched him with abhorrence.  He was slumped
          forward in his chair, asleep and drooling like any vacuous
          geriatric.  It was afternoon now, and she and the old man
          were alone on the ward.  All the flu patients had been
          discharged, and the doctor and Miss Landy were off on house
          calls.
               She could indulge her antipathy.
               But someone had just walked up quietly behind her.  She
          turned to find Loren White staring at the patient.
               "Is that really Zeb?"  he asked.  "Zeb in a wheel
          chair?"
               Melody put a finger before her lips.  "Yes.  But let's
          go to the kitchen so we can talk without disturbing him,"
          she whispered.
               Loren followed her back, noticing the flowing motion of
          her walk.
               "Doctor Edwardson thinks it's miraculous," she said,
          handing him a cup of tea.  "And I suppose it is, considering
          how bad he was only yesterday."
               Loren White's expressions of delight were protracted.
          Finally, however, she found an opening:
               "Tell me about your work, Loren.  I've been dying to
          hear about it.  I've never known a real artist before; and
          creative talent doesn't exactly abound in a smelly coal
          town.  Honestly, it's like breathing fresh air to have
          something to discuss besides mine tipples and black damp.
          Why, just try talking to a local about oil on canvas and
          he'll picture goop dripping from a rail car onto his
          trousers.
               "Why are you smiling?  Oh, yes!" she giggled.  "I see.
          I haven't even given you a chance to answer, have I?"  She
          put a hand over her mouth.  "Oh, but you're not going to
          work in the mine, are you?"
               There was an instant of silence; then, suddenly, they
          were both laughing.
               Good work, Melody.  There isn't a man alive who can
          withstand an appeal to his ego.
               "No, Mrs.x ahx Melody.  Come spring I plan to pack
          north into as much of your big mountain country as I can.
          It's been the ambition of my life.  You Canadians have some
          of the most awesome alpine scenery in the world here.  An
          artist is by his very nature compelled to try to capture
          some of it."
               She leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes.
               "Oh, it's wonderful, so wonderful!  You cannot believe
          how inspiring it is.  Imagine!  A man driven to express
          beauty, instead of - of how hard it is to get coal dust out
          of his nostrils."
               "Oh, well, Ix Ix ."
               "And you can articulate!  Don't you know most
          conversation in this town consists of grunts and
          monosyllables?  A university man, I can tell!  There aren't
          many of us who havex."
               Enough, enough, Melody.  Don't overdo a good thing.
          You'll frighten Miss Muffet away.
               "I'm sorry, Loren.  Sometimes I let my prattle
          transport me off somewhere."
               "Oh, no, no.  But I don'tx ," he flushed as he stood up
          and looked at his pocket watch.  "I have just enough time to
          check on Zeb quickly.  Thanks for the tea and ... and
          conversation."
               In two minutes, he was gone.
               You idiot, Melody, you scared the pants off him.  He's
          probably high-tailing it back to Montana.  What kind of
          pressing engagement could he possibly have?
               For no justifiable reason, then, Melody thought of Gina
          Olson .
          * * *
               Despite his having slept fitfully, Loren White woke
          early the next morning.  He dressed rapidly, feeling a need
          to escape into fresh air:  For some reason, the early nausea
          always accompanying his nighttime smoke had not really
          dissipated.  He still felt a trace of it.  But he was
          troubled, too, and didn't know why.
               He wondered if there had been some impurity in the
          magic pellet.
               As soon as he stepped outside the hotel, he was struck
          again by the proximity of Turtle Mountain.  From where he
          stood on Dominion Avenue, the near-vertical mass of it
          seemed to thrust up from the very back yard of the town.  He
          looked down the business-
          lined slope of the thoroughfare.  There was an illusion of
          the commercial section's being caught between two forces
          conspiring to push Frank into the Oldman River far below.
          One force was the slippery incline of the street, the other,
          the towering wall of rock.
               A lot of people were bustling about already; and no one
          appeared to feel Loren's disquiet or even to be aware of the
          big Turtle.  On the contrary, they called cheerfully to one
          another about the bright and unusually balmy February day.
          Several of them greeted the newcomer, addressing him by
          name.  In a community of six hundred people, no one is a
          stranger for long.  They knew all about him and considered
          him something of a hero for rescuing the demented old
          prospector.
               He noticed a group of men beginning to assemble nearby.
          They were a jocular group:  There was much back-slapping,
          laughter, and horseplay.  Their dress betrayed them as
          miners; and Loren realized it was the day crew coming
          together to crawl into the hole.  Their good spirits made
          him feel ridiculous.
               "Why are you always reading dire things into ordinary
          events?"  he demanded of himself.  "No wonder Dad always
          considered you ax ."
               "You must be Loren White!"
               A very tall man had broken away from the group and was
          walking over.  He carried himself with the confidence of an
          athlete, and the thick garb of his trade could not disguise
          his muscularity.  There was a shock of curly, blond hair
          showing under his cap.  He was ruggedly handsome.
               "I been hearin' all about you for days," he laughed,
          holding out his hand.  "Fact is, I'm almost sick of ya'."
               Loren liked him instantly.
               "You think you've got trouble?  I've been sick of me
          for thirty-one years."  Even as he chuckled through the
          words, Loren realized he was looking up into the fellow's
          blue eyes.  A six-footer is accustomed to looking down to
          most people.
               "Welcome to Frank.  I'm glad I finally got to meet ya'x
          Hey, you moles!"  His companions looked over.  "This is the
          feller that can punch cows, splint heads, an' paint
          dandelions."
               "Watch out, Abel, he's almost as big as you.  He might
          just split yer head," one of them yelled.
               "Or take ta punchin' a yeller-haired mule instead of a
          cow," another cackled.
               "Kin he do them things all at the same time?" a gleeful
          miner shouted.
               "Can you imagine gettin' thrown in a pit every day with
          that nest of vipers?"  Abel asked in a voice obviously
          calculated to be heard by the others.  "Damn!  Here comes
          the foreman.  Feller hates to let his grubs see the light of
          day."
               He offered his hand again; and, as Loren took it, he
          felt a flood of warmth for this affable giant.  "Hey, it's
          been great!  Maybe we'll get a chance to lift one together
          soon, uh, Abel.  Your friend did call you Abel, didn't he?"
               "Yeah, Abel.  Abel Allen.  Sure, let's do  it soon.  At
          my house.  I know Melody will be glad to have you."
               He rejoined his comrades.  They already were walking
          toward the railroad spur line leading to the hole in the
          Turtle's side.
               But his last words were still clattering inside Loren's
          skull:  "... Abel.  Abel Allen ... Melody will be glad to
          have you."
               Melody Allen ... Melody's husband!
               Loren stumbled off feeling sick again; and he realized
          he had been harboring a sub-surface hope that her man would
          be someone easy to hate, someone who didn't deserve such an
          exquisite companion.  Instead, he found himself despising
          Loren White.
               Nonetheless, his footsteps carried him inexorably
          toward the hospital.
               Melody looked up in mild surprise when Loren walked in.
          Everyone was up front in the office area.
               "Ah, Loren," Doctor Edwardson said, obviously pleased.
          "You're just in time to join in our little conference.  It
          seems to me you have as much right as anyone to participate
          in a decision about Zeb Clanton."
               The three were inside behind the counter.  The
          physician was holding some papers; the nurses were seated.
          Melody, as always, looked gorgeous.  Evelyn Landy's
          expression was cryptic.
               "I've just examined him again.  His behavior continues
          to improve, but I suspect his emotional stability to bex uhx
          still precarious.  Physically, however, his only impairment
          is from the two casts.
               "Doctor thinks he should be out of a hospital
          environment," Melody said with a smile.  "Especially for his
          mental health.  But he will continue to need care as long as
          the casts remain.  He just can't get around."
               Edwardson could not conceal his delight:  "Mrs. Allen
          has proposed a most generous solution.  She has offered to
          take the patient into her own home for as long as
          necessary."
               Melody lowered her eyes and toyed with a thread on her
          skirt.
               "While I am sure this will bex " Edwardson grinnedx
          "just what the doctor ordered for the old man, I am
          concerned for Mrs. Allen.  After all, Zeb has violent
          tendencies, as we've all seen; and she would be alone with
          him all day."  He focused on Loren.  "What are your
          feelings?"
               White had been aware of the smaller nurse's strange,
          noncommittal behavior.  It made him uneasy.
               "Miss Landy," he evaded.  "I'd appreciate hearing your
          opinion, too."
               "Oh, Ix I don't thinkx Well, if you must know, I'm more
          concerned with Mr. Clanton's welfare."
               "Mr. Clanton's?"  Melody gasped.  "Why, you just heard
          the doctor sayx."  She began to giggle.  "Evie, when was the
          last time you saw me attack a patient?"
               Everyone laughed except Evelyn.  Her face was crimson,
          and she looked miserable.
               "I think that is most commendable, Miss Landy,"
          Edwardson tried.  "I am lucky to have associates who place
          the welfare of patients above all else."
               She gave him a weak smile of gratitude.
               "Do you have many close neighborsx menx who are home
          during the dayxpeople you could alert to come to your aid on
          a prearranged signal?"  Loren asked.
               "Yes," Melody responded.  "Two, at least."
               "Well, then, I can't see any problem.  After all, we're
          dealing with a tiny aged man.  But I don't quite understand.
          Doesn't Mrs. Allen work here every day?"
               "Oh, of course you would be confused," Dr. Edwardson
          said.  "She is an on-call nurse.  She helps us during
          overloads.  As you know, we've just been through a flu
          epidemic; but the last of those who had been hospitalized
          were discharged yesterday.  There is no present need."
               "How will your husband react to all this?"  Miss Landy
          asked unexpectedly.
               "Abel?"  She laughed.  "Abel does anything I tell him
          to do.  He's a six-foot-four pussycat."
               "So it's settled.  He can go right after lunch; and you
          may borrow the wheel chair for as long as it's needed, Mrs.
          Allen.  Loren, would you like to be chauffeur?"  The doctor
          looked suddenly impish.  "No, no, don't cut down any of our
          jack pines for a travois.  Use my buggy.
               "Please don't hesitate to contact me if anything
          unusual develops with the patient, Mrs. Allen.  And mark
          your calendar so you don't forget to bring him in for cast
          removal."
               "I won't forget, Doctor ... I never forget."
               Neither of the men noticed the silent communication
          taking place then between the two nurses:  Melody's sweet
          smile met a comprehending stare.
               On the trip to the Allen house, Zeb was cheerful but
          subdued.  He sat in the back of the buggy beside his
          beautiful benefactor and grappled with his astounding
          mystery:  Why would this sophisticated young lady take a
          scoundrel like himself into her own home?  In his entire
          seventy years he had never encountered such a magnanimous
          act.
               "Jest don't make no sense a-tall, none a-tall," he told
          himself.  But the buggy's squeak seemed to take up the
          crafty voice of that other old scoundrel, his long-dead
          father:
               "Ye don't never git nothin' fer nothin'; ye don't never
          git nothin' fer nothin'; ye don't ..."
               Loren, the wheel chair tied in beside him, was
          surprised to find that Melody lived rather close to the
          livery stable.  He had passed her place several times on his
          business there with Robert Watt, the stable boss.  Her place
          was sixth among a row of seven red and white cottages for
          miners.
               "There it is," she said.  "See?  There's a night shift
          miner living on each side of me.  That one belongs to John
          Watkins and the other to Alex Clark.  They're both here
          sleeping all day long."
               Loren had no difficulty getting the little man inside
          and into the wheel chair.
               "You're very welcome to visit him ... us ... any time
          you like, Loren," she said huskily as he turned to go.
               "Thanks, M-Melody, I will.  Goodbye, Zeb."
               "Goodbye, young feller.  Thanks ferx thanks ferx ."
               "Think nothin' of it, you old sidewinder."
               Back at the hotel he entered the bar and ordered a shot
          of whiskey, even though there was a full bottle in his room.
          It didn't help at all.  Finally, he went upstairs.  It was
          early afternoon, but he lay wearily down on the bed and
          reached for his magic formula.
               Perhaps it would blot from his mind the image of a
          desirable woman whose husband could easily become his very
          best friend.
          
          
          
          
          III.
          
               Loren White walked out of Frank Cafe feeling wonderful.
          It was mid-day on a spring-like Saturday.  He had risen with
          the sun and had spent the morning roaming about trying to
          cleanse himself in scenery and clean, crisp air again.  His
          mind still pictured Crowsnest Mountainx how it had shimmered
          off in the distance like a fortified ice castle above the
          passx how it had reminded him, suddenly, of his reason for
          coming to this place.  She had expressed it as " ... a man
          driven to express beauty ... "
               "Not to exploit it, not to creep among the shadows to
          steal it," he paraphrased her next words grimly.  Then he
          had resolved to ride up there to the mountain at the first
          opportunity, to be free again, to find out if there were any
          hues besides black left for his canvas.
               Two well-dressed matrons were approaching him along the
          boardwalk.  They were so immersed in conversation that they
          seemed unaware of their surroundings; and Loren had to step
          aside to let them pass.
               "Oh, yes," one of them was saying, "that little Gina
          Olson is such a pretty, accommodating thing.  But it's a
          terrible shame, her being so ... well ... so masculine.  It
          must be a trial for her parentsx such finex ."  The woman
          caught herself, realizing she had almost collided with a
          man.
               "Oh!  Oh, good afternoon, Mr. White.  Isn't it a
          sparkling day for February?"
               "Good afternoon, ladies.  Yes, yes, it is."
               As they waddled away, they confined themselves now to
          embarrassed whispering.
               "Masculine?"  Loren gasped to himself.  "That's the
          most preposterous thing I've everx !  Why, if they're
          talking about the same delicate little ...  Probably two old
          busybodies with nothing better to do than to pillory their
          neighbors, especially those not about half-eaten by ugly."
               "How do you do, Mr. White," an approving voice said.
               This time it was Loren who had almost bumped into
          someone.
               "Mr. Farmer.  Hello.  Sorry, I guess I was daydreaming
          there."
               "Yes.  Only something immensely interesting could
          absorb a person so," he smiled.    "A penny for your
          thoughts, sir."
               Loren could not resist:  "Only a penny, Mr. Farmer?  No
          wonder you're such a prosperous banker."
               Some further small talk ensued; then the two men
          parted.
               "A most substantial young man," the banker mused
          silently, remembering the sizeable transfer of funds his
          establishment had just received in behalf of the artist.
          "It would be interesting to learn how he came into his
          fortune."
               There was no missing the imminence of Abel Allen a
          moment later.  The friendly giant had trumpeted a greeting
          while still thirty feet down the walk.
               "Hey, Loren!  Better not try it:  You'll be takin' yer
          life in yer hands!"
               Melody's husband again!  Is there no way to get her out
          of my mind?
               "What the devil are you talking about, Abel?  I'd
          better not try what?"  Loren laughed, expecting the worst
          and getting it.
               "I saw ya' sizin' up Mr. Union Bank there a minute ago.
          But don't try breakin' into his vault unless I help ya'.  He
          lives directly upstairs at the place, and he sleeps on four
          loaded revolvers every night."
               "Well, I'll just have to risk it, I guess.  Not half as
          scary as honest work ... Why is your face all puffed up?"
               Abel put a thick hand to his cheek.  "That Doc Barratt
          shouldn't be allowed to work on a dead horse.  Pulled a
          perfectly good tooth.  Hurts like holyx .  Hey, I was just
          headin' home to soak the bloody wound in some healin'
          hundred-proof.  Why don't ya' join me?"
               "No, I don't think so, Abel.  I've got somex ."
               "The hell you do.  There's not one old cow in Frank
          worth punchin'."  He guffawed.  "No pretty pink bloomers to
          paint, either.  You wouldn't leave me alone with that spooky
          little feller, would ya'?  Melody's plannin' to run off to
          Lang's for a  fluffy thing.  Or was it hip boots?"
               A meaty arm fell across Loren's shoulders.
               "Besides, I have a score to settle with you for
          droppin' that tipsy gnome off in my lap the other day."
               Loren White winced.  "I was worried about that.  Has he
          torn up the place yet?"
               They had already reached Gold Creek and were clomping
          across the foot bridge.  The row of red and white houses was
          directly ahead.
               "Naw.  He's weird, no doubt about it.  But he's
          likeable enough, too, in a twisted kinda' way.  Good company
          around the fire at night.  Damndest liar I ever met.
          Reminds me of ol' Louis Malfin.  Lives down at the river.
          Louis can curl yer hair with his whoppers about the lost
          Lemon Minex .   Ah, here we are.  Melody'll be glad to see
          ya'."
               She was.  Her greeting and smile were enough to
          threaten any man's lofty resolve.
               "Well, durn me!"  Zeb cackled from his wheel chair.
          "When did you two bust outa' jail?"
               "Don't go near him, Loren," Abel cautioned.  "He's
          rabid."
               "What have they been feeding you, Zeb?  You look
          wonderful!"  Loren missed the sudden frown that flicked
          across Melody's face.
               "Nothin' much.  Table scraps an'x ."
               Abel snorted.  "Hah!  He's eaten everything in the
          house except the doorknobs, Loren; and I've seen himx."  He
          put a hand to his cheek.
               Melody caught the movement.  "Oh-oh.  Did Dr. Barratt
          pull that tooth, honey?"
               "Naw, he knocked it out with a sledge hammer.  I"m
          gonna need all yer lovin' care for a month or two.  We'll
          have to throw that old man out in the snow."
               "All right.  If I get back from Lang's before spring,"
          she joked.  "Sorry, Loren, I have to rush off.  Next time.
          Or perhaps later."  She turned to her husband.  "No orgies
          while I'm gone."
               "How about when you get back?"
               She wrinkled her nose at him, gave Loren another
          dazzling smile, and disappeared.
               "How'd a polecat like you ever trap sech a fine woman?"
               "That does it, old man.  You're really goin' out in the
          snow now.  Loren, wheel him to the door while I get his
          medicine.  'Course, you don't get any, Pop; it's for Loren
          and me."
               "Fresh air will do you good, Zeb,"  Loren said as he
          opened the door.  "Feels like April out there."
               Abel thrust a full bottle into Clanton's blanketed lap,
          then the two younger men lifted the wheel chair outside.  A
          moment later they were all sitting in the sunshine.
               "Why, you rotten thief," Abel laughed, snatching the
          bottle form Zeb.  "You've already stolen half of it!"
               Within a half-hour the bottle had passed around the
          circle several times, and Zeb had consumed most of what was
          missing.
               Abel pulled the container away from him again now and
          fixed the old fellow with a lop-sided grin.  "Zeb, I been
          meanin' to  ask ya':  Are you the only one of your kind, or
          did ya' come from a long line of animals?"
               "Fer a big feller, you sure take a lot a' chances,"
          Clanton wheezed, shaking a tiny fist in mocking menace.
          "No, I was borned of a real white woman, my daddy claimed.
          But don't rec'lect her a-tall.  He taught me all about
          drinkin', an' wenchin', an' pannin' fer gold.  But some
          feller laid open his throat with a broken bottle one night
          back in '53.  In a place called the Gouge Eye Bar.
          Damndest, bloodiest thing I ever seed ... Good riddance,
          though:  Ol' tramp uster like punchin' on me before I got
          big enough ta fight ... Left Californy after that 'cause the
          gold was petered out.  Tried prospectin' in B.C. an'
          Montana.  Managed ta stay alive.  Then I high-tailed it up
          ta git in on the Fraser River gold strike up from Yale, then
          across ta the big one in Cariboo."
               "Didn't you ever hit a rich one, Zeb?"
               "What's thet ye say?  Oh ... No, not 'tilx.  No, not
          never, really.  Was glad to be in the Cariboo, even so.
          Thet's when thet fool Lincoln was a-slaughterin' good white
          folk fer them Nigras.  I b'lieve I was borned a Yank, an' I
          coulda' ended up daid in the army fer some blubberin' slave
          ... Best thing that ever happened was when thet big
          woodchopper took a bullet in the skull ... Damn!  Who's a-
          hoggin' the b-booze?"
               "Here, Zeb," Loren said grimly.  "Don't let it go to
          your head.  Reminds me, Abel, What did youx?"
               "Heerd about Fort Whoop-up then," Zeb interrupted.  He
          seemed almost unaware of his surroundings at this point.
          "Heerd how them boys was a-gittin' rich sellin' whiskey ta
          the Blackfeet an' them other savages fer furs, an' squaws,
          an'x Hee!  Hee!  Them greasy critters would sell their wives
          ferx.  Hee!  Hee!  But the damn Mounties ruint thet."
               Loren and Abel exchanged dark looks; but the old man
          plunged on, his voice becoming shrill.
               "Last March, though, I give one a them heathens a
          bottle a' pizen fer a scrap a' paper.  Thet's all it were ta
          him.  Hah!  Best move I everx."  Zeb jerked suddenly, and
          his eyes refocused.  He glowered at his companions fearfully
          then leaned back into heavy breathing, mumbling and
          trembling.
               "You all right?"  Loren asked.
               "Yeah," he grunted morosely, clamping his eyes shut.
          "L-let m-me be ... Let me rest a b-bit."  His tone was edged
          with suspicion now.
               Abel stared at the weatherbeaten face and felt a little
          sick.  He hadn't realized that depravity had come to dwell
          in his own house.
               Loren White cleared his throat to get Abel's attention:
          The cowboy artist wore a somber expression and was tapping
          his temple with an index finger.  The big miner nodded,
          rose, and went into the house to cache the offending bottle.
          When he returned, the mountain man was snoring.
               "What's happening inside the Turtle?"  Loren asked at
          length, grasping for any release from Clanton's twisted
          world.
               "Same old mule labor, Lorenx except ..."  A worried
          expression wrenched at his features.  "Well, I've been
          cuttin' out coal long enough to know that a mine is ... is
          kind of a livin' thing.  Ya' can feel it, sort of, without
          really knowin' how.  Maybe it's because a part of a feller,
          deep down somewhere, is always listenin', always aware that
          he's walkin' around in methane gas an' explosive coal dust
          that just one little spark canx .  Anyhow, a coupla' fellers
          quit yesterday.  Don't mention it to Melody."
               "No, no.   Of course not."
               It was the first time Loren had seen this side of his
          new friend.  The happy-go-
          lucky, devil-may-care fellow had disappeared; and the artist
          wondered if what remained were the real person, a person
          unmasked to reveal a fear that stalked him every day of his
          life.
               "Did something unusual happen to make them quit, Abel?"
               "Well, maybe not anything you could put your finger on
          lately.  Like I said, though, ya' get so ya' canx can sense
          somethin'.  An' now and then there have been little kinda'
          rumblin' noises, an' creakin's, an' ground movements."  He
          laughed nervously.  "Sort of like a big ghost trampin'
          around in the dark there somewhere, hammerin' at the
          supports or smashin' against the walls.
               "An' it's not all imagination, either:  Coupla' months
          ago we found
          two-foot square timbers set by the night boys splintered
          like so much kindlin'."
               Loren gave a low whistle.
               "Back in October, too, there was an explosion in the
          mine.  Killed two greenhorns.  Some say it was because they
          had been using the old flame-type lamps, but nobody knows
          for sure."
               "Git out!  Git the hell out, Abel, while ye still kin!"
          Zeb shouted.
               He was sitting upright in his wheel chair, and his eyes
          were rolling crazily.
               "Them was warnin's, Abel, warnin's!  They's happenin's
          all around us thet most folks don't never understand.
          They's warped places ... frozen, twisty places ... out in
          the mountains where no human has ever set foot.  An' they's
          evil things ... evil things out there a-watchin'ever'wherex
          waitin' fer the right time ta cut us down fer trespassin' on
          their sacred ground."
               His voice was almost a shriek now, and he was bouncing
          and pounding his casts against the chair.
               "Easy, easy, old man," Loren soothed.  "You've been
          dreaming.  You just woke up.  It'sx ."
               "Dammit, listen ta me, ya' young fool!  I ain't crazy
          like ya' all been a-sayin'.  People's gonna die!  The devils
          say all a' Crowsnest Pass is sacred, an' the white man's
          done vi'lated it.  Git outa' thet mountain, Abel, or yer' a
          dead man!"
               "Calm down, Zeb, before ya' hurt yourself," Abel
          cajoled.  "It's demon rum talkin'.  You drank most of the
          bottle."
               Zeb took a shuddering breath and exhaled.  He looked at
          Abel steadily for a moment then spoke quietly:
               "The big Turtle's one a' the hexed spots, young feller.
          I know, I beenx I been told.  Why do ye s'pose the Indians
          won't camp under it, hah?  Didn't think I knowed thet, did
          ye?  An' why do ye s'pose they call it the 'mountain that
          walked'?  Didn't think I knowed thet either, did ye?  I
          wouldn't a-mentioned these things, but you an' yer lady been
          good ta me.  Think I like bein' called a crazy man?  I
          heerdx ."
               A large shape made a swooping arc just a few feet
          overhead, and there was a whine of wind on feathers before
          the sky was abruptly clear again.  Everyone ducked
          involuntarily.
               Zeb let out a shriek and tried to scramble from the
          wheel chair, but Loren and Abel jumped to prevent it.
               "Tshyplal!  Oh, God!  See?  Cannibal!  I told ye, I
          told ye!  Git yer filthy hands off
          x let me loose!"  He fought at them savagely.
               "Stop it. Zeb, it was nothin'!"  Abel shouted.  "I
          thought you said you weren't crazy."
               Clanton fell limp.  "I ain't.  I ... I'm sick, thet's
          all.  G-git me inta the house, please, q-quick.  W-won't
          cause no more trouble."  But he continued to shoot terrified
          looks overhead.
               "That's better.  Come on, Loren, give me a hand."
               They carried the wheel chair back inside, removed the
          quivering body, and placed it on the bed in a small back
          room.  Abel covered him with a blanket, and the old man
          looked up gratefully.  There was rolling perspiration
          pasting tangled, white hair to his forehead.
               "Obliged, young feller.  Sorry.  Won't ... won't cause
          ye no more trouble."
               "No problem, Pop.  Get some sleep."
               Both younger men went back outside and sat down again.
          Abel Allen sighed deeply and looked with wonder at his
          friend.
               "What the bloody hell do you suppose that was all
          about?  Nothin' but a big buzzard comin' in low.  Prob'ly
          after somethin' dead farther out in the flats somewhere.
          Didn't see us sittin' up close under the trees."
               "Beats me.  Zeb must be some strange kind of vulture
          bait, though:  Last Sunday, just as I reached him where he
          was lying like a dead man on his ledge, another large one,
          about the same size, acted as if it wanted to knock me the
          rest of the way down the cliff."
               Abel grinned almost normally.  "Maybe those three old
          birds know somethin' we don't ... Did ya' hear that cannibal
          stuff?  And what was that other blood-curdlin' thing he
          hollered?  Did ya' catch it?  Gave me the creeps.  Sounded
          like 'shiplall' or somethin'."
               "Yes, I heard it.  Probably Indian.  He was jabbering
          out some stuff like that on Sunday, too; and then I'm told
          he used a  Cree word on Dr. Edwardson the other day.  Doc
          didn't like it at all.  He understands a little Cree, I
          guess.  Got Zeb a quick needle in the flesh."
               "No foolin'?  Did the doctor tell you what it meant?"
               "Yeah.  Noting serious."  Loren smiled and paused.  "It
          meant 'kill'."
               Abel evidently saw no humor in the anecdote.  He bit
          his lip and looked toward Clanton's room.
               White watched him reflectively for a moment then asked:
          "Why don't you get out of the mine, Abel?"
               "Goin' to.  Been workin' on it for a long while; and,
          finally, I'm just about there, in spite of hard times.  By
          spring I'll have enough saved for a down payment on a
          beautiful spread of land up by Fort Saskatchewan.  Plan to
          take some time off in April to go up there an' make final
          arrangements.  When I get back, me an' Melody are gonna kiss
          this place goodbye an' be dirt farmers.  Gonna raise a
          million acres a' wheat an' a hundred fat kids."
               Loren winced in spite of himself.  He was unaccountably
          disturbed and had difficulty visualizing Melody as a
          hinterland farm matron with runny-nosed babies hanging from
          her apron.  He just couldn't paint her into a picture of
          outhouses in twenty below zero snow banks.
               "Well, good, Abel," he managed.  "Be sure to tell Old
          Father Time.  It might ease his mindx if he still has one.
          And I'll bet Melody is counting the days."
               "Melody?  Oh, she's not ... not all that excited about
          it.  But I know she'll be taken with the country when she
          sees it."
               ... When Melody had left the three men, however, she
          was taken with fury instead.  As she moved up the footpath
          toward town, she gave vent to two days of suppressed
          frustration.  Ever since they had brought Zeb Clanton home,
          he had said no more about gold.  In fact, his mental state
          seemed to have accomplished almost a complete turn.  For the
          most part now, he was talkative and friendly; and he and
          Abel had been getting along famously.  It was infuriating.
               "You despicable, youx you absolutely loathsome old
          degenerate!"  she hissed aloud.  "And all I can do is play
          little Miss Nursemaid-Nosewipe and watch the hours tick
          away."  She clenched her fists.  "What right do you have,
          you horrible old man?  Don't you realize how precious little
          time is left?  Don't you knowx ?"
               She saw a neighbor approaching and collected herself.
               "Oh, how nice to see you, Mrs. Ennis," she beamed when
          they had come abreast.  "How is your little Ellen today?
          I've been so worried about her, what with the flu epidemic
          we've just suffered through."
               "No, no, she's fine today, Mrs. Allen.  I guess it was
          just a little cold.  But what about that broken-up little
          man you and your husband have taken under your wings?  What
          a marvelous thing to do for a stranger!  How is he?"
               "Much better.  It's amazing, really."
               They parted after a moment more, and Melody's rancor
          took a new focus:
               "He's turned into nothing but a bloody miser.  I'm
          going to indulge myself for a change.  I just can't stand
          much more of this stifling little town, these grimy people,
          these rags.  Damn!  Why does a woman's destiny have to be
          tied to a man's?  Why does society force her to waste
          talents and education on ax ?  What right do they have to
          expect women to be no more than mindless wallflowers or
          barefoot, brood mares?
               "Well, Abel boy, not Melody, not sweet little Melody!"
               She had reached A. V. Lang's ladies' ready-to-wear
          clothing store before realizing it.  Inside, she found it
          occupied by several tastefully-attired shoppers, all of whom
          greeted her warmly.  She responded in kind, even as she
          tried to hide a threadbare spot on her dress.
               So the fat grubs have wriggled out en masse to flaunt
          their riches ... Wait, ladies,  just you wait ...
               A beautiful piece of apparel on special display caught
          her eye.  She walked over.
               Just my size!  Wouldn't that knock the boys' eyes out?
          I've got to have it; I've  just got to have it!  It's been
          so long since I'vex Aah!  Look at that price!  It must be a
          mistake.  There's no way Ix .
               "Oh, isn't that gorgeous!  And it suits you perfectly.
          Is it your size?"
               It was one of the grubs.
               "Yes, but ... "
               "Really?  And look at the price!  Why, that's an
          absolute bargain.  I wonder how Mr. Lang can afford tox ?
          Oh, Mrs. Allen, snatch it up; it's a steal."
               You gushing hypocrite.  You know damned well I don't
          have that kind of money.  You know Abel is nothing but a
          laborer.  Rub it in, you virtuous little community leader.
               Melody stepped back and looked at the display
          critically.
               "No, no ... I don't think so.  It's pretty enough, but
          it just doesn't appeal to me."
               "Really?  Well, that's wonderful, because it happens to
          be my size, too."  The woman snatched up the item and turned
          away.  "Miss, miss!" she called.
               Why you little tramp!  You dirty little tramp!
               Melody fled from the store without making a purchase.
               Damn you, damn you, Abel!
               Unaccountably, another face filled her mind.  It was
          that of Dr. Edwardson's full-
          time nurse.  It seemed to wear an accusatory smirk.
               "Damn you, too, Evelyn Landy-bitch!"  Mrs. Allen spat
          aloud, fighting back tears.
               As she stumbled toward home she reflected again upon
          the stupid mistake she had made:  She shouldn't have run off
          and left that stodgy little man.  He was a grub, too, middle-
          aged and bald with a pot belly.
               Elmer.  The name fit him somehow, him with his fat,
          pink hands, his greasy bodyx his rich, greasy body.
               Elmer was a prominent, Toronto merchant; and her
          parents had approved of the marriage.  In fact, she had
          always suspected they had set up the whole messy
          arrangement.  She shuddered.
               She was young and naive then, still filled with silly
          dreams of Lochinvars and romantic love.  And Lochinvar came
          along.  She never had seen anything like Abel.  He was a
          great tower of masculine beauty.  He was joyful, unaffectedx
          and alive.  He harbored fantasies of coming west to make his
          fortune.
               "Out there is where the future of Canada lies," he had
          enthused.
               And so she had kicked off the traces and run away with
          him.  She had leaped into his arms and left the greasy pot
          of gold to consume himself in his own fires.
               Then she was disinherited.
               Her parents' betrayal had been the worst.  Every
          fledgling believes in its heart that no tempest can tear
          down its nest; but when it happens, the whole world
          disintegrates.  There had been no contact for years.
               Yes, I should have stayed with the fat man.  No!  No!
          I can still see that pendulous mass hanging over his abdomen
          ... Abel.  Abel is gorgeous, but he has no ambition ...
          Maybe Loren.  There are rumors around town that he has
          money.  How much, though?  A little bit?  That's not enough.
          I want to roll in it.  I want to be able to buy any Goddam
          thing Ix.
               Melody kicked a rock away from the path.
               "The future of Canada, ay?"  Her thoughts were audible
          now.  "Some miserable future!  Well, Mr. Abel Allen, this
          little lady is not going to end up mired in some Fort
          Saskatchewan pig sty.  I don't care what it takes.  That
          just wasn't in the contract, pretty boy."
               Her secret Sturm und Drang had boiled over inside when
          Abel had revealed, with all the excitement of a little
          child, his preposterous dream of a life in the mud.  And he
          would drag his grubstake out of this filthy mountain.
               She laughed bitterly, recalling how desperate she had
          become after that.  There had been wild fantasies about
          robbing the Union Bank somehow.  It was said that the
          establishment was accustomed to plunking out $125,000 in
          American silver dollars on mine pay days.  But who would
          help her?  And how could anyone smuggle out 125,000 silver
          dollars?
               Besides, she hadn't missed the tales about the four
          loaded revolvers.
               "Hello, Gertrude, dear.  Hello, Albert, sweetie."
               She was nearing home and had greeted two of several
          youngsters playing ball between the path and the line of
          seven houses.  She shook her head.  What made miners so
          prolific?  One day she and Abel had estimated the six
          neighboring couples had produced a total of thirty children.
               "Turtle Mountain hangin' over us up there is the house
          of a fertility god, Melody," he had guffawed.  "An
          Assiniboine shaman told me.  Better watch out; I can feel
          it."  Then he had pinched her buttocks, knowing how it would
          irritate her.
               Another nasty expression of males' need to dominate.
          Don't they realize what a humiliating gesture that is?  I'm
          no man's chattel, Abel boy, not even yours! ... You'll think
          of something, Melody; you'll think of something.  You've got
          until April ...
               "What, no orgy?"
               The two men were so  engrossed in conversation they had
          not seen her approach.
               "Where have you hidden the dancing girls, Loren?"  she
          persisted.
               He turned scarlet and couldn't stammer out a
          comprehensible reply.
               "Now, Mr. White, don't try to deny it.  I've been up
          town listening to all the silly girls' tittering about a
          dashing young artist who pranced into town a few days ago
          and turned every eligible maiden's head."
               "Are the fillies fallin' for gruesome nowadays?"  Abel
          laughed, enjoying Loren's squirming.  "What, no packages,
          honey?"
               "No," Melody said with just a trace of sharpness.
          "Where's Zeb?"
               "Oh, that oldx ," Abel scowled.  "He guzzled most of my
          whiskey then went berserk again.  He's sleepin' it off in
          his room.  That old man is livin' in another world, Melody.
          You should have heard him screamin' about cannibals, an'
          evil spirits, an' pannin' for gold."
               "Gold?  What did he say about gold?"
               "Huh?  Oh, nothin' much.  Talked about how he and his
          brute of a father had been with the Argonauts and in the
          Cariboo strike.  You know, typical lyin' prospector stuff."
               "Oh ... Whiskey loosened his tongue a bit, did it?"
               "You can say that again.  He screeched an' hollered
          outside here enough to wake the dead; but you know what
          bothers me the most?  Nobody came to see who was gettin'
          murdered.  I thought John Watkins and Alex Clark were
          supposed to come runnin' to your rescue if they heard
          anything like that."
               Melody put her arms around her husband and looked up at
          him adoringly.
               "Why, you big boob, they knew you were home today,
          that's why.  And they knew Loren was here, too, I'm sure.
          I'll bet they felt you two big muscle men might be able to
          control a tiny Rip Van Winkle, a skeleton with a broken arm
          and leg."
               Abel grinned sheepishly, and Loren's mirth came out in
          leg-slapping glee.
               The blond giant sobered quickly, however; and he
          studied his wife worriedly.
               "There's something else that disturbs me about Zeb,
          honey.  I'm not sure I want him in my house ...
               "His brain is a cesspool ..."
               The sun was edging down behind Turtle and Goat
          Mountains when Loren White threaded his way along the dirt
          path toward his hotel.  His day had begun on a lofty note;
          he had been exhilarated by the majesty of Crowsnest Mountain
          and had felt renewed.  His evening, however, was sullied by
          disquieting questions:
               Why had the vulture materializing over Zeb today reeked
          of the same, foul odor surrounding the one back at the
          cliff's edge?  And had a sudden chill really fallen over
          everything again on this latest occasionx just before the
          big bird had appeared?  Abel hadn't noticed it or hadn't
          deemed it significant enough for comment.
               The question that gnawed most persistently, however,
          was the most outlandish:
               Was Zeb's warning about trespassers onto sacred ground
          not insane babbling after all?
          
          
          
          
          
          
          IV.
          
               Loren White knew there was no basis for panic.  He
          still had what seemed to be an adequate supply; and he
          certainly could stop using the stuff whenever he chose.
          This dependence rot was a myth spread by alarmists and
          holier-than-thouers.  Besides, he hadn't been smoking it
          forever; and there was no evidence, really, that it was
          doing him any harm.  On the contrary, its ability to replace
          anxietyx even hunger and certain base urgesx with an aura
          of tranquility had to be a significant factor for good.
          Those little side issues of transitory nausea and occasional
          constipation were inconsequential.
               He had come to suspect the quality of his last
          shipment, however:  It had been necessary lately to alter
          the pellet-tobacco ratio to "open the sorcerer's door"
          adequately or to "find the keys to the cave," as he liked to
          describe the experience.  He would complain to his supplier.
               Yes, he confirmed to himself, there certainly was a lot
          less in the bag than he had remembered; but, with just a bit
          of moderationx say, use on alternate nights, rather than
          every nightx he should be able to manage quite nicely until
          the next shipment arrived.  He would dispatch a letter
          today.
               And it wasn't panic, anyhow ... just a minor uneasiness
          ...
               An hour later he walked into the post office to rent a
          box and mail his letter.  There was only one customer
          blocking access to the clerk at the window, but the man
          moved aside to leave almost as soon as Loren fell in behind
          him.
               "Well, Loren White!"  It was Dr. Edwardson, beaming
          with pleasure.  "What a surprise bumping into you.  How have
          you been, and how is old Mr. Clanton?  I understand you've
          been to visit him."
               "Good to see you, Doctor.  I'm fine, and so is Zeb ...
          Well, not altogether.  You never know when he's going to
          drop off the edge again, so to speak.  Yes, I visited him at
          the Allen's on Saturday.  He was perfectly fine until he got
          a snoot full.  That seemed to trigger it."
               Edwardson was troubled.
               "Yes.  And, of course, in this case, alcohol may be
          less of a cause than a catalyst.  You know, we really
          shouldn't blame him for his ... uh ... startling, anti-
          social outbursts.  He can't help himself:  I'm convinced
          they are strictly psychogenic.  Don't misunderstand me,
          though, I'm sure prolonged abuse of alcoholx or for that
          matter, any other kind of mind-altering substancex is going
          to damage the brain, as well as other organs.
               "Hah!"  he chuckled.  "That reminds me.  Stop by and
          visit when you can.  We'll abuse another shot or two of
          brandy together."
               Loren was thankful for the levity.  It gave him a means
          to disguise the discomfort wrought by the physician's
          earlier words.
               "I will, Doctor, I will; and I'm glad we bumped into
          one another."
               "Yes, indeed.  Goodbye, Loren."
               "Goodbye, Doctor."
               "How do you do, Mr. White.  How can I help you?"
               The greeting came through a smile highlighting a pretty
          face and a shock of short blonde hair.
               "Ginax I'm sorryx Miss Olson!  I'd heard you ... were
          ... you worked here, but I wasn't expecting to ... "
               "Well," she laughed, "I'm surprised you recognized me.
          It was so dark when you and the doctor brought your patient
          in that night.  I'm glad to know he is improvingx that is,
          physically."  She reddened and dropped her eyes.  "Forgive
          me, I couldn't help overhearing."
               "That's quite all right.  We weren't exactly
          whispering."
               Hazel eyes ... and such an innocent, such a child-like,
          face ...
               "Please, Miss Olson, I don't want to embarrass you, but
          a question has been nagging at me ever since that Sunday.
          Just what kind of magic did you work on Zeb to quiet him so
          miraculously?"
               She reddened again.  "Oh, it was nothing, nothing at
          all.  He was just terrified, couldn't you tell?  He was like
          a tiny forest creature you manage to catch in your hand for
          a second.  All heartpound and tremble."  Her eyes dropped
          once more.
               A fragment of an ancient verse dropped into Loren's
          mind:  "... Whispers 'mid the gathered sheaves:  Shadow-
          pixies in the leaves ..."
               "Mr. White?"
               She was studying him with perplexity.
               He jerked, realizing he had been caught up in reverie
          even as he stood before her.
               "How can I help you?"  she repeated.
               "Oh, yes, yes.  I'm sorry.  Ix uhx I need to ... to
          rent a box."
               "Oh, good.  That confirms you will be staying on a
          while."  She blushed a third time then hurried to comply
          with his request, leaving the window for a moment.
               Loren heard someone enter the building and turned to
          see an agreeable-looking young man in the uniform of the
          North-West Mounted Police.  The officer appraised him for an
          instant then smiled and held out his hand.
               "Well, unless I miss my guess, you would be Loren
          White, the notorious cowboy-
          artist who has taken our community by storm."
               "I'd like to contact my mouthpiece," White laughed,
          shaking the lawman's hand with warmth.
               "I'm Constable Quartersloe.  Welcome to Frank.  No,
          welcome to Canada.  I understand you're from Montana."
               "Yes, indirectly.  You did say 'Quartersloe'?"
               The constable grinned wryly.  "Yes, I'm afraid so; and
          I suppose we had better get the whole, sordid story behind
          us.  Right, Miss Olson?"
               Gina had reappeared at the window and was smiling
          broadly.  "Constable Quartersloe is the Pennycuick of
          Crowsnest Pass," she said to Loren.
               "Pennycuick?"
               "That's what I get for having a name like Quartersloe.
          But, in all honesty, I don't deserve the Pennycuick honor.
          I'm just a footsore, run-of-the-mill policeman."
               "But I don't understand.  Whox?"
               "Of course.  I should have realized," Quartersloe
          chuckled.  "Most Yanks probably wouldn't have heard of our
          famous Alick Pennycuick.  He's called  'The Sherlock
          Holmes of the Mounted Police.'  His first real notoriety
          came from some unbelievable sleuthing he did in the Yukon
          about three years ago.  Then he did it again just last year
          down the hill in Calgary.  Fantastic stuff.  Poor,
          struggling murderers didn't have a chance."
               "You left out the sordid part, Constable," Gina chided
          delightedly.  "You promised."
               The young fellow sighed.  "Ah, yes; so I did.  Maybe we
          should call you Pennycuick, Miss Relentless," he teased.
          "All right, all right.  Among the lawless and inebriated set
          hereabouts, Mr. White, you may hear certain whispered
          slogans.  Yes, as I recall, one is:  'Quartersloe or
          Pennycuick?  No question.  The poor people of Frank have
          more need of a slow quarter than a quick penny.'"
               There was a little titter from behind the window.
               "Then there are:  'When he's on a scent, he keeps his
          nose high and his hind quarters low' and 'He can't move fast
          because he's a quarter slow' ... That's not a smile is it,
          Mr. White?"
               "Oh, no, certainly not, Constable.  Are there any
          more?"
               "No.  And the originators of those vile sayings have
          received the maximum penalty:  They have all been banished
          to Quebec for life."
               "Those terrible words will never, ever cross my lips,
          sir," Loren guffawed.
               "Life sentences, Mr. White.  Life."  The Mountie beamed
          mischievously and offered his hand again.  "But I had better
          pick up the company mail and be on my way.  I hope you enjoy
          your stay north of the border enough to settle permanently,
          sir.  Canada needs all the good people it can get to fully
          realize its potential."
               "Who knows, Constable?  Maybe I will.  Thank you."
               The officer turned away, and Gina Olson busied herself
          briefly to complete Loren's transaction.  Then she looked up
          eagerly.
               "I've been wanting to ask you something, too, Mr.
          White, if you don't mind."
               "Really?  What have I done?  Whatever it is, please
          don't tell the policeman."
               "I'll find out anyway," Quartersloe teased on his way
          out.  "I'll keep my nose high."  The door closed on his
          laughter.
               "It's about your art," Gina said with animation."  Dr.
          Edwardson said you are going to follow the Rockies north in
          the spring, that you intend to fill your canvases with
          mountains, and lakes, and rivers; that you will roam free
          and alone, perhaps where no one has everx ."  She inhaled
          sharply.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I'm always letting ... "
               "No, no, not at all.  As a matter of fact, I'm
          delighted:  Most people look at a painting and see color,
          and composition, perhaps, or treatments of light and shadow,
          maybe.  That sort of thing.  But once in a while ... uh,
          well ... "
               Loren found himself fumbling self-consciously for
          words; but then he managed to recover enough to go on
          lamely:
               "Once in a while, Miss Olson, an artist encounters
          someone who seems to hear the
          x wellx the song he's trying to  sing."
               "Yes, that's it."  Her eyes widened.  "Have you really
          heard it?  Do you really know it?  The song, I mean."
               "Once or twice I've thought so.  But then it fades, and
          I forget ... Are you an artist, Miss Olson?"
               "Oh, no.  But I love the tangled, wild places, andx ."
               A couple came in and walked to the window.
               "Thank you very much, Miss Olson," Loren said.  "I hope
          I didn't take too much of your time."
               "Of course not, Mr. White.  Perhaps we canx ."  Her
          face was crimson again as she cut herself short.
               A bit later, Loren was walking back to his hotel alone,
          remembering the woman who had nearly collided with him on
          Saturday.  "That little Gina Olson is ... sox wellx so
          masculine," she had mouthed to her companion.  The enormity
          of the characterization was staggering.  He could not
          imagine any circumstance that could vindicate such a
          judgment.  Finally, he settled on the only reasonable
          explanation:  There had to be two Gina Olsons in town.
               "A shadow-pixie in the leaves," he murmured.  "What an
          exquisite little person!"
               Just behind this shining image, however, there lurked
          an insidious one.  It had to do with brain damage behind the
          sorcerer's door ...
               For the next forty hours, Loren's thoughts were
          dominated by Gina.  He was sure there could be no one in the
          world at all like her, no one who could possibly combine
          such charm and purity.  Gone, too, were the conflicting
          emotions he had always felt whenever Melody was involved.
          He was swept clean of anxiety; and, for two nights, he
          hadn't thought once of snatching at "the keys to the cave."
          His chief problem was resisting a compulsion to return to
          the post office on some silly pretense.
               He awoke at dawn on Wednesday with Gina's words in the
          forefront of his mind:  "I love the tangled, wild places,"
          she had said.
               He leaped from bed.  On a breath of whimsy she had
          revealed herself to be a kindred soul.  How many times in
          his own life had he sought out the balancing influences of
          some elemental sanctuary?  Well, today would be another:  He
          would walk to the top of Turtle Mountain.  He had been told
          that many of Frank's residents, drawn by the spectacular
          view, would do this on occasion.
               Not wanting to waste any time, he dressed hurriedly and
          went outside, taking no provisions except a canteen of water
          and some beef jerky.
               He sighted on a promising point to begin his climb and
          started toward it.  Following the Canadian Pacific spur
          line, he crossed the Oldman River via the railroad bridge.
          He could see the mine entrance with men working at the
          tipple, but he turned away to the right.  When he reached
          the spot he had selected to ascend, he was delighted to find
          a trail clearly defined by foot-packed snow.
               His progress, through heavily-wooded and rocky terrain,
          was arduous, requiring many rest stops.  After a long
          struggle, however, he broke out on top of one of the
          Turtle's spires.  It was as if he could see forever.  On an
          impulse, though, he walked to what seemed to be a central
          peak composed primarily of limestone.  He sat on a great
          rock there and tried to comprehend all that his eyes
          presented.
               He didn't know the names of all the landmarks, but
          Crowsnest Mountain in the distance was unmistakable.  He
          picked out Goat Mountain and Tallon Peak, then looked east
          across a vast expanse of plains that lost itself in mist.
          He dropped his eyes and identified the communities of
          Bellevue, Hillcrest, and Blairmore.
               Far below to his right, near the base of the mountain
          and just across the Oldman River, he located the house and
          outbuildings of James Graham's dairy farm.  Nearby could be
          seen a solitary little tent.
               "That must be old Louis Malfin's campsite," Loren told
          himself.
                He had been intrigued by what Abel and other Frank
          residents had told him about this old trapper who chose to
          live year-round down there in his fragile shelter.  Loren
          had always admired self-sufficiency; and here was a man of
          advanced age still able to survive on his own with the
          barest of protection against wintertime temperatures often
          dipping below zero.
               Too, White had been tantalized by the scraps he had
          heard of Malfin's lost Lemon Mine stories.  This had to be a
          remarkable person.  Loren resolved to seek him out.
               He focused upon Frank's Dominion Avenue and found what
          he had suddenly come to regard as its principal buildingx
          the post office.  His stomach twisted.
               Gold Creek glinted in the sunlight.  He followed it to
          the row of miners' cottages.  The sixth one seemed to leap
          up at him.  A "dashing young artist," Melody had called him.
          His stomach twisted again.
               He wrenched his eyes away and studied the other
          dwellings scattered among the jack pines throughout the
          flats, a giddy, near-vertical fall below.  They all
          presented as dismally fragile; and, from these heights, so
          utterly insignificant.  Yet, he knew these homes housed
          love, dreams, honorx even fear, hate, and, yes ...
          covetousness.
               A strange dread assailed him, and he could not escape
          the notion that all the tiny creatures down there were
          caught in some way within the power ofx what did Zeb claim
          the Indians called it?  The mountain that walked.
               A moan rose from somewhere behind him.  Startled, Loren
          leaped up and whirled around.  The sound intensified, and
          far back down he could see a cyclonic action walking through
          the treetops and climbing rapidly toward him.  Loren
          scrambled into a crevice as the moan became a howl and the
          temperature plummeted.  Instinctively, he hunched into a
          fetal position, clasped his hands across the back of his
          neck, and braced himself against the enclosing rocks.
               The force screamed over him.  There was a terrible pain
          in both his ears, and he was certain he and the entire
          mountain were being sucked into the sky.  Everything was din
          and motion for about ten seconds; then something like the
          crack of a rifle sounded from inside the Turtle, and the
          monolith shuddered.  At last all was still, and the warm sun
          could be felt again.
               Loren White resumed breathing and pulled himself
          shakily from the crevice.  He felt a desperate need to get
          off the limestone upthrust and down to the safety of the
          valley.
               "What the hell was that?"  he asked himself as he
          stumbled down the path, absently noting that the outside,
          upper section of his trousers was torn on both legs.  His
          nose was bleeding, as well.
               "Why, just a freak windstorm, you moron, what else
          could it have been?"
               But a crazy man's wail seemed to bounce from the rocks:
               "They's frozen, twisty places ... evil things a-
          watchin' ... ta cut us down fer trespassin' on their sacred
          ground."
               Loren's descent was comparatively rapid; but, by the
          time he neared the mine entrance, the day crew was already
          exiting and beginning the trek toward town.  Abel, towering
          above the rest, spotted the artist quickly and hailed him.
               When they came together, Abel Allen looked at his
          friend in alarm.
               "What the devil!  Did you wrestle down a grizzly or
          somethin'?  Are you all right?"
               "I'm fine, Abel," Loren laughed unconvincingly.  I
          climbed to the top of your Turtle, that's all; and some
          rippin' whirlwind came up and tried to blow me off into the
          river."
               "Damn, fool Yank.  There's two big reasons why you
          shouldn't have gone up there.  The first is:  The Turtle
          doesn't like the smell of foreigners; and the second is:  I
          don't allow any extra weight up top when I'm down in the
          crumbly hole."  He squinted at White, noting the blood on
          his face.  "Tell you what, let's sneak into the Imperial
          Hotel and clean up just a bit.  Otherwise, their barman
          might not think you can pay for the wee bit of rum you're
          gonna buy me."
               "See how you are?  Just like you to take advantage of a
          bleeding and helpless man."
               At the bar they were accosted by a very friendly but
          slightly swaying fellow.  He threw an arm around Loren's
          shoulders and breathed the foul breath of a habitual drunk
          into his face.
               "Hey, Yank!"  he slobbered.  "I got a cousin in
          Minneap'lis.  Maybe you know her.  Name is Claudine Beau-
          Beaufort.  Big fat blonde with ax."
               "This is Tony Slink, Loren.  Goes to church every
          communion Sunday for the refreshments."
               "Did you know this ugly bas-bastard's got the prettiest
          wife in Frank, Yank?  Hee, hee!  Frank Yank!"  Tony Slink
          burped concentrated fumes into White's nostrils again.
          "Yup.  Beautiful an'-an' too good fer the likes a' him.  S-
          some day I'm gonna stealx."
               "Shut up, Tony, and get out of here," Abel laughed.
          "We're not buyin' you any drinks, no matter how gorgeous you
          say Melody is."
               "Stingy bugger, t-too.  Okay, okay, buddy."  He lurched
          away.  "You'll b-be sorry.  One a' these days her an' m-me
          is gonna elope."  He slurred into a wobbly sing-song:  "Me
          an' Mel-Melody Allen, M-Melody Allen; Mel-ody, Melody, Mel-
          ody Allen ..."
               The drunken refrain stayed with Loren long after the
          two friends had departed; and it stalked up the stairs
          beside him to his hotel room that night.  It lay down with
          him on his bed.  Finally, through a curtain of blue smoke,
          it hammered against the sorcerer's door and caromed back and
          forth throughout the walls of the cave, until it was
          consumed at last by whirling darkness .
          * * *
               Louis Malfin reached down painfully and brought his
          line of fish up out of the icy water.  The old man, as he
          affectionately called the Oldman River, had never failed
          him.  He knew in his marrow, however, that it would not need
          to sustain him much longer.  Louis was a very old man, too;
          and he sensed with the instinct of his little brothers, the
          animals he trapped, that his time was very near.  He
          recognized this without dismay, understanding by means of
          that same innate sense that the earth forever longs to
          enfold its children back within the protection of its womb.
               A movement caught his eye, and he scowled.  It was an
          approaching horseman.  Occasionally, children would drop by
          to sit with him on the river bank, just to listen and become
          entranced by his tales.  These innocents he welcomed because
          they were without guile.  He avoided most adults, however.
          He could read the amused contempt with which they regarded
          him; and they were too consumed by self to suspect he had
          selected this isolated spot next to the rushing waters in an
          effort to escape their faces.
               His frown gradually faded.  There was something about
          the way the rider sat his horse.  Ah, yes.  Good, good. This
          wasn't one of the dead ones.  This man has walked under
          solitary moons.
               "Hello.  Sorry to bust in on you," the big fellow said
          as he dismounted.  "My name is Loren White.  You must be Mr.
          Malfin."
               "I be thet.  Good mornin' to ye.  Good lookin' horse ye
          got there."
               "Best friend I've got, almost.  Fresco's carried me
          through a lot of rough places."
               "You like trout?"
               "Yes, but I didn't come here tox."
               "The old man musta' knowed I was gonna have a visitor.
          Come on in."
               Malfin turned and walked past a hobbled burro toward
          his tent, leaving no opportunity for further objections.
          Loren, following him inside, found himself surrounded by a
          trapper's paraphernalia:  Against the length of one canvas
          wall, a structure formed of thong-secured poles supported
          hanging pelts, traps, and rough items of clothing.  A
          similar contrivance occupying almost half of the entrance
          wall contained skis, snowshoes, a canteen, a hide-covered
          rifle, and other equipment.  A bedroll stood upright in the
          opposite corner, a bearskin rug lay on the floor; and a
          battered camp table with two chairs took up most of the
          space remaining.
               "Set, son, set," the old man urged.  He walked to a pot-
          bellied stove placed forward about five feet from the wall.
          Its stovepipe was aimed at a high window with an open flap.
          Malfin put a lump of coal on the hot embers and removed a
          big knife from his belt.
               "Grub'll be ready pretty quick.  How'd ya' find me way
          out here?"
               "I climbed to the top of the Turtle yesterday and
          spotted your tent.  I ... uh ... I sort of admired the way
          you live, andx ."
               "No feather bed, no 'lectricity, a dirt floor, an
          outside trench-toilet behind a tree, smoky and cold as hell
          inside here sometimes."  Malfin's grin was toothless, and
          his face was a living mass of wrinkles.
               "And free as an eagle," White smiled back.
               The ancient eyes twinkled.  "Mebbe you deserve thet
          fine animal you got after all ... Thought I saw somethin'
          movin' up on the Turtle yesterday ... Anything unnatur'l
          happen up there?"
               Loren jerked.  "Unnatural?  Whyx uhx there was a crazy
          kind of windstorm, that's all.  Sounded and felt as if a
          world full of devils had been turned loose on me."
               "Mebbe they was, mebbe they was."  The fish were
          sizzling in the pan now.  "High places an' far places is
          full a' strange things; an' I've lived long enough ta know
          them smart, pink boys with all the book-learnin' don't know
          too much a' nothin' worth knowin'."
               "Why did you ask if anything unnatural had happened on
          the mountain?"
               "Well, I been camped down under the big Turtle fer
          quite a spell.  An' I been in the way-out back country all
          by myself long enough ta be able ta read a few signs.  A
          feller learns ta listen, too, an' ta feel, sorta'.  Folks in
          town think I'm outa' my mind."
               "Town folks know about towns, Mr. Malfin."
               "Louis," the old man grinned.  "'Mr. Malfin' be town-
          folk talk."
               "Good.  And I'm Loren.  But I don't mind 'son' or
          'sonofabitch', as long as you smile, as the feller says.
          But did you see something up top yesterday?"
               "Kind of a cloud.  Didn't last long.  Didn't seem ta
          fit, neither.  But lately, some nights I kin hear things,
          mebbe the old man talkin' er the trees whisperin'.  Things
          is stirrin'-like, talkin' 'bout changes comin'."
               "Is it true the Indians call the Turtle ' the mountain
          that walked' and that they won't camp hereabouts?"
               "Yup.  Them Stoneys.  Don't blame 'em fer bein'
          skeered.  Them people been in this country fer cent'ries;
          an' they hear what the mountains say.  But I ain't much
          bothered 'bout the Turtle.  Never thought a feller should
          run from no hatchet meant fer him."
               "A few days ago an old man told me the entire Crowsnest
          Pass area is a sacred place, I guess to the Indians, and
          that white people are going to die for violating it.  Do you
          believe that?"
               Louis Malfin looked at him solemnly out of sunken eyes.
          "Lotta' folk has died already.  Last year a explosion in the
          Coal Creek mine killed 128 men, an' another one right inside
          the Turtle took two more fellers last October.  Five year
          back aroun' thet little town called Crowsnest, 'bout thirty
          construction workers died a' typhoid."
               "But most people would say you have to expect accidents
          in mines, and that people will always die in epidemics."
               "Yup.  Could be true.  We'll jest have ta wait an' see
          how many more a' yer accidents er epidemics is goin' ta
          happen.  But I tell ye, they's gonna be changes."
               Malfin stood up and grunted.  A claw-like hand clutched
          at the small of his back.  "Time ta gnaw on rainbows," he
          chuckled as he went to the frying pan.
               They ate the fish from a single tin plate and used
          their hunting knives and fingers for cutlery.
               "Best meal I've had since I've been in Frank, Louis,"
          Loren exulted, wiping a hand on his trousers.
               "How long ye been here, son?  Are ye goin' ta crawl
          inta the Turtle with the rest a' the gophers?"
               Loren told him of his plans, how he had worked in
          Montana as a cowboy and something of his earlier life.
               "Didn't figger ya' fer a coal-diggin' man," Malfin
          said.  "Thought mebbe ya' might be trackin' the Lemon Mine
          like a lotta' other pore fools, but thet didn't seem ta fit
          neither."
               "Abel Allen said you know something about the lost
          Lemon Mine story.  I'd like to hear about it."
               "You're a friend a' Abel Allen?  Now there's a right
          fine lad.  Not many like him.  He's been out ta chew the fat
          once er twice.  Welcome any timex like you.  You two been
          chiseled from the same tree, 'cept he don't b'lieve all my
          stories.
               "Yup, I know somethin' 'bout the mine, not 'cause I
          went lookin' but 'cause I got some good Bearspaw, an'
          Chiniki, an' Wesley, an' Blackfoot friends thet knows the
          real story.  They really is a mine out there, son, an' I got
          a pretty good notion where it be.  I been in thet country
          an' I seen some a' the secret trails, an' rivers, an'
          mountains thet ain't on no maps.  But, mostly, I felt things
          an' I heerd things; an' I know a white man ain't safe out
          there lookin' fer the Lemon gold.
               "I'm glad yer' not one a' the fools, son.  Anyways,
          ain't much ta the story.  Fellers named Blackjack an' Lemon
          jest stumbled on the vein thirty-odd years ago; and Lemon
          went crazy an' murdered his partner over it.  Coupla' Stoney
          Indians saw the killin', though, an' told their chief.  So
          when Lemon left all a-ravin', old Chief Bearspaw made his
          braves wipe out any trace a' the strike.  Didn't need no
          army a' whites outa' their minds over 'yeller fire'
          stampedin' in an' ruinin' their huntin' grounds.  Ain't
          nobody ever been able ta find the exact spot since then, not
          even Lemon.  An' thet's about it."
               Loren whistled.  "That's quite a story; and, from what
          you say, maybe there really are such things as hexes.  Maybe
          old Zeb Clanton was right."
               "Clanton?  Zebadiah Clanton?"  Louis Malfin was
          obviously distressed.  "Would thet be a little skinny
          prospector almost as old as me with long white hair all over
          his head an' face?  Uster do some whiskey-tradin' an'
          knockin' aroun' in the B.C. gold strikes?"
               "Sounds like the same feller.  Do you know him, Louis?
          He's here in Frank with a broken arm and leg."
               "No, never met 'im.  Jest know of 'im."  Malfin's
          shriveled face darkened.
               "Stay away from 'im son ...  He's pizen."
          
          
          
          
          
          V.
          
               Sit there and drool.  Sit in your wheel chair and
          snore, you infuriating blob of human refuse.  Sit there and
          digest my cooking while you sleep, vermin. Oh, how it galls
          me to have to smile sweetly whenever you cram my food inside
          that weasel mouth!  And the only thing that comes out of
          that hole in your face is what seeps from its corners.  Aah!
          Look how it mixes with the filth already on your nasty old
          beard.
               No, no, Zeb -rot.  I'll squeeze the secret out of that
          stringy neck one way or another.  I just have to think, to
          think.  There must be a way.  Use your brain, girl, your
          brain!
               Melody Allen pretended to read as these thoughts
          tumbled through her mind, even as she watched and waitedx
          and silently entreated Zeb Clanton to go crazy again and
          talk about gold.  But he had been in her home for ten days
          now and had not given so much as a hint about the Lemon
          Mine.  Not since that drunken episode with Abel and Loren
          two days after she had taken him in.
               The strain was taking its toll:  She was losing weight;
          every day it became more difficult to hide her impatience.
          Each night found her lying half awake listening for the
          slightest sound from the old man's room; and she would slip
          over to him in the darkness at his every groan or mumble.
          To this end, Melody had insisted upon leaving his door ajar.
                "In case you need me at night, little daddy," she had
          whispered endearingly.
               Of course, this meant leaving the Allen's bedroom door
          cracked open, too, a concession Abel made only after a great
          show of indignation.  Melody, of course, always prevailed.
               She had prevailed, too, when Abel had wanted to turn
          Clanton out of the house.
               "I tell you, Melody, that old manure pile is rotten
          clean through," he had insisted with much animation.  "You
          can't imagine the sewage he was babblin' while you were
          shoppin' the other day.  I don't care if he was drunk.
          Matter of fact, I think liquor lets you see the real person
          behind the mask.  He'llx he'll tarnish our home, Melody.  If
          we sleep with a pig, we'll soon smell like a pig!"
               "Oh, come now, honey," she had responded with practiced
          charm and intimate gestures of affection.  "You heard a man
          out of his mind talking.  That was the Devil in possession.
          No, you've seen that broken little fellow's sweet side as
          well as I have.  That's the real person.  And do you know
          what?  Our fallen sparrow loves you, Abel.  You must have
          noticed.  He can't wait for you to come home in the evening.
               "Uh-uh.  I know you, you big old, softy.  You're not
          going to turn any frail granddaddy out in the cold."
               It had been easy; but Abel was always easy.  It had
          become disappointing in a way, however.  She had thought in
          the beginning that he would be stronger; but the idea made
          her laugh inside now.  She had learned a lot since those
          giddy, flighty days.
               Menxhah!  They're all weaklings inside, in spite of
          their muscles and bravado.  Especially you, mountain man
          Zeb.
               "Hee, hee!"  Clanton snickered, as if to mock her from
          his dream state.
               Even though Melody knew his laughter rose from
          subconscious imagery, its derisive sting served to shock her
          into more productive deliberation.
               All right, Melody, this is getting you nowhere.
          Wallowing in misery never solved anything.  Logic, logic.
          Look the monster problem in the eye and bring it down to
          your size:  Just what are you facing?
               Time ... time, first and foremost, that's what.  It's
          March 1st, and Abel will be leaving for Fort Saskatchewan in
          April to buy his precious farm.  When he returns for me,
          I'll have no choice but to go with him if I'm still here.
          That means the gold mine must actually be found before he
          gets back ... Oh, it's just impossiblex it can'tx !  Shut
          up, idiot, and think!  It can be done, because there's no
          acceptable alternative.
               All right, you must find a way to get yourself as much
          time as possible.  How do you do that?  ... Why, it's
          simple, dummy!  You can convince Abel to be gone at least
          two weeks.  You can say a move that important cannot be
          taken precipitously.  Check everything twice.  Check and
          double-check, Abel boy.  If you don't take that much time,
          I'll know you've overlooked something, sweetheart.  Yes.
          Yes.  Now I'll cook up a ruse to make him delay his
          departure until the latter part of April, say about the
          23rd.  If he does that and stays away the full two weeks,
          that will give me until early May, over 60 days from today.
               See, Melody?  The monster is shrinking.  You've got a
          lot more time than you imagined.  So what's next?  That
          smelly little brute over there, obviously.  Nothing is going
          to happen until he talks.  But what then?  What if he wakes
          up two minutes from now and tells me everything?  You can't
          go trekking off into the wilderness by yourself.  That's
          like the crazy idea you had about robbing the Union Bank.
          You have to have help.  Not Abel, of course; because he
          would still drag you off into the outback.  Damn!  Deliver
          me from a fool with a dream!
               Suddenly, a laugh burst partially through her lips; but
          Zeb snorted, and Melody managed to stifle the rest of it.
          She held her breath and watched a toothless lower jaw move
          grotesquely up to the nose and down again several times.
          There were smacking sounds.  At last, he slipped back into
          quiet sleep, allowing Mrs. Allen's celebration to  resume,
          silent but undiminished.
               Loren White!  Loren White, of course!  He will be my
          confederate.  I knew I was grooming that cowpuncher for
          something.  Just a little artful persuasion, and the big
          tomcat will throw himself into the fires for me.  Isn't he
          already helping me slay this mental dragon?  But the monster
          is still alive, lady.  You haven't sorted everything out,
          yet:  Zebadiah isn't cooperating, and he is all but
          recovered, except for those casts.  When they come off, he
          is certain to disappear on his own.  After all, he's not
          that crazy.  Why should he share his gold with anybody?
          Damn!  How can I get him to talk?
               No, no, Melody.  You're getting ahead of yourself.
          Everything in decency and order, as the man said.
               She giggled, recognizing the incongruity of her thought
          but realizing, nonetheless, that she was thinking clearly at
          last.
               So the little fox is keeping his counsel for now.
          Well, maybe he has revealed more than either of us realizes.
          Just how much do you know, lady?  Go back, go back; retrace
          the steps ... What do you remember? ... Yes, there was
          something Zeb asked Loren the day after the old man entered
          the hospital.  Something about a boot, I think.  Yes!  He
          acted suspicious and wanted to know if Loren had found
          anything besides his boot back where the horse had thrown
          him off the cliff.  And Loren had said no.  But what could
          have been causing a very sick man such concern?
               Well, of course!  If Clanton had really struck it rich,
          he would have been carrying some gold with him.  Gold!  What
          else would worry him so?  Then what could have happened to
          it?  Did Loren steal it?  He seems to have a lot of money.
               Melody smirked at the idea.
               What a ridiculous thought!  Pollyanna doesn't steal.
          He may ogle pretty women, but he certainly doesn't steal.
          What then?  The gold is still in the areax or someone else
          found it!
               Her chest constricted.
               No, it's probably still at the accident site!  After
          all, Loren said they were off the beaten path.  Who else was
          likely to go there?  And the good cowboy would have been
          consumed by only one objective:  rescuing a badly injured
          man.  He might not have seen it if he had stumbled over itx
          .  Wait!  Zeb had said something else, something about
          heathens and devils.  Yes, he thought maybe "filthy
          heathens" got it.  Indians?  Well, you can probably discount
          that, Melody:  The old fossil was speculating, too.
          Besides, he was half out of his head at that point, as I
          recall.
               Yes, the gold must still be out there in the snow.  Now
          we're getting somewhere ... See, old cadaver?  You won't
          talk, but I'm squeezing the secret out of your mind even
          while you sleep.
               Come on, Melody, don't gloat, yet.  There's that other
          gigantic issue.  Reconfirm.  Did Zeb really find the Lemon
          Mine?  What specifically has he said about that?  ... Ah,
          yes; it was on his second day in the hospital when he
          started screaming about spells, and demons, and gold.  I'll
          never forget his exact words:  "Lemon's.  The lost mine."
               Hold it!  "Lemon's," "Lemon's."  That means something
          that belonged to Lemon, the murderer who made the original
          strike.  What property of Lemon's could Zeb possibly have?
          ... That's it!  That's it!  It's been staring you in the
          face all the time, dummy.  That other thing  you said, old
          man; I'll never forget that, either:  "French.  Musta'
          belonged ta' French.  Stupid savage ... fer a bottle a'
          pizen!"
               Zeb had had a mapx a map to the mine, I'll bet my life
          on it!  He had traded an Indianx a "stupid savage"x a bottle
          of whiskey for something that belonged to Lafayette French.
          There's your confirmation, Melody.  Remember the story?
          French was supposed to have come into possession of a map
          made by Lemon himself.  Yes, yes:  At the headwaters of a
          three-forked stream shown on that map, Lemon allegedly
          placed a cross and wrote "GOLD" to pinpoint the mine's
          location.
               No wonder Lafayette French has never been able to
          locate the place.  He lost his map somehow, then an Indian
          must have found it and made the swap with Clanton.  That's
          why Zeb was laughing through his dementia.  Imagine trading
          a mountain of gold for a bottle of whiskey traders'
          contaminated firewater!
               Oh, damnation!  This means there's not just a bag or
          two of gold back there where Zeb got broken up, there's a
          map to that mountain of gold, too, Melody.  You've got to
          get Loren out there right away to find it before someone
          else does ... if that hasn't happened already.
               No, idiot, you can't do that yet!  You haven't given
          the cowboy any reason to bring it back.  He's not that
          stupid, either.  You would never see him again, and you
          would live out your days slopping pigs in Fort Saskatchewan.
          All right, all right; no need to despair.  You've already
          concluded that the site of Zeb's calamity was isolated
          enough to make discovery improbable.  It's likely that you
          have time enough to provide Loren with some incentive to
          come back to Mama.
               There was a sudden commotion outside.  It was obvious
          from the cacophony of snarls, barks, and yelps that several
          dogs were fighting savagely, almost on her doorstep.  Then
          there were shouts and curses followed by more yelps and,
          finally, silence.  Zeb stirred and mumbled but did not
          awaken.
               Melody shook her head in irritation, wondering why
          Alfred Dawe didn't bother to keep his fox terrier confined
          when it was in heat.  It seemed as if the little bitch could
          send every male dog in Frank into a frenzy.
               Abruptly, she seemed to freeze for an instant; but then
          she smiled, realizing another solution had been presented:
               Cowboy artists can be frenzied, toox by the same kind
          of stimulus.
               See, Melody?  You're slaying all the dragons, one by
          one.
               But the next one loomed immediately:  She knew it was
          of paramount importance to break Zeb down as soon as
          possible and by any means, because there just might not be
          any map waiting out in the woods.  In that case, she would
          have to convince Zeb somehow to lead her bewitched artist to
          the mine or to reconstruct the map from memory.
               Mrs. Allen winced, remembering how she had tried
          priming the cantankerous mountain man with another near-
          lethal dose of Abel's whiskey.  The attempt had closely
          followed her husband's report of Zeb's loose tongue attack
          during that Saturday drinking bout.  She had kicked herself
          when she heard of it, wondering why she hadn't recalled it
          was liquor that had first sent him into babblings about
          heathens and demons.
               It hadn't taken long for an opportunity to present
          itself:
               "See, little daddy?'  she had purred, handing him the
          bottle when she knew the two of them would be alone all day
          in the house.  "I promised you this that second day in the
          hospital.  I'll bet you thought I'd forgotten."
               "Damn!"  Zeb blurted as he snatched the container,
          uncorked it with his teeth and swallowed almost in a single
          action.  "Damn!  Thet's first-rate stuff, Melody.  Now
          thet's real med'cine, the kind a man in terr'ble pain's jest
          got ta have."
               "Yes, I agree.  Anyway, you deserve it; but don't tell
          Abel.  He thinks it's bad for you, and I had to sneak it."
          She changed to a whisper.  "It will be our little secret,
          sweetie; but I know you'll never tell, just as I wouldn't
          ever tell one of yours."
               She smoothed the hair away from his eyes and giggled.
          Then she sat back and watched him with an air of contentment
          and devotion.
               Clanton raised and lowered the bottle several times
          then hiccupped violently.  "Secrets.  Ever'body's got
          secrets.  Hee!  Hee!"  Another pull.  "But ain't nobody got
          no secret like mine.  Hee!  Hee!  Hee!"
               Melody's hopes leaped.
               "Oh, Mr. Clanton, I'm shocked.  I'll bet your secret is
          about some poor, broken-
          hearted woman.  That's it, isn't it?  I can tell.  A lady
          always knows.  Was she pretty?"
               "Cain't figger why yer' so good ta me, Melody, you an'
          Abel.  I don't deserve it noways.  I done some awful things
          ... awful things ... in my life."
               Come on, pig slop, stay on the track.  It's on the tip
          of your tongue."
               "Well, I'm sure the lady has gotten over it, Zeb, dear.
          I know you couldn't have done anything really bad, anyway."
          She giggled again and poked him in the ribs.  "I've got a
          hunch the naughty little woman enjoyed every minute of it,
          anyway, right?  Come on, you've got me all a-titter.  Tell
          me your little secret, Zeb, honey; tell Mama all about it."
               Zebadiah's demeanor shifted suddenly, and the reptile
          slipped back to his eyes.  "Weren't 'bout no-no woman.  Was
          jest a-spoofin' ya', anyways.  D-don't have no secret
          a-tall."
               Melody became exasperated all over again as she
          recalled the incident.  She glared at Zeb where he still
          snored before her in his chair.
               Oh, yes, you hideous bug.  You made me cluck over you,
          and pet  you, and rub your alligator neck.  You made me sit
          and stew while you drank that whole bottle, and belched, and
          slobbered; but the only thing that came out of your mouth
          was vomit.  Oh, if I didn't need what was inside your
          withered skull, Zeb Clanton, I'd make sure you ended up
          outside somewhere to freeze in the snow.
               So you're the last roadblock, the very last one.  How
          do I get around you?  What do  I have to do? ... Well, first
          of all, it's obvious I need more time for this problem, too.
          I don't think you're going to break before those casts come
          off, and you're certain to fly away, old crow, when that
          happens.  I must devise a way to clip your wings; I must get
          you to trust me absolutely; and I must learn to turn your
          lunatic switch back on so you will tell me all about
          everything.
               If only you would get sick again!
               Melody stiffened, and a hand came up to cover her
          mouth.
               If only you would get sick again!  If only you would
          get sick again! ... That's it!  ... Oh, Melody, do you have
          the guts?  Guts?  Is there any question, when it's the only
          thing between you and the dwarf's pot of gold?  And why the
          consternation?  You're a nurse; you can control it.  There's
          no real risk.
               "But what if there really is no gold, Melody?"  an
          inner voice seemed to ask.  "What if all of Zeb's ravings
          are no more than the product of his sick mind?  Or what if
          they are simply the dreams and imagery one would expect from
          a broken-down old man who has spent his whole life in a vain
          search for riches?"
               She pushed the thoughts away with an irritable toss of
          her head.
               Now she rose deliberately, walked to the kitchen, and
          put the kettle on for tea.  Then she picked up a chair and
          placed it beneath a high cupboard.  She climbed up and
          opened the little door.
               "Ah, it's still there," she whispered, reaching up and
          grasping a jar.
               A moment later she had placed the object on the table.
          A wide piece of surgical tape pasted to its side bore her
          crude, hand-printed inscription in black crayon.
               "RAT POISON," it said.
               As she prepared two cups of tea, she found herself
          feeling thankful for the rat plague they had suffered last
          year.  Otherwise, she wouldn't have had anything like this
          in the house.
               Should be just exactly what I need, too.  It's
          colorless and tasteless and almost impossible to detect in
          thex in someone, if something should go wrong.  Stop it,
          Melody!  Nothing is going to go wrong.  No ... But the
          dosage.  Just enough to keep him sick.  How much?  How much?
               She put a small amount into his cup and paused.
               Come on, Melody, he's a lot bigger than a rat.  Just a
          little more.  Yes.  That should do it.
               Mrs. Allen carried the steaming cups to the living room
          table then walked over toward Zeb and threw more coal inside
          the stove.  Now she went up to the old man and put a gentle
          hand on his shoulder.
               "Zeb, darling.  Wake up, honey.  Time for your tea."
               The little fellow straightened, banging his head
          against the back of his wheel chair.  "Whut?  Whut?"
               "Are you going to sleep all winter, black bear?  Your
          tea is ready."  She tucked his lap blanket closer about his
          legs and rolled the chair toward the table.
               Clanton yawned.  "Well, t'ain't good whiskey, but I'm
          still obliged."  he grinned.  "When I was a fire-eatin'
          young buck, I wouldn't drink nothin' 'less it come from a
          long-
          necked bottle.  All the rest was pizen, pure pizen."
               She was still walking behind his conveyance.  This
          prevented his noticing her stricken look, nor could he see
          the color drain from her face.  Melody's grip tightened on
          the chair.
               What?  Could he havex ?  Oh, don't be stupid.  He was
          sound asleep and out of sight in another room.  Just a crazy
          coincidence.
               Her heart was still pounding as she rolled him close to
          his teacup.  When she had taken her own place opposite  him,
          however, she had recovered.
               "This far south, even bears come out once in a while
          during the winter if it's warm enough, little daddy.  You've
          almost slept the afternoon away.  Must have been a beautiful
          dream.  Was it about that poor, pretty lady you left crying
          off in the wilderness?
               "Hee!  Hee!  Wasn't nary a one of 'em cried when I
          left.  I was mostly a-runnin', an' they was mostly a-
          shootin'."
               Well, how long are you going to stir that stuff?  Drink
          it, you toothless buzzard, drink it!
               "Oh, I don't believe that, Zeb honey."  She assumed a
          wicked air.  "Unless it was a husband shooting."
               "Hee!  Hee!"  Clanton repeated, lowering the cup just
          before it reached his lips.  "Naw, I weren't thet dumb.
          They was enough squx uhx  single ones aroun' most a' the
          time."
               He took a sip.  "Damn!"  His face reddened.  "Damn!"
          he said again.  "Hot as a
          x ."
               In about fifteen minutes both cups were empty, and
          Melody had returned Zeb next to the stove with a copy of the
          Frank Sentinel.  His reading skills were rudimentary, but he
          enjoyed the newspaper.
               "Don't know why you two er so good ta me," Zeb said
          softly.
               She showed him her sweetest face and leaned forward.
          "Because we love you, that's why, little bear.  Now be quiet
          and let me read my magazine."
               Melody lowered her eyes but, of course, registered
          little presented by the pages.  She felt like a cat before a
          gopher hole, transfixed by stealth and anticipation, alert
          for any telltale movement or sound.  But for a time there
          was little to be heard beyond the occasional rustling of
          pages, the ticking of the old mantle clock.
               What are you, some kind of iron man, Clanton?  Have you
          developed such a tolerance for booze that you are even
          immune to ... ?  Oh, no!  Maybe I didn't give him enough.  I
          was afraid of that.  Melody, why were you so damnedx?"
               Clanton had groaned slightly; and she looked up to see
          the paper slip from his hands.  He pressed his head against
          the back of the chair, and Melody could see his knuckles
          white on an arm rest.  There was a glint of perspiration on
          his forehead.
               She forced her eyes back to the periodical; and the
          clock metered away dispassionately.  Her pulse outraced it.
          There was a peal of childish laughter outside ... And Melody
          waited.
               "Aaaah!"
               Zebadiah's right hand was clutching his abdomen, and
          his head had slumped forward.  His face was chalky and
          running with sweat.
               "Zeb!  Zeb!  What's wrong?"  Melody darted to his side.
          "Are you sick?  What's the matter?"
               "Oh, aah!  My mouth ... throat ... on fire.  Got the
          worst bellyache I everx aah!"
               "Oh, let me help you, little daddy.  You must have the
          flu.  There's still some going around.  Don't worry, honey,
          Mama's right here; Mama's going to take care of you."
               But the little man got progressively worse as an hour
          passed, then another.  His abdominal pain became
          excruciating, and there was much vomiting.  Melody became
          desperate.
               Don't die on me now, you little cheat!  That isn't in
          the plan, yet.  Melody, you fool!  You never should have
          given him that extra ... And Abel's due home any minute.
          What can I do?  What can I do?
               Nothing.  She could do nothing but watch the writhings,
          pretend to commiseratex and despair.  Zeb's distress
          continued to mount, until it seemed there was no hope at
          all; and panic rolled over her.
               Oh, he is going to diex he is!  He's showing all the
          symptoms of acute poisoning.  In an hour he will be gone.
          How will I explain it?  Dr. Edwardson is bound to suspect.
          He knows Zeb was perfectlyx .
               An uglier probability struck her, and she was swept
          with fury.
               The gold!  That old miser is going to slip away without
          telling me anything.  Oh, no, Zeb!  You won't get away with
          that.  I'll rattle it out of you!
               The old man opened his eyes in time to see her reaching
          for him, and he mistook her anger for worry.  "It's ... it's
          all right.  Easin' up a b-bit."  He groaned and looked at
          her pitifully.  "Never had no-no hurt like this 'afore ...
          Thank ye ... D-don't know what I'd a' done without ye."
               Melody exhaled hard and put her arms around him.
               "Oh, I'm so relieved, little daddy," she said in all
          honesty.  "I can't bear to  see anyone suffer, especially
          you.  You've become like my own father."
               Her tears were genuine, too, as were his.
               The door opened.  It was Abel.  His eyes took in the
          scene instantly:  his wife on her knees cradling Zebadiah,
          newspapers and magazines scattered about, tear-stained
          facesx one deathly grayx a full emesis basin by the wheel
          chair.
               "What's wrong?  What happened?  Is somebody hurt?"
               "No, honey.  Poor Zeb has come down with a terrible
          attack of the flu.  He has been awfully sick for a couple of
          hours."
               "Well, I'll get Dr. Edwardson right away."  He turned
          to leave.  I'll be rightx."
               Zeb raised a bony hand shakily.  "No, young feller.  I
          feel s-some better now.  Thet  sawbones couldn'tx."  He took
          a few shallow breaths.  "Thet quack couldn't do me n-no
          bettern'n thisyere f-fine nurse."
               "Maybe you need a snort of whiskey, old man."
               "No, Abel.  Don't need no more fire in my belly, an' my
          mouth an' throat's still a-
          blisterin'."
               The big miner turned to his wife in perplexity.  "Flu
          you said?  I never heard of flu actin' like that, Melody.
          Maybe I should get Doc.  Won't hurt."
               "Flu attacks people in different ways, honey; I've seen
          a lot of it lately.  No he is doing better all of a sudden,
          and I'll watch him carefully.  I can't see any reason to
          bother Dr. Edwardson, because our little daddy is going to
          be just fine."  She patted his hand.
               Abel relaxed visibly and shook his head as he smiled.
          "You crazy old badger.  If you're not throwin' yourself off
          cliffs, you're gettin' sick-drunk all over my livin' room."
               "F-from tryin' ta digest yer-yer rotten table scraps,
          ye little whelp."  Clanton shut his eyes.  "Leave me be.
          Gonna ... gonna die after all, jest fer spite."
               Melody stayed at Zeb's bedside all night, catching cat
          naps in her chair.  The old man had a difficult time,
          retching frequently and still suffering pain.  But his
          difficulties lessened, and by first light he was resting
          quietly.
               She fell asleep, relieved that her charge had survived
          but frustrated, nonetheless:  He had uttered not a word
          about gold.  She had hoped for new delirium-wrought
          revelations ...
               Mrs. Allen awoke in her own bed.  Abel obviously had
          carried her there before leaving for the mine.  She dressed
          and went into the kitchen.  It was ten minutes to eleven;
          and there was a note propped against the sugar bowl.
                    You're an absolute angel.  I'll never know how I
          caught
                    you.  Zeb and I are both lucky to be alivexbut for
                    different reasons.
               Why that old pussycat!  He always was a sentimentalist.
          Too bad he'sx .  Oh, well, he had his chance.  Nothing
          personal, gorgeous.
               After breakfast she heaved a deep sigh and tip-toed
          into Clanton's room.  He was wide awake and had propped
          himself up.
               "Well, if you don't look like a strutting cock this
          morning, Mr. Zeb!  How are you feeling?"
               "Like a feller mule-kicked in the belly an' a critter
          with hoof an' mouth disease.  But I ain't fixin' ta cross
          over no more, thanks ta you."
               A tiny sob escaped through his beard, and he riveted
          his eyes to the comforter.
               "Fer what ye done, they's no way I kin repay ye."
               She patted the top of his head and walked out, as if
          too touched to respond.
               Oh, but there is a way, little carcass; you'll see.  I
          know just how to fix your tea now.
               Melody Allen walked to the mirror and stood before it
          for a full minute.  She smiled then, imagining a second
          image in there beside her.
               It was that of Loren White.
          
          
          
          
          
          
          
          
          VI.
          
               Loren White had been running away from himself again
          ever since Abel Allen had dragged him into the Imperial
          Hotel for a drink.  Somehow, his encounter there with the
          drunken Tony Slink's sing-song about Melody had re-ignited
          all his turmoils and sent him back every night through the
          sorcerer's door.  It seemed as if the little dark-brown
          pellet were the only way he could truly escape his rising
          guilt.  But, of course, relief was temporary.  There always
          was another morning.
               He let Fresco have his head now.  After all, he was
          going nowhere in particular.
               "That's a fact," he laughed bitterly.  "Exactly what
          you've been doing all your life, Loren, going nowhere in
          particular."
               Frank huddled down behind them like a little toy town
          as the horse continued to move up Goat Mountain on an easy,
          circuitous climb.  Snow still clung to the trees from last
          night's storm, and the countryside was a mural come to life.
          It was cold.
               But Loren was only vaguely aware of his surroundings.
               "A man who paints pretty little posies on a hillside
          doesn't have the balls to do much else, anyway."
               Will I ever forget those words?  No, never.  To be
          emasculated by your own father is the ultimate rebuke.
               Loren gritted his teeth remembering it all again.  Dad
          had managed to geld him every day of his life since puberty.
          "Failure," "ne'er do well," and "lazy" were some of the
          words.  Even death didn't stop it:  The inheritance managed
          to corroborate the accusations:  Dad was still supporting a
          son who could "throw away his life" and "toss it into a pile
          of horse shit."
               "Well, Dad, lately I've even failed at that," Loren
          grimaced.  "I've been in Frank for just about two weeks, and
          I haven't painted so much as one of your damned little
          posies."
               A great heat of culpability blazed through him.  What a
          mess he was making of everything!  If he had any sense, he
          would keep riding out of Frank and never return.  But he
          knew he would not.  Two beautiful faces danced before him.
          Melody and Gina!  Gina and Melody!  How could he be so
          attracted to two women simultaneously?  And, of course, he
          had no right to either:  One was happily married to his best
          friend (whom he betrayed every time he looked at Melody);
          and he had sullied himself for the other by coveting another
          man's wife.  He had felt unfit to go near Gina since
          encountering her in the post office; and he was avoiding any
          contact with the Allens.
               These bedevilments, in turn, intensified his nightly
          compulsion to call forth the dragon and let it eat away his
          mind little by little.  What had Dr. Edwardson said?  "...
          prolonged use of alcoholx or any other mind-altering
          substancex is going to damage the brain, as well as other
          organs."
               It was this kind of agitation, then, more than
          curiosity, that had driven him, a few days past, to seek out
          the old trapper, Louis Malfin.  He had gone as if presuming
          this ancient hermit, who apparently had found his own peace
          in solitude, to be some kind of seer.  Louis had proven to
          be something of a mystic, to be sure; but he was no
          soothsaying guru.
               Without warning, Fresco snorted now and quavered,
          snatching White away from morbid introspection.
               "Easy, boy, easy," Loren soothed, patting the horse's
          neck.  He could see no reason at all for the animal's
          nervous behavior.
               Continuing on, they emerged from the trees and were
          treated to a spectacular view of the mountain top almost
          directly above.  The intervening space was heavily covered
          with snow, precipitous, and apparently uncluttered by
          growth.
               Unexpectedly again, Fresco veered sideways, and his
          head jerked up and down several times.  Loren reined to a
          stop, but the horse continued to tremble, as his rider
          paused to scan their surroundings carefully.  He could
          detect no sound or movement.
               "What the devil's wrong, old nag?" he demanded.  "Too
          much good livin' back at the livery stable, maybe.  Simmer
          down, or I'll have Mr. Watt cut off your oats.  There isn't
          a damn thingx ."
               Goat Mountain's heights wavered before his eyes, and
          dizziness distorted his vision..  White swayed in the saddle
          and experienced an instant of disorientation.
               "What the hell?"
               In a rush of confusion, he thought he was having some
          kind of attack; but when the ground underfoot seemed to
          collide violently within itself, he realized what was
          happening.  Earthquake!  He had been raised in San
          Francisco; and, to a native Californian, earthquakes are
          almost a way of life.
               "Easy, Fresco, it will pass.  Nothing to bex ."
               A low rumble came from above.  Loren looked up to see a
          huge section of snow breaking loose directly overhead near
          the summit, even as the earth continued to roll.  He whirled
          his horse around and spurred.  Fresco leaped forward and
          galloped precariously back toward the trees.  The rumble
          became thunderous; then White felt a wave of frigid wind
          pass over them and heard a great whoosh and the crack of
          breaking trees to their rear.
               Then, like the rogue whirlwind he had encountered atop
          the Turtle, in a twinkling everything stabilized.  He halted
          Fresco and turned in his saddle.  Back where they had just
          been was an impassable wall of snow, rocks, and broken
          conifers.
               "Sonofagun!" he managed through gasps for breath.
          "What kind of country is this, anyway?  Windstorms,
          earthquakes, and now an avalanche.  What's next?"
               He had no way to divine, of course, that in a scant
          three years his beautiful San Francisco would come close to
          obliteration by a monster earthquake and fire.
               Nor could he guess what awaited Frank in a matter of
          days ...
               "Abel!" he choked.  "Abel is in the mine!"
               He spurred again and pounded off toward the settlement,
          remembering with horror his friend's secret fears of a mine
          disaster.  Loren recalled, too, a townsman's recollection of
          a small temblor there in 1901x two years agox but it was not
          of a magnitude to cause injury or damage.
               He pushed Fresco hard, all the while praying fervently
          for Abel to be spared, promising never to think of Melody as
          anything but a friend, if only her husband could be kept out
          of harm's way.
               Fresco was badly lathered when Loren reached the
          outskirts of town.
               "Was anyone hurt in the quake?"  he shouted to a
          stranger walking along the way.  "Are the miners safe?"
               "What's that ya' say?"  The old man cupped a hand to an
          ear.
               Loren had left him too far behind to repeat the
          question.  He headed directly for the livery stable because
          of the cold weather and his horse's overheated condition.
          He saw no one until he encountered Francis Rochette,
          assistant to the stable boss there.
               "What the blazes ya' been doin' ta that animal?"
          Rochette demanded angrily.
               "The earthquake!  Were any of the men hurt at the
          mine?"
               "Earthquake?  What the devil you talkin' about?  I
          ain't heard a' no earthquake.  Hey, boss!"  he shouted, "Did
          you feel a earthquake?"
               "How's that, Francis?"  Did I feel what?"  Robert Watt
          called from inside.
               "A earthquake!"
               Watt, holding a pitchfork, emerged from the building,
          and his eyes went immediately to Fresco.  "What the hell
          happened to that horse, White?  Get him inside before he
          catches pneumonia."
               Loren, however, was already leading his mount through
          the big door.
               The two men busied themselves immediately with Fresco's
          care and answered the artist's questions with lingering
          annoyance:  No, they had not been aware of any ground
          movement; no, they had heard nothing from anyone about
          earthquakes; no, the town had been peaceful and quiet all
          day.
               Finally, the Montana cowboy left the stable and,
          totally perplexed, struck out toward town on the footpath.
          A horseman was approaching.  Loren recognized him as John
          McVeigh, general manager of the McVeigh and Poupore
          Construction Company.
               "Mr. McVeigh, did you feel an earthquake within the
          last hour or so?"
               "An earthquake?  Why, no, did you?"
               "Yes, but not here.  I was riding up the side of Goat
          Mountain.  I felt one just before an avalanche almost buried
          me and my horse alive."
               "Damn snowslides!  They're always derailin' engines, or
          twistin' rails, or wreakin' some other kind of havoc around
          here.  No, Mr. White; maybe it was the mass of snow shiftin'
          just before the fall.  Everything's been normal here, thank
          the good Lord.  I would have been one of the first to hear
          of something ... uh ... unusual like that!"
               They said their goodbyes and departed; then Loren
          resumed his walk into town.  He was relieved, on the one
          hand, to learn that Abel and his crew were safe.  On the
          other hand, he could not accept McVeigh's explanation.
          White had been through too many earthquakes in his life to
          have been mistaken:  He had experienced that unique, giddy
          sensation of earth turned to rubber much too often.
               Dr. Edwardson's voice suddenly filled his head:  "...
          we really shouldn't blame him for his startling anti-social
          outbursts ... I'm convinced they're psychogenic."
               Psychogenic!  The doctor had been speaking about
          Zebadiah Clanton, but a sickening question arose in Loren's
          mind.  Is this how lunacy starts?  Was the earthquake
          another of his wild imaginings?  Was his dizziness back on
          Goat Mountain a product of dementia?
               "... Prolonged use of alcoholx or any other mind-
          altering substancex is going to damage the brain, as well as
          other organs," the ghost-like voice whispered again.
               Loren was crossing the Gold Creek foot bridge at this
          point.  He stopped, leaned on the railing, and looked
          blankly at the gurgling water.  A stream-warped reflection
          wobbled up at him and gradually came into focus.  Then all
          at once Loren White, vagabond cowboy artist and melancholy
          disappointment to his father, recognized the face in the
          stream.
               It was a dope addict's.
               He took a long breath and straightened up, knowing at
          last what had to be done:  He would go to Frank Cafe and try
          to collect himself over a meal.  Then he would seek out the
          doctor and ask for help ...
               It was 4:45 p.m. when he walked into the hospital.  He
          was surprised to see Constable Quartersloe at the front
          counter talking to Evelyn Landy.
               "Well, good evening, Mr. White.  It's about time you
          came back to visit us," Nurse Landy said.  "I understand
          you've already met our constable."
               "Yes," Loren replied, making a good pretense of
          joviality.  "About one minute into our acquaintance he
          threatened me with lifetime banishment."
               "Oh, my goodness.  What terrible thing did you do?"
               "Well," the Mountie cut in mischievously, "I suspected
          he was in league with those Alaskans and that Rough Rider
          with the big stick who have been trying to cut northwestern
          Canada off from the sea."  He stuck out his hand engagingly.
          "How are you, Mr. White?  Or is that a stupid question for
          someone who has just walked into a sick bay?"
               The policeman's good humor was infectious.
               "I'm fine, Constable; and don't worry.  Your Prime
          Minister Laurier is a knight, isn't he?  Since when has a
          dragon killer had any difficulty with a stick-wielding
          mortal, especially when the Pennycuick of Crowsnest Pass is
          in the knight's corner?"
               "Well, well, Evelyn; maybe we should get Mr. White into
          our diplomatic service.  Did you see the way he sidestepped
          that one?"
               "I certainly did," Miss Landy giggled.  But she turned
          serious:  "You look a bit drawn, Mr. White.  Thinner.  Are
          you sure you didn't come to see the doctor?"
               "Uhx well, yes, I did, as a matter of fact.  But only
          at his invitation ... for ax a shot.  low blood sugar.  Doc
          says a shot or two of brandy ought to take care of it."
               "He's on a house call, but we're expecting him back any
          time," she smiled.  "By the way, I understand your Mr.
          Clanton is repairing nicely, is that correct?"
               "I hadn't heard.  Well, that's good news.  No, I
          haven't seen him for over a week.  I'd better get by."
               "Yes."  She frowned.  "I hope you will do that as often
          as you can.  I don't ... I don't know why, but I feel very
          uneasy about that poor old man."  She blushed.  "I just
          cannot shake the feeling that there's somethingx wellx
          wrong."
               The Mountie grinned.  "After we turn you into a paid
          diplomat, Yank, we're going to get this lady into law
          enforcement, too.  She functions just like a cop:  no
          mentality; all instinct."
               Evelyn Landy sent a paper clip whizzing past his head.
               "On second thought, I don't think we can use her.
          Rotten shot.  Anyway, I have to go.  See you tomorrow, Evie.
          Nice bumping into you again, Mr. White."
               "Goodbye, Martin," the little nurse said softly.
               "Goodbye, Constable," Loren responded.
               When the door had closed behind the policeman, Loren
          White became unexpectedly serious.  "That's a fine young
          man, your Constable Quartersloe."
               Nurse Landy looked down at her desk and blushed again.
          "He's not my Constable Quartersloe, Mr. White."
               Loren's face seemed to turn ashen.  "Well, he should
          be.  Snatch him up, Miss Landy; I've never seen two people
          more right for each other."
               The door opened.  It was Dr. Edwardson.
               "Loren White!  Good to see you, son,  If this isn't a
          social visit, I'm going to bex."  He tilted his head
          suddenly, his eyes penetrating.  "You look like hell.  What
          have you been doing to yourself?"
               "Oh, it's nothing, nothing, Doctor.  I'm a bit tired,
          that's all.  I almost got caught in an avalanche over at
          Goat Mountain earlier today.  Scared thex," he glanced at
          Miss Landy.  "Scared the devil out of me."
               "What in tarnation would you be doing at Goat Mountain
          on a cold day like this?  Even the goats know better than
          that!  And are you going to tell me the avalanche knocked
          ten pounds of flesh off your bones?"
               Loren smiled weakly.  "Hey, Dad, I'm okay."
               The physician broke into a wide grin.  "Well, you sure
          as blazes don't look like it.  Don't act like it, either.
          Goat Mountain!"  He shook his head, still smiling, however.
          "Probably hypothermia.  Miss Landy, we're going into the
          kitchen for a bit of heat therapy."
               "Watch out for thermoanesthesia," she cautioned
          wickedly.
               "I'd get rid of that nurse, but my practice would
          collapse," Edwardson snickered as he led the way into the
          kitchen.  Once there, he filled two small glasses, then the
          two men sat down at the little table.  They nursed their
          drinks silently, the younger man groping for courage, the
          doctor trying to transmit it silently.
               "Come on, boy, come on!"  his mind cried.  "How can I
          help?  What is it?  What is it?"
               "Good stuff, Doc," Loren ventured at last.  "Reminds me
          of the night we brought Zeb in.  I wouldn't want to go
          through that day again, though, just to get some of your
          brandy."  His humor couldn't quite break through.
               "No ... no.  Sometimes this stuff is no remedy at all,
          anyway," Edwardson primed.  "Not for what some humans beings
          find themselves grappling with.  Dammit, Loren, can you
          possibly imagine what turmoil some of my patients are in?
          It makes me feel so terribly inadequate most of the time.  I
          set the bones, or suture their wounds; or, sometimes, all I
          can do is slip them little placebos, because I know their
          physical ills havex uhx other origins.
               "Yes, Doc, I can imagine.  I ... I've known people like
          that."
               The next period of silence lasted until the glasses
          were empty.  Loren started to rise; but the physician poured
          again.  The Yank darted a trapped look outside the room then
          settled back in his chair.
               "The real tragedy is this, son.  I've always known I
          could help such peoplex if only they would let me."  Dr.
          Edwardson turned his glass between two fingers and studied
          the amber liquid.  His next words were almost inaudible:
               "But it's the worst when ... when the patient is
          someone who has become like part of my family."
               The conversation thereafter degenerated into small
          talk; and, finally, Edwardson did not try to detain him when
          Loren rose again to leave.
               "Thanks for the companyx and the medicine, Doc.  I hope
          you'll allow me to scratch at your door again sometime."
               "You won't have to scratch, Loren.  It will always be
          open."
          * * *
               "If you're tailing me, you're pretty damned obvious
          about it."
               Constable Martin Quartersloe slid into the stool beside
          Loren at Frank Cafe.  "Clever, ay?  You see, this way the
          criminal is never really sure," the lawman grinned.  He
          ordered coffee.  "Actually, I did come on urgent business."
               White's smile faded.
               "A beautiful young woman named Gina Olson has been
          asking discreet questions about you, White.  Things like:
          'Have you seen our artist friend lately?'  or 'I wonder why
          he hasn't picked up his mail.'  That sort of thing.  Nothing
          serious.  Just a pitiful little lamb showing signs of
          suffering and neglect."
               Loren was sure everyone in the place had heard and was
          staring.
               "I'm going to-to turn you in for abuse above and beyond
          the call," he managed to stammer through his wriggling.
               "Don't believe I ever enjoyed a cup of coffee as much
          as this one, Yank; and it hasn't even been served to me,
          yet."
               The waitress heard him and hurried over.
               "Sorry, Julie," he said, "I was justx ."
               She sniffed and turned away muttering.
               Loren was delighted.  "Murder will out, my friend," he
          leered.
               Quartersloe took a sip from his cup and knotted up his
          face.  "Yuk!  Strong enough to choke a mule," he whispered.
          "Which reminds me.  Your tough little mule, Zebadiah Clanton
          may not be so tough after all.  I'm told he came down with a
          dangerous case of the flu about six days agox the night
          before I saw you at the hospital.  Did you know?"
               "No, I didn't.  Seems I'm neglecting everybody.  I'll
          look in on him today.  How is he now?"
               "Apparently a lot better.  A man of his age, though ...
          you never know."  Quartersloe chuckled again.  "I guess Evie
          was on to  something.  Damned women's intuition."
               "Evelyn Landy?"  Loren's voice could be heard
          throughout the restaurant.  "Yes, Constable Quartersloe,
          you're absolutely right.  Evelyn Landy is a gorgeous,
          thoroughly captivating woman, and I don't blame you for
          being so taken with her."
               The Mountie stood up and plunked a coin onto the
          counter.  His face was the color of his dress uniform.
               "Shut up, Yank," he muttered.  "Murder will out," he
          added, slinking off.
               Loren White's enjoyment was fleeting:  He had to go to
          the post office and he had to visit the Allens'.  Gina had
          said there was mail for him.  It must be his shipment!  He
          felt relieved and tainted at the same time:  His supply of
          the stuff was diminishing rapidly; and he had been using it
          every single night.
               Damn coward!  Doc Edwardson held out his hand to you,
          but you chose to sink back into the mire.  And now it's
          worse than ever.  How can you show your face to a little
          innocent like Gina?  But you will, won't you?  Because a
          tiny brown pellet has taken control of your life.
               When he entered the post office, however, there was no
          one at the window; and he was able to go to his box
          apparently unobserved.
               Hell!  Nothing but a letter from the bank and a
          worthless advertisement.  No notice of a package to pick up.
          What the devil is delaying my order?
               He slammed the little metal door shut and moved toward
          the exit.
               "I was hoping you would bring by a painting for us to
          see, Mr. Allen."
               The clerk's window was full of flaxen hair and sparkle.
               "Oh, Miss Olson.  I'm sorry.  I ... I didn't think
          you'd be here on a Saturday.  How have you been?"
               "Fine.  I understand you've had some difficulty,
          though."
               "No, Ix difficulty?"
               "Yes.  Is it true that a mountain of goats tried to
          fall on you?"
               Loren grinned weakly.  "Oh, that.  Yes, but we managed
          to outrun it."
               "Well, I'm glad it missed.  After all, we would hate to
          lose our only resident artist.  But, seriously, I ... we
          can't wait to see some of your work."
               "I can't either."  He looked down at the floor.  "I've
          been lax.  I haven't done a thing."  He returned his eyes to
          her face and noticed some of the sparkle was gone.  "When I
          do, though, I'd be pleased to let you see it ... It's been
          nice talking to  you."
               He turned to leave.
               "Mr. White?"
               Loren looked back.  "Yes?"
               "Don't stop listening for the music."
               "N-no; I won't.  Thank you."
               He stumbled out into the street ...
               Two hours later he was back on Fresco headed to what
          now seemed to be his only untainted sanctuary in Frank:  old
          Louis Malfin and his Turtle Mountain tabernacle.  Loren had
          just come from the Allen house.  He had managed to talk
          himself into going there, because he knew Abel was home on
          weekends.
               On this particular Saturday, however, Abel was
          elsewhere.
               Zeb had been delighted to see the man who had saved his
          life; and Loren initially had enjoyed a lively visit with
          the old fellow.  Aside from seeming somewhat shaky, Clanton
          appeared to have recovered fully from his bout with
          influenza.
               Melody, however, had been delighted as well:  After a
          show of pampering her patient, and after wheeling the old
          fellow into his room for a nap, she showered Loren with
          flattery, smiles, and suggestive little mockeries.
               And Loren soon became almost unaware of anything else.
          At last, he managed to escape.
               As he rode through the flats among the temporary
          dwellings now, her perfume lingered in his mind; and he
          realized there had been no escape at all.  Worse, he knew it
          had taken him a mere five days to break his promise to God
          about Melody and Abel.
               The Montana cowboy could see a thin line of smoke
          coming from Malfin's tent window as he rode up; and the
          hobbled burro appeared to be nuzzling the same old spot in
          the snow.
               "C'mon in, son," a voice called from inside.  "Coffee's
          a-waitin'."
               The old trapper was sitting at the table.  It held two
          steaming, tin cups.  "Saw ya' comin' through the jack pine.
          Set down, set down.  Thought you'd be here before today.
          Don't take long fer the city ta grit the teeth of a real
          man."
               "Maybe he's a guru, after all," Loren thought.  As he
          sat down, he said aloud:  "Thanks for the 'real man.'  It's
          good to see you, Louis.  How have you been?"
               "Not bad for a half-gone old timber wolf with no bite
          left.  See you ain't makin' it too good, though.  What is
          it, whiskey or women?"
               "Something like both, I guess."
               "Well, then; ain't no help fer ya'; them kinda' things
          a man's gotta lick on his own.  Cain't 'spect nobody else ta
          do the facin'-up fer him ... What's wrong?  Don't ya' like
          forty-day coffee grinds?"
               White apologized and began to work on his cup, all the
          while trying to hide his disappointment.  He had hoped for
          more than "things a man's gotta lick on his own."
          Eventually, however, he relaxed and listened to more of
          Malfin's tales of the wilderness.  At length, Louis fell
          silent for a moment then asked:
               "How did you happen across Zebadiah Clanton?"
               "About three weeks ago, I dragged him up from a cliff
          ledge on the other side of the pass near the summit.  He was
          all broken up and raving like a lunatic about gold, and
          hoodoo, and cannibals.  He had been thrown from his horse.
          Probably spooked by a grizzly because I saw signs; and some
          foul-smelling vulture already was interested in him.
          Biggest buzzard I ever saw.  In fact, when it swooped up at
          me, I thought it was going to take my head off."
               "Oh, hell!"  Malfin swore almost under his breath.  His
          chin was clutched in a bony hand, and he was staring at
          Loren out of horrified eyes.  "Gold, hoodoo, cannibalsx even
          the grizzly and the buzzard!  Listen ta me hard, son, 'cause
          you been walkin' the edge a' the pit!
               "I told you I been all through Lemon Mine country an' I
          said no white man be safe a-pokin' 'round there.  Now I got
          ta tell ya' somethin' else, somethin' I never mentioned ta
          nobody:  They's not only secret, hidden places back in them
          glaciers, son, they's secret people, too.  They's from a
          time before time when nothin' was like it is nowx no livin'
          thing was the same then, not even humans.  But these people
          is a pure strain; they ain't changed at all.
               "I'm the only white man's ever seen one, I guess.  I
          didn't know what he was, 'cause he weren't natural; an' he
          was stove up pretty bad.  Happened ta have a Indian guide
          with me.  Feller got all excited.  Said it were a baby, even
          though it musta' been five-foot tall.  He took the little
          feller off inta the snow somewheres.
               "We was old friends, thet guide an' me, an' we trusted
          each other; so when he got back he told me about the
          Apahanis.  Thet's what he called 'em, the secret people,  I
          mean.  Swore me ta secrecy, an' I never told no one before
          you.
               "Ain't got a choice now, though, 'cause more than jest
          yer life's at stake.  Anyways, the Apahanis ain't no threat
          themselves.  Even most Indians don't know about 'em, an'
          they've hid from whites since the beginnin' fer two reasons:
          They think we're the ones thet's killers; but, most of all,
          they's skeered a' what they call 'The Cannibal a' the
          Walkin' Ice.'  They say he's a demon thet lives inside a big
          glacier with two lesser devils.
               "Their glacier an' what's left a' the Apahani band is
          located smack dab in the middle a' Lemon Mine country, an'
          the demons is guardians of the 'yeller an' black fires'x
          thet's gold an' coal, son.  They's told the Apahanis they'll
          destroy ever' last one of 'em if they ever have anything ta
          do with white folk.
               "But thet ain't all of it.  The Lemon Mine an' the gold
          in it is sacred ta' the demons, an' so  is some a' the coal-
          bearin' places aroun' the pass here.  Like Turtle Mountain.
          Any man thet trespasses is hunted down by them devils an'x .
          The first minor demon is called Ixtlhaupti.  Thet means
          'terror.'  The next in line is U-Makiluk.  Thet means
          'rout.'  An' the worst one, the Cannibal a' the Walkin'
          Ice,' is called Tshyplal.  Thet means 'annihilation.'"
               "Did you say Tshyplal?"  Loren gasped.
               "Yep.  Tshyplal."
               "It can't be.  I swear that's what Zeb screamed when a
          second buzzard flew over him a few days back.  Clanton was
          full of whiskey and out of his mind again."
               Louis Malfin stared silently at Loren for a full thirty
          seconds.
               "Out a' his mind, ay?"  he grunted at last.  "Mebbe
          you'd be, too, son.  See, the Apahanis believe Tshyplal kin
          take the form of a vulture whenever he wants, an' thet his
          demon, U-Makiluk, prefers slitherin' about in the body of a
          rattler.
               "Mebbe thet latest buzzard was the same one as the
          first ... mebbe you seen Tshyplal twice, but he was after
          Clanton 'stead a' you."
               "One more thing, Loren," Louis Malfin said quietly."
          Ixtlhaupti, the third demon, prowls aroun' as a grizzly
          bear."
          
          
          
          
          
          
          VII.
          
               "Saw Francis Rochette from the livery stable
          yesterday," Abel Allen said between monstrous bites of ham
          and toast.  "Francis says our friend Loren came gallopin' up
          to the stable hell bent for leather the other day during
          that cold snap.  Horse was all lathered up, an' Loren was
          scared to death an' talkin' crazy about an earthquake.  You
          hear anything about that, Melody?  Doesn't sound like Loren.
          He's a pretty cool customer, an' he'd never mistreat that
          horse of his without a damn good reason."
               "Young feller stopped in fer a few minutes yesterday,"
          Zeb volunteered.  "Didn't mention no earthquake.  Acted
          kinda' jumpy, though."
               "Yes, I forgot to mention it," Melody said.  "After
          Loren left yesterday, Sam Ennis dropped us off a load of
          coal.  He knew all about it.  Apparently Loren was riding up
          on Goat Mountain that day and almost got buried in an
          avalanche.  He thought it had been triggered by an
          earthquake."
               "So that's it.  But why did hex ?  Oh, I'll betx ."
               "Yes, Abel," Melody confirmed.  "He thought the
          earthquake might have damaged the mine, and he was worried
          about all you men in there."  She paused.  "As far as I
          know, there's only one miner he knows very well ... He was
          scared to death for you, Abel."
               The big man dropped his head, and a hand came up to
          hide his eyes.  The fingers were trembling.
               "Damn!"
               "That there's a mighty fine lad," Zeb said quietly.
          "Reckon he was a-thinkin' ta try ta save yer hide, too,
          boy."
               "Drink your tea, little daddy, before it gets cold.
          How is Mama  ever going to get you well if you just pick at
          your food?"  Melody purred.
               It's the right formula this time, papa-puke.  The
          honeymoon's over; you've had a whole week off.
               "Tea's okay, but 'tain't food.  Whiskey's food."
               "Hah!  Whiskey's crazy food in your wrinkled
          breadbasket, Pop," Abel laughed.
               "Three weeks."
               "Three weeks what, mountain man?"
               "In three weeks, I'm gittin' these ce-ment blocks offa'
          my arm an' leg, an' then I'm gonna whittle a certain young
          buck down ta human size.  After thet, I'm headin' out."
               You won't be 'headin' out' anywhere, little corpse.  In
          just a bit, that nasty flu bug is going to start gnawing
          through your belly again and scare the hell out of you ...
          Ah, that's better now.  Bottoms up!  Bonne sant, petit
          vieillard.
               "No, no, old man; you get everything wrong," Abel
          taunted.  "When those casts come off, I'm gonna put a brass
          collar around your chicken neck an' chain you to a tree
          outside.  Grazin's not bad out there.  Gonna make you my
          slave, because of all the food an' booze you've guzzled."
               "What a terrible thing to say, Abel!"  Melody's horror
          act was convincing.  "I don't care if you are joking, that's
          justx."
               "And then, when we load up the wagon to move to Fort
          Saskatchewan, I'm gonna hook you to itx not behindx in
          front.  The horses are gonna be behind."
               And you're a horse's behind, too, pretty man, if you
          think either one of us is going to be in that wagon.
               "When we get there, you'll be all practiced up.  You're
          gonna be the nastiest little plough mule in the North-West
          Territories."
               "Well, now, little feller, jestx ."
               "Stop it, you two children!"  Melody interceded.
          "Can't we ever be serious around here?  I know you've been
          wanting to go off on your own about April 1st to make final
          arrangements for the farm, honey; but if Zeb isn't all
          better by then, you might have to delay a few days."
               "Hold on, hold on!"  Zeb cried.  "By April 1st I'll be
          gone!  You prob'ly won't even remember who I was, I'll be
          gone so long.  I'll prob'ly be off somewheres a'-wallowin'
          in big yeller nuggets."  He leered secretively.  "I got me a
          place in mind."
               "Hey, Melody, he'll be gone by then, all right," Abel
          snickered.  "If he doesn't stop this fakery pretty damn
          quick, a certain hospitable feller's gonna sell him off to
          the fox farm."
               Very nice; very nice.  Keep talking gold, old canker.
          As for you, farm boy, I can plant seeds, too.  We'll just
          let that "delay a few days" idea germinate a while ... Feels
          good to be in control again:  You proved yourself yesterday,
          Melody; nice to know you've still got it!  Pitiful little
          creatures, these men.  How easy it was to send that big
          Montana cowboy off into  red-eyed rut.  Mama's ring is in
          your nose now, Loren honey!
               She came out of herself realizing the two men were
          still baiting one another joyously.
               "Oh, I'm sorry," she said shamefully.  "I've let your
          teacups run dry.  That's the trouble with Sunday mornings;
          they always bring out that lazy streak in me."
               Abel watched his beautiful wife walk dutifully around
          the table to serve tea.  He smiled contentedly, knowing
          every male in town envied him.  He felt himself to be the
          luckiest man in the world.
               Zeb gave Melody a grateful look as she refilled his
          cup, but he wondered if he should drink it.  For some
          reason, even the thought of whiskey was suddenly
          unappealing.
               He was feeling strange .
          * * *
               Loren was feeling strange, too.  It had been four days
          since Louis Malfin had filled him with wild stories about
          demons and the shadowy Apahanis.  White had graduated from a
          respected university, and he had been saturated with learned
          derisions of "sub-cultures" and their "childish
          superstitions."  Ever since Zeb's runaway horse had
          deflected him to the mountain side path, however, it was as
          if he had passed through an unnatural door.
               Moreover, no matter how many haughty rationalizations
          he devised for the old trapper's allegations, Loren always
          found himself blocked at the same dead end:  Zeb Clanton's
          uproars tended to be corroborative.
               He had managed to break through another source of
          discomfort, however:  He had sat back and analyzed his
          adolescent reactions to Melody's behavior on his last visit
          to the Allen house.  As a result, he now was utterly
          ashamed.  It was obvious he had misinterpreted everythingx
          after all, what did Loren White think he had that could
          possibly arouse in an elegant, happily-married woman
          anything other than friendliness?  What stupidity!  Melody
          Allen had been her normal, vivacious self, that's all.
               One little pellet in his pipe last night had helped him
          claw through those particular weeds.  The stuff was like
          that; it had a peculiar ability to deaden the beast in a
          man.
               Still, on his way to visit Zeb again now, he could not
          deny that he had waited until evening to be sure Abel would
          be home from the mine this time.  Loren felt compelled to
          look in because of talk throughout the little town alleging
          that "the crazy old man at the Allens" had taken sick again,
          or gone out of his mind, or something last Sundayx three
          days ago ...
               "Where have you been, cowboy?"  Abel was instantly
          animated when he opened the door.  "I haven't seen you for
          two weeks."  As soon as Loren came into the light, however,
          the big coal miner whistled.  "You look like a damn
          skeleton, friend!  What did you do, escape from a leper
          colony?  Melody!  Bring out that bucket of lard.  We've
          gotta fatten up this little calf.  What the hell's wrong,
          Loren?"
               "I've been trying to tell you what's wrong," White
          laughed, "but you haven't given me a chance."
               "Okay, so here's your chance:  What's wrong?"
               "Nothing.  I've been off my feed lately, that's all.
          Happens every once in a while with me ... Where's Zeb?  From
          what I've heard, he's the one we should be concerned about."
               "Leave the poor man alone, honey; he looks beautiful as
          always," Melody warbled.  She had just appeared from the
          direction of Zebadiah's room.  "I'm trying to get the little
          fellow to sleep, Loren.  That poor, sweet man has had a
          terrible time.  I'm beginning to think his old body may just
          be breaking down, little by little.  He's seventy, you know,
          and he hasn't had an easy life."
               She glared at her husband.  "Did I actually hear you
          screaming for a bucket of lard or something when I was
          trying to lull your tiny sick guest to sleep?"
               Abel grinned sheepishly.  "Never mind.  Loren doesn't
          deserve it, anyway.  Besides, he'd probably hog the whole,
          damn thing, an' we'd have nothing to eat in the house."
               "What happened this time, Melody?"  Loren asked.  "A
          flu relapse?  He seemed to be doing so well on Saturday.
          What does Dr. Edwardson think?"
               "Dr. Edwardson?  Oh, no.  No, it hasn't been necessary
          to consult him.  There's no question but that it is a
          relapse, Loren.  He just needs a lot of loving care.  These
          geriatric cases sometimes take a long, long time to mend
          from the simplest things."
               She came close and tapped his chest with an admonishing
          finger.
               "It's so sweet of you to worry about your friend, but
          stop it.  Mama's taking good care of baby."  She swished off
          toward the kitchen.  "I think you poor, tired boys need a
          bit of tonic."
               The men sat at the table; and Loren watched his
          friend's eyes, brimming with pride, follow his wife's
          movements.  Abel's head was moving from side to side, and a
          little smile played with the corners of his mouth.
               "What a fool I've been!"  Loren agonized inwardly.
          "How could I have so insulted this house and this devoted
          couple?"
               Melody reappeared with a bottle and two glasses.  "I
          don't know how you males can stand this vile stuff."  She
          made a gagging sound as she poured, first Loren's, then
          Abel's.  "I tasted it once, and I'm sure all they do is pour
          kerosene into pretty containers with fancy labels."
               She sat next to Abel then; and the three involved
          themselves in carefree, inconsequential talk.
               "I understand you fell off your horse up at Goat
          Mountain a few days ago," Abel tested Loren finally.
          "People are saying you made up a story about an earthquake
          and an avalanche, because you didn't want anyone to know
          that Montana cowboys are so afraid of horses they have to be
          tied in their saddles or they fall off.  Come on, boy,
          trying to cover up your spill with a snowslide is takin' it
          pretty far."
               "Loren's a big 'fraidy cat," Melody snickered.
               The interjection startled even her husband.  "See,
          Yank?" he gloated, nonetheless.  "Melody's on to you, too."
               "In that case, I have to go," Loren laughed, rising.
          "Thanks for your hospitality; and I'm glad Zeb is in such
          capable hands.  He probably would have died without you
          two."  He turned toward the door.
               There was a sharp cry from Zeb's room.
               "Oh, honey, would you check on him?"  Melody asked
          wearily.  "He has tired me out today.  I'll see Loren out."
               "Sure, Melody.  Thanks for coming, Loren."  He hurried
          away.
               Mrs. Allen preceded Loren to the door.  Her perfume
          swirled behind.  She turned the knob and smiled up at him.
               "You are a big 'fraidy cat, cowboy.  Do you know why?"
               "Sure," he ventured, "becausex ."
               "No.  Because you never come unless you think Abel will
          be here."
          * * *
               Melody Allen had no idea of the time.  She knew,
          however about lying awake here for hours listening to her
          husband snore.  There had been one or two mutterings from
          Zeb; but each time she had tiptoed through the moonlit house
          to his room, her efforts to worm out his secret had failed.
               "Tell, Mama, Zeb.  Tell Mama.  Where is it?  Where is
          it?"  She would whisper.
               Once, the old man had started awake:
               "Whut?  Whut?  Where is whut?"
               "Where is the hurt, little daddy?"
               "Don't hurt.  Nightmares.  An' weak ... weaker ever'
          day."
               And so it had gone.  He had been back on his "special
          medicine" for eight days now, but the wily old mountaineer
          was keeping his counsel.  The adjusted dosage, she believed,
          was about right to keep him down even after the casts were
          removed; but it was not strong enough to trigger any
          talkative insanity.
               One thing was certain:  She could not continue like
          this.  For twenty-five days, ever since Zeb had entered the
          house, she had been living a nightmare of sleeplessness,
          anxiety, andx most of allx anger.  The toll was becoming
          more and more physically evident, and Melody was finding it
          increasingly difficult to play her role of devoted wife and
          selfless nurse.  She longed to be able to rip off the mask
          and lash out at the community of fools imprisoning her.
               Stop it, dummy, stop it!  You're falling into that
          gnashing-of-teeth pit again.  No way out of that, remember?
          Think again, think!  All right, what do I know?  Easy.  It's
          not working, and the clock is ticking.  Forget the clock!
          It will tick on no matter what you do ... Yes, that's it:
          If it's not working, you stop doing it, idiot.
               Well, then, what would loosen your little black tongue,
          Zeb, if not booze or insanity any more?  Is there any way I
          can make you lead me to the gold willingly?  Willingly ...
               She giggled suddenly, sending the sleeping Abel into
          groans and mushy jabberings beside her.
               Of course, little flame, that battered old moth is no
          different from all the other drunken bugs!  Bring out the
          big guns, stupid!  Get him to love you, Melody; get him to
          worship you.  Keep  him sick and keep him needing you.
          Finally, with the help of some skillfully-subtle
          suggestions, he will realize there will never be any more
          going out after the Lemon gold all by himself.  He will turn
          to the one person in the world he trusts the most.
               Then I'll send off that other frenzied moth, my little
          cow dung Rembrandt.
               In a moment, she was deep in restful sleep ...
               A terrible scream catapulted Melody and Abel from bed.
               "Zeb!"  Abel shouted, even as he ran toward the
          oldster's bedroom with Melody at his heels.  When he burst
          inside, he could see the old prospector clearly in the
          moonlight.  Despite his casts, Zeb had gotten himself up and
          was cowering in a corner; and the house reverberated with
          his continuing terror.
               "Shut up!  Stop it!"  Abel cried, shaking Clanton's
          skinny shoulders.  "Did you hear me, old man?  I've had
          enough of your damn, crazy yelling!  Did you hear me?  Shut
          up!"
               Zeb wilted into trembling silence, and Abel eased him
          to a sitting position back on the bed.
               "What is it?  What the hell's bothering you this time?"
               "Cain't ye hear it?"  Zeb's eyes were rolling again.
          "Listen, listen."  He looked fearfully toward the unshaded
          window.  He was breathing hard.
               There was a woofing sound, and Zeb stiffened, sucking
          in his breath and holding it.
               "Well damn!  What kind of a mountain man do you call
          yourself?  Nothin' but a bear prowlin' around out there."
               "No, n-no.  Ain't no ord'nary bear.  Griz-grizzly.  An'
          ye don't understand ..."
               "So it's a damn grizzly.  Who cares?"  Abel was losing
          all patience.
               There were four hard thuds against the outer wall, and
          a mirror broke loose to smash on the floor.
               "Oh, Abel!"  Melody gasped.  "He's trying tox to crash
          through into the house!"
               "See?  See?"  Zeb screeched.  "I told yex I told ye!
          Oh L-Lord, he's afterx !"
               "We'll see about that!"  Abel snarled, running out of
          the room for his rifle.
               Now the woofing could be heard directly underneath
          Zeb's window; then, all of a sudden, a great shape rose up
          almost filling the opening and casting a long shadow inside.
          The creature's concave snout swayed from side to side.
               "Abel!  Abel!"  Melody shrieked, just as her husband
          materialized in the bedroom doorway and the window imploded
          ahead of flailing claws.  Abel's rifle met cascading glass
          and wood fragments with two bursts of fire; but the bear
          already had dropped away.
               "Ye missed, ye missed!  Ye cain't stop them d-devils.
          They never quit 'tilx !"
               But massive forelegs already were battering heavily
          against the front door now.
               Abel cursed again and ran toward the back exit.
               "No, Abel!  It's not safe out there!"  Melody pleaded.
          "Don't openx !"
               But her husband had already swept outside.  She flew to
          bolt the door after him then backed away with a hand
          clutching her throat.
               Two more shots were heard and, a few moments later,
          Abel re-entered breathlessly from the front.  He was
          barefoot, but seemed unaware of cold.
               "I-I caught him up-up close right in the-the face.  I'm
          sure of it be-because it was like broad daylight out there.
          He went running off then, but Ix but I couldn't have missed.
          Biggest damn grizzly I ever saw.  I'll be he wasx I'll bet
          he was a couple of inches taller than me."
               "Cain't kill 'em, no matter whut ye do.  Won't be no
          trace of 'em in the mornin', 'cept mebbe footprints in the
          snow; an' even those'll fade away.  Won't be nothin' not
          even blood."
               Abel laughed nervously.  "Papa bear, how can a scrawny
          little beast like you have such a big imagination?  Cover
          yourself up there.  We'll clean up that glass, and then all
          three of usx even Melodyx are gonna have a stiff snort or
          two.  Man, we've really earned it this night!"
               Although the ailing old fellow complained it "don't
          taste so good no more," the whiskey served well as a
          sedative for Zeb.  Finally, he was asleep, and the Allens
          were able to crawl back into bed.
               "Oh, Abel, do you think that awful beast will come
          back?"  Melody whispered tremulously.
               "Not a chance, honey.  He took two bullets to the head.
          Go to sleep, sweetheart, don't  listen to that wild old
          gnome; he's ready for the looney bin."
               But in the morning, aside from footprints that quickly
          trailed off to nothing in the snow, nowhere around was there
          any sign of bear.
               Not even blood.
          * * *
               "I'm going to have to find another place to take my
          meals, I guess," Loren White joked automatically when Abel
          Allen walked up to him in Frank Cafe.  It was 7:15 a.m.  "If
          it's not Mounties' interrupting my meals, it's coal eaters."
               But Abel wasn't smiling; he was looking
          uncharacteristically serious.  Loren, realizing something
          was wrong, became concerned.
               "Sit down, Abel.  What's eating you?"
               "Hello, Loren.  Thanks.  Figured I'd catch you here.
          I've only got a minute before the crew has to head over to
          the the mine.  I need to ask a favor."
               "Sure, sure.  Anything, buddy.  What is it?"
               "Well, would you believe it?  Old Zeb really went off
          his rocker again last night, and I'm worried about Melody
          being alone with him today.  There was an awful lot of
          noisex even gunshotsx at our place, and I don't really think
          the neighborsx."
               "Gunshots?  Whox Whatx ?"
               "Oh, some damn rogue grizzly smashed out Zeb's window
          in the wee hours this morning.  Biggest bloody bear I ever
          saw.  It was hammerin' at the door an' slammin' against
          outside walls like some kind of devil tryin' to knock the
          house over."
               "Did you shoot him?"
               Abel shook his head wonderingly.   "That's the crazy
          part, Loren.  He wasn't much farther away from me than  you
          are right now, and I got off two quick shots right in his
          face.  But he took off runnin'; and at sunup, I looked
          around out there.  No carcass.  No blood.  An' his tracks
          seemed to just fade away as ifx," he laughed, "as if he'd
          gradually got himself airborne.  Can you beat that?"
               "No, no; no way."  Loren put his cup down nervously,
          rattling it against the saucer and sloshing coffee out.
          "And you say the ... the grizzly actually smashed out
          Clanton's window?"
               "Sure did.  And, of course, the old man was convinced
          the critter was out for Zebadiah meat and nothin' else.
          Hollered an' screamed just like when that big buzzard flew
          over.  Why would a mountain man be scared of birds and
          bears?  He musta' been livin' side by side with wilderness
          animals the better part of his life."
               "I'm beginning to think there are a lot of things we
          don't understand, Abel.  But how is Zeb otherwise?"
               "Not too good.  Weak as a kitten.  Sometimes I think
          he's gettin' worse every day ... But Melody says he's comin'
          along.  Anyway, I've got to be going.  Would you mind
          checkin' on her sometime today?  I'm still a bit nervous
          about crazy men and bears lurkin' around my house.  If you
          could do that, I won't feel all day like scramblin' out of
          the hole to see how she's doin'."
               Loren felt trapped again.  "Dammit, Abel!" he thought,
          "I've been trying to stay away from that gorgeous wife of
          yours.  Some favor I'd be doing you!"  But he had no choice.
          "Sure, buddy," he said.  "I'll look in on them for you.
          Don't worry, they'll be fine."
               Abel relaxed visibly and his resident humor revived.
          "A pure heart beats under that ugly hide of yours after all,
          Yank.  Much obliged."
               Loren delayed until 11 a.m., knowing that Melody was
          sure to misinterpret this visit as a response to her
          challenge to come when Abel was absent.  He did not know how
          to handle this at all.  Once again, as he walked alongside
          the row of miners' cottages, he had an urge to keep going,
          to pass right by the Allen's house.  The livery stable and
          Fresco were just a short distance way.  Louis Malfin's words
          echoed in his ears:
               "Well, then, ain't no help fer ya; them kinda' things a
          man's gotta lick on his own," he had warned.  "Cain't 'spect
          nobody else ta do the facin'-up fer him ..."
               "You're right, Louis," Loren muttered.  "If I had any
          guts, I'd ride out now and never look back."
               "Well, Mr. 'Fraidy Cat!  I can't believe my eyes!"
          Melody tittered as soon as she had opened the door.  "Come
          in, come in.  Zeb's not up yet, but the kettle's on."
               "Good morning, M-Melody.  I came by because Abelx I
          mean ... I came by to check on ... on ..."
               "Did you really, now?"  She leaned close to him.  "Oh,
          but that's a shame.  We have a visitor," she whispered.
               They walked to the kitchen.  A pleasant-looking  woman
          was seated at the table.
               "Mrs. Watkins, this is Loren White, the painter-cowboy
          from Montana you've heard so much about.  Loren, Mrs.
          Watkins is my next-door neighbor."
               They exchanged polite greetings.
               "I stopped by, Mr. White, because I heard rifle shots
          last night from the Allen's house, and I wanted to find out
          what had happened.  John works nights, and I was afraid tox
          Did you hear about that terrible grizzly?"
               "Yes.  Abel told me about it earlier this morning.  Hex
          uhx asked me to look in on Melody and Zeb."
               "Oh, isn't Mr. White a ... a pussy cat, Mrs. Watkins?"
          Melody smiled.  "I mean to concern himself with our welfare
          like that?"
               Loren knew his face must be crimson.  "I can't stay
          long, Mrs. Allen.  Do you mind if I look in on Zeb?"
               "Oh, he would be so pleased.  I'm sorry about the
          cardboard covering his window.  Someone's supposed to fix it
          today.  That's where the bear tried to break in."  Her eyes
          were mocking.
               Loren walked through Zeb's open door and was shocked.
          The old man was lying with his head propped against a
          pillow; and, even without light from the window, one could
          see the gray cast to his face.  Most of the blond streaks in
          his profusion of white hair seemed to have faded, and he
          looked much older than his seventy years.
               "Hello, young feller," he said weakly.  "Gonna throw me
          offa' thet rock agin?"  There was no smile.
               "Maybe I will if you don't perk up pretty soon.  How
          are you feeling, Zeb?"
               "Weak.  Weak as a bony hag.  Cain't understan' how I
          kin be this weak an' still be alive.  You ... you think I'm
          a-dyin', boy?"
               "Do you want to die?"
               "No, not while they'sx not while they's still gold in
          them mountains."
               "Well, then you aren't dying.  Melody says it's the flu
          again.  Hey, you're no young colt anymore, Zeb.  It's hard
          for old folks to get over these things.  Just do what Melody
          tells you.  You're lucky to have such a fine nurse."
               "She ain't no nurse.  She's a angel."
               Loren started to mention the grizzly incident but
          thought better of it when he recalled Malfin's incredible
          allegations about the bear-demon.  What had he called it?
          Ixtlhaupti.  Yes, he had said the word translated as
          "terror."  White looked at the window covered with cardboard
          and shivered.
               "Terror," he repeated to himself.  "It's a wonder Zeb
          didn't die of fright."
               A little while later, Melody escorted the big cowboy to
          the door again.  It was just like before:  the way she
          walked, the perfume, the smile after she had freed the
          latch.
               "I was wrong about the 'fraidy cat', she whispered this
          time.  "You're a Chicken Little ... And I had such great
          hopes for you."
               When Loren stumbled outside and heard the door click
          shut behind him, he knew she was right, because one thing
          was certain now:
               The sky was falling.
          
          
          
          
          
          
          VIII.
          
               Warbling to one another in their own, peculiar mating
          language, a pair of big ravens flying in close formation
          arced high and away over Loren White's head.
               "They sound like frogs, Fresco," Loren laughed.  But
          the horse's rhythmic gait and the answering squeak of
          leather soon leaked a different siren's call back into his
          head.
               "Chicken Little, Chicken Little, Chicken Little ...,"
          it taunted; "'fraidy cat, 'fraidy, cat, 'fraidy cat ..."
               A flash of movement caught his eye.  A spotted lynx had
          flushed a snowshoe hare up on the hillside.
               "Run, little bunny, run!"  Loren coaxed.
               But there was a splash of snow; and, a moment later,
          the cat was trotting off with a small white body hanging
          limp from its mouth.
               "Death in tranquillity," Loren thought darkly,
          "slaughter in paradise; and God is unmoved by the cries of
          his children."
               He shook himself.
               "Don't blame your wallowings on God, boy, you crawled
          into the pigsty all by yourself.  And don't contaminate His
          wilderness with self-pity.  You came up here to be cleansed,
          remember?"
               It was March 23rd on another balmy morning.  He hadn't
          been near the Allens for six days, and it had been more than
          two weeks since he had seen Gina.  He had been checking the
          post office daily for his shipment but had been careful to
          do so only when no staff was present.
               His supply of the magic pellet was getting dangerously
          low; and he had not yet received a reply to a n urgent
          follow-up he had sent the supplier.  The possibility of
          actually running out was real now, and the thought always
          filled him with panic.
               For about an hour, he had been following what appeared
          to be a wapiti trail.  It was well-traveled, winding through
          an ascending valley bordered by snow-covered peaks.  After
          two more hours, the surrounding beauty managed to overcome
          his dour state, and he found himself on a rocky summit
          overlooking three high, frozen lakes not far below.  There
          was a little wooded island in the center of the largest one.
          Up on a frosted crag against some wind-swept rocks he could
          see some silvery mountain goats.  His view seemed all-
          encompassing.
               "This is the place, Fresco," he said, dismounting.  The
          horse began to nibble through the snow as the Montana artist
          sat down on a high rock.  There was a sketch pad in his lap.
               He felt alive again.
               After an indeterminate time, a gray jay made a bold
          pass at a few pieces of jerky Loren had placed on a rock at
          his side.
               "Whoa, wis-ka-tjon, you little thief," he chuckled,
          using the Indian name Malfin had taught him.  "You've got
          more guts than brains."
               The bird flitted down the mountainside to White's
          right; and, as Loren's eyes followed, they were brought in
          line with something else.  He could see a rider flickering
          in and out among the trees far below.  He was approaching
          via the same trail Loren had used.
               "Damn!  I hope he doesn't spot me and come up here.
          Just when I was finding a little peace!"
               He tied Fresco behind some trees then hunkered down to
          watch.
               In twenty minutes, the horseman unexpectedly veered off
          the main trail and began moving up toward the little lakes.
          Eventually, the stranger dismounted on the east side of the
          largest body of water and at some distance from a high hill.
          He tethered his mount, untied something bulky from behind
          his saddle, and carried it about three hundred yards to the
          base of the hill where a mass of big rocks worked up the
          slope.  At this juncture, he placed the object on the ground
          then stood motionless, peering up into the boulders with his
          right arm outstretched.
               "What the devil is he up to?"  Loren asked  himself.
          "Looks like some kind of pagan ritual."
               Suddenly, three tawny shapes came bounding down from
          the rocks directly toward the man, who stood as if frozen in
          terror.  In a moment, his hat flew off, and he was down and
          rolling around with the animals all over him.
               "Mountain lions!"  Loren shouted, running for Fresco.
          In seconds, he was in the saddle, bouncing down the hill,
          and pulling his rifle free.  One shot into the air sent the
          cougars fleeing back up the rocks.  The fallen figure sat up
          effortlessly then, watching Loren gallop up and leap off.
               Hazel eyes edged with irritation looked up from under a
          shock of yellow hair.  There was no torn clothing, there was
          no shredded flesh.
               There was only Gina Olson.
               "Loren White!"  she exclaimed, her vexation gone.  "Did
          you really have to save me like that?  I don't remember
          calling for help."  She rose and retrieved her hat.
               "Gina!  Ginax !  What the devil are you doing way out
          here?  What?  Why did I save you?  Didn't you have three
          mountain lions chewing on you?"
               Her lack of injury finally registered; and he realized
          she was smiling at him.
               "What's going on, Ginax uhx Miss Olson?  I don't
          understand."
               "Gina's much nicer; and of course you wouldn't
          understand.  I guess most people wouldn't."  She looked up
          at the rocks.  "That was Bengal with Scruff and Buff.
          Bengal's the mama; I've known her for years.  I visit often,
          and their greetings tend to be a bit rough.  They always get
          goodies, though.  Unfortunately," she grinned, indicating
          the package on the snow, "you didn't let them sample their
          steak this time.  No matter, they'll come back for it
          later."
               "You have wild lions for pets?"
               "Where were you, Loren, up there on that high point?
          Let's go back up so my kittens can calm down.  I'll tell you
          about it on the way."
               She retrieved her horse, a shining sorrel named Clancy;
          and they rode up the slope, with White trying to collect his
          wits while she talked.
               It had started some years ago, when Gina had come to
          the lake to fish, only to discover the young lioness lying
          in some weeds near the shoreline.  The animal was near death
          from starvation and was barely able to lift its head.  It
          had been a bad season for game, and a recently-battered paw
          obviously had prevented her from capturing what might be
          found.
               Gina stayed all that day fishing and managed to catch
          about a dozen trout, all of which she lay close to the
          snarling beast.  Two days later she returned to the lake and
          found the puma still there, but looking much better.  She
          left a large piece of beef this time.
               Throughout the rest of the summer, the young woman came
          back at every opportunity, always leaving food.  Eventually,
          the cougar would come running to meet her; and two years
          ago, Bengal had proudly brought twins down from her lair for
          introductions.
               Loren recalled how, on that first day, Gina had
          materialized out of the night to calm Zeb, after which Doc
          had said he had "seen her work that magic before, but it's
          usually with animals."  Then later she had described the old
          man as being like a tiny forest creature you manage to catch
          in your hand for a second: all heartbeat and tremble.
               And White had likened her to a shadow-pixie in the
          leaves.
               "I have never heard of such a thing, Gina," Loren
          exclaimed now.  "I've always regarded mountain lions as
          dangerous animals.  I just wouldn't have believed it if I
          hadn't seen it."
               They were sitting on the high rocks again.
               "I suppose they can be dangerous if cornered.  Aren't
          we all?"  She laughed.  "But they are shy, affectionate
          creatures at heart, and they have been ruthlesslyx ."  She
          caught her breath.  "You've been sketching!  May I see?"
               "But that's all they are, Gina, sketches.  I'll turn
          them into paintings later."  Now he was laughing.  She was
          like a bubbly child.
               She looked at the pages carefully without comment.
          There were three drawings.  At last, she closed the pad.
               "Yes, yes; that's how I would try to do it.  It's not
          just snow, and ice, and rocks.  It's ... it's the hand of
          God."
               There was no more speaking for some time after that.
          They sat in silence and listened to the mountains.
               After a while, though, she broke through again:  "You
          thought I was a man, didn't you?"  Before he could respond,
          she continued.  "In Frank, I'm a disgrace to the afternoon
          tea set because I wear my hair short, and sit a horse like a
          man, and dress in men's clothes when I ride around in the
          wilderness alone like a brazen little hussy."
               Loren could see the glint of beginning tears in her
          eyes.  He started to speak, but she picked up her theme once
          more.
               "I love this rugged country, and I'm not going to let
          myx my gender keep me from being alive and part of it.  What
          sense do their ridiculous taboos make?  They say it's the
          way of the Victorian age.  Well, the good queen has been
          dead for two years, andx ."
               "Gina, Gina," Loren said softly.  "Be what you are
          without regret.  Listen to what your soul prompts you to be.
          Rise up on your own wings; walk with the heart of your
          beautiful lions."  He brushed the trickle away from her
          cheek.  "You are a masterpiece on God's canvas."
               She jumped up and turned her face away; but Loren had
          seen the gush of tears.  There was another wordless interval
          between them.
               "I must be going," she said finally.  "I should be home
          before dark."
               When she was on her horse she looked down at him and
          whispered.  "You are a remarkable man, Mr. White.  Thank you
          for the words."
               She pressed her heels into Clancy's side.
               Her mount was a blaze of reddish-brown against the
          pervading white; and Loren watched its diminishing shape
          until he could see it no more.
               "I feel as if she is walking out of my life, Fresco,
          and that a treasure is slipping through my fingers," he said
          sadly.
               He put his sketch pad into a saddlebag and started to
          swing up.  But he stepped back, removed a piece of beef
          jerky from his pocket and placed it on a rock.  He looked up
          into a tree where there was a gray fluttering.
               "For you, little wis-ka-tjon.  You have more brains
          than I have guts," he muttered.  "And you, for one, have the
          courage of your convictions."
               At last he climbed on Fresco and followed Clancy's
          tracks; but, as the light began to fade, he turned off into
          a tight, box canyon he had explored on the way in.  At the
          dead end, he dismounted and removed Fresco's saddle.  When
          the horse was tethered, Loren gave him his feed bag then set
          to building a campfire.  This done, he pulled into it one
          end of a large limb from a dead aspen.
               "That ought to keep us for the night, Fresco," he
          murmured.
               Later, wrapped in warm blankets and propped against his
          saddle before the fire, he almost heard the freezing wind
          trying in vain to reach him down inside the rocks.  The sky
          was ablaze with stars, but he neither saw them nor
          registered the wolf pack hot on an ending chase.  He was
          aware of none of this, Because Loren White had become an
          interloper in Gina's pristine land:  He belonged to the
          little pellet smouldering now inside his pipe.
               And to Melody Allen .
          * * *
               She was feeling smug.  Loren had not been around for a
          week after checking on her subsequent to the grizzly scare.
          But then he had suddenly reappeared "to see Zeb," he had
          said in his fumbling way.  She giggled.  Moreover, this
          morningxonly two days laterxhe had somehow found it
          necessary to look in on the old croak again.  Both times,
          however, it was obvious he had known Abel would be off in
          the mine.
               Melody laughed triumphantly inside.
               Administer one drop of lust and these pitiful males are
          ready to rip out a brother's throat for the chance tox hah!
          It was a good thing old fly meat over there was in the
          house.  Fraidy Cat certainly isn't a Chicken Little any more
          ... I wonder what happened to all his lofty principles?  ...
          Now the big problem is going to be keeping him at bay until
          I need him.  Shouldn't be difficult, though, as long as
          Zebby-cadaver is leering down our necks.
               "Aah!" Zebadiah Clanton enthused, wiping his mouth
          again with the back of his hand.  "I thought I was a-dyin'
          fer shore when this stuff didn't taste no good no more.  An'
          I swear, Miz Allen, a man might jest as well roll over on
          his belly when fine whiskey an' a hot ... uh ... a hot meal
          stops bein' his reason fer livin'."
               Oh, no, you drunken lecher.  Those are not your reasons
          for living at all.  If it weren't for the real one, little
          rodent, I'd give you a full dose of that rat poison right
          now for all you've put me through.
               "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it, little daddy; but
          don't overdo it.  Remember our bargain, honey.  And I'm so
          glad you're feeling better again."
               Enjoy yourself, Mr. Clanton, it won't last.  You've had
          seven days without your "medicine" and you'll get five more.
          Then we let Dr. Edwardson remove those casts.  We want him
          to be impressed by my curative powers, don't we?  After
          that, though, Mama's going to throw another log on your
          fire.
               "You an' Abel, an' Loren's got ta be the only real
          family I ever had, Melody.  There was the old man a' course,
          but I laughed when he got took.  Hee!  Hee!  Folks uster say
          the bottle was gonna be the death of 'im."  The old
          prospector took another swig.  "Never thought it would be
          the jagged edge a' one agin' his throat."
               "Oh, my, what a horrible thing to say, Zeb.  You should
          be ashamed!"
               "Mebbe so, mebbe so.  Anyways, some day I figger ta
          repay you three jest a little.  Wait; you'll see."
               "Now you know you don't owe us a thing, sweetie.  Of
          course, if you have a pot of gold buried out there
          somewhere, you can string me a bunch of big yellow nuggets
          for my neck, if you'd like."  She tittered throatily.
               Well, the new tactic seems to be working, old lizard.
          The mooning cowhand's about ready, and a few more days of
          our special tonic ought to do it with you ...
          * * *
               It was 2:15 a.m. on March 27, 1903; and almost everyone
          was asleep in the little town of Frank couched here under
          the mountain with a reptile's name.  Tony Slink was one of
          the exceptions.  He was staggering home down Dominion Avenue
          after a fruitful night of panhandling drinks.  Another was
          Albert Cordon, night shift laborer in the Canadian American
          Coal Company's profitable mine whose entrance fronted the
          Oldman River.  Albert was almost a mile inside the Turtle.
               Suddenly, he straightened up.  Did something move
          again?  Was there a foreign sound off in the dark labyrinth
          somewhere?  A bead of sweat broke loose from his forehead
          and followed one of the lighter paths already lining his
          blackened cheeks.  A stream of ebony dust sifted down from
          the supports, nothing more.
               He shivered slightly and resumed his work, but his
          thoughts were with his wife and children.
               He could not have seen, of course, the cascade of
          boulders that had just broken away from the mountain top to
          make the long, long fall into the river.  Nor could Louis
          Malfin, snoring peacefully on the dirt floor of his
          waterside tent.
               Nor could those inside the dark houses on the flats
          below the Turtle have known that an overhanging, ninety-
          million-ton mass high above had moved again, ever so
          slightly.
          * * *
               "Evie, would you mind holding the door open while
          Lester and I bring Mr. Clanton inside?"
               Nurse Landy jumped up.  "Oh, Melody, you startled me!
          Yes, certainly; but let me help."
               "No, no, we can handle it.  Lester here is a big muscle
          man, and Zeb is a little bird in the wheel chair."
               Mrs. Allen and the young teenager had no difficulty
          getting the old man up the steps and into the hospital.
               "Thanks for helping, Lester; don't be late for school
          now."  Melody gave the boy a coin, and the 13-year-old
          thanked her before hurrying away.
               "So the little bird is going to fly again, Mr.
          Clanton," Miss Landy smiled.  "Those casts are coming off,
          finally.  Whatever will you do without them?"
               "Thought I might take ye dancin', young lady; an' then
          you an' me kin run off an' git married."
               "Aha!  Perhaps a certain member of the North-West
          Mounted Police will have something to say about that!  How
          are you, Mr. Clanton?  So good to see you."
               Dr. Edwardson had walked up from the back and pretended
          not to notice his nurse's embarrassment.  He shook Zeb's
          hand warmly.
               "Jest want ta git one thing straight, Doc, before ye
          take ta sharpenin' yer saws:  Yer' s'posed ta hammer off
          these ce-ment blocks, not cut off the good arm an' leg ye
          fergot an' left me."
               Edwardson's mirth filled the big room.  "A hostile
          witness, your honor," he said to Melody.  "Obviously fully
          recovered.  I think you can take him off the raw meat now."
          He swung the wheel chair around.  "Come on, ladies, I'm
          going to need help with this onex especially since I'm not
          going to bother sharpening the saws."
               As he began to work on the old man, however, the
          physician grew serious.  "You are a bit thin, nonetheless,
          Mr. Clanton.  I understand you picked up a bit of the flu
          that's been bedeviling the community."
               "Yep.  Nasty stuff.  Reckon I'm mostly over it now,
          though."
               "That's an understatement, Doctor," Melody cut in.  "He
          eats like a horse and kicks like a mule lately."
               Zeb grinned, but his smile faded rapidly.  "Think I'd
          a'bought the farm, Doc, if it hadn't been fer this fine
          lady."
               "His skin is rather scaly," Miss Landy said, running
          her fingers along his good, right arm.  "What do you make of
          that?"
               "I noticed that, too," Melody contributed quickly.  "I
          think I'm going to change soaps.  Probably too hard on his
          old body."
               "Umm, let's see."  Edwardson looked at the arm closely
          and peered into Zeb's face.  "Yes, Melody, good idea.  Do
          that.  Zeb, you said you're 'mostly' over the flu.  What do
          you mean?  What symptoms do you still have?"
               "Symx , whut, Doc?"
               "If you're not feeling perfectly well, Zeb, tell me
          what's bad.  Tell me how you're hurting or maybe just
          uncomfortable."
               "Well, Doc, 'tain't much.  Jest damned weak most a' the
          time.  An', an'," he darted a look at the ladies, "I been
          havin' trouble ... you know ... goin'."
               "Urination is difficult?"
               "Yeah, but thet's been goin' on fer five-six years.
          No, the other."
               "Constipation."
               "Yeah.  An' I git sorta' mixed up sometimes.  Fergit
          where I am, like.  But all thet's gittin' better.  'Tain't
          nowhere like thet first attack."
               "Oh, Zeb," Melody laughed, "You justx ."
               "One moment, Mrs. Allen, please," the doctor
          interrupted.  "What do you mean, Mr. Clanton?  What was the
          first attack like?"
               Shut up, you damned old fool, shut up!  You're going to
          ruin everything!
               Melody felt Evelyn Landy's eyes hard upon her and
          glanced in that direction.  The little nurse was
          inscrutable.  Mrs. Allen smiled then but could not penetrate
          the somber barrier.
               All right.  Keep staring, little bitch.  You don't know
          a bloody thing.
               "Ain't never had no flu like thet, Doc.  All of a
          sudden, my mouth an' throat took ta burnin' like fire, an' I
          got me the worst bellyache I ever had in my life.  But
          Melody there stayed with me all day an' all night, an' I
          gradual' pulled out of it."
               "Mouth and throat burning ... strange.  Have you had
          any more of that?"
               Zeb grinned.  "Only when Abel forces his rot-gut,
          whiskey-tradin' booze down my craw."
               "Yes, he fights it all the way, kicking and screaming,"
          Melody giggled, clutching at the levity.
               "Well, now, you're free again, Mr. Zebadiah Clanton.
          How does that feel?"  Edwardson beamed.
               Zeb stood up, working his unencumbered left arm and
          leg.  "Little stiff, Doc, but first-rate.  An' you didn't
          even saw off them other two."
               "Sorry, I forgot about that.  Well, if you keep
          swilling that rot gut, they'll probably wither and fall off
          all by themselves.  Anyway, sit back down and let's listen
          to you and probe around a bit."
               When he had completed his examination, the physician
          pronounced Zeb fit enough.  "But make sure you change that
          soap, Mr. Clanton.  We can't do much about the urination
          problem, unfortunately, unless it really gets bad.  You've
          got the curse that comes to  most all of us old men sooner
          or later.  I'll give you something for the constipation,
          though.
               "I don't really understand the mouth and throat burning
          unless it was something unusual you don't remember
          ingesting.  Get in here immediately if it happens again.
          I'm not sure about the persistentx uhx the weakness you keep
          having or the bouts of confusion.  Frankly, though, I must
          say these two things could be because of your age.  I
          wouldn't suggest much more roaming about in the mountains
          alone, Mr. Clanton.  Could be dangerous."  He chuckled.
          "Send someone else out for your gold."
               "Who would have thought, Doctor?"  Melody gloated to
          herself.  "You scare the hell out of me, then you play right
          into my hands."  She stole a look at the little nurse again
          and wondered if the woman's eyes had ever left her.
               What's inside that mousy head, woman?  How far are you
          going to let your jealousy take you?
               "Hey, Doc," Zeb was saying.  "Ain't nothin's gonna keep
          me rockin' in no chair.  I got business thet won't set back
          fer no little flu beetle.  Feelin' better ever' day,
          anyways.  Thanks fer all ye done, though.  Obliged."
               "No thanks necessary.  I just did some patching.  Your
          friend Loren White is the one who saved your life, and Mrs.
          Allen is the lady who nursed you back.  By the way, Melody,
          if you see Loren before I do, tell him to drop by.  I think
          he needs a check-up; but, if he won't do that, at least he
          could drop by for a quick hello."
               "I'll do that, Doctor.  He comes by to see Zeb and Abel
          quite often."
               When they had gone, Edwardson sat down and toyed with
          his chin.  "Another one of those frustrating cases, Miss
          Landy.  I know there is something I'm just not seeing ...
          just not seeing.  That old man was in near-perfect physical
          health when he left her in Feb-
          ruary, except for the broken bones, of course ... Scaling.
          Disorientation.  Constipation.  And the burning, the
          burning!  Sounds almost like a case ofx .  No, no, of course
          not; yet, he had to have taken something nasty orally."
               He stood up.  "Well, there are more hazardous
          substances around ordinary households than most people
          suspect.  And who knows what he may have done to himself,
          given his ambivalent behavior?  That's probably the closest
          we will come to an answer."
               Nurse Landy did not respond.
               The next day, Constable Quartersloe walked into the
          hospital with a lively sparkle in his eye.  Finally, after
          the usual banter with Evelyn Landy, he could contain himself
          no longer.
               "Evie," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Corporal
          Taylor slipped me a bit of good news today."
               "Oh, did he get a break in his big case?  Is his
          investigation still going to take him off to Macleod
          temporarily?"
               "Well, yes and no.  Yes, he will still be leaving town
          next month; and, no, my good news is not about his big
          case."  He saw a copy of the Frank Sentinel on the counter
          and glanced at the lead story, pretending to have become
          distracted.  "Look at that.  Two misspelled words on page
          one.  That bride of Harry's must be seriously distracting
          him."
               "Martin!"  Evelyn laughed.  "Are you going to tell me
          or not?"
               The Mountie came close to her, his young face aglow.
          "Evie, honey, there's a promotion in the mill for me.  That
          means I'll be transferred to take over my own post
          somewhere."  He saw her stricken look.  "No, no, Evie.  If
          it happens, I'll be able to ... I'll be asking you to ... to
          make an important decision."
               Somehow, Loren White's words pounded through her mind:
          "Snatch him up, Miss Landy; I've never seen two people more
          right for each other," he had said in his strange, haunted
          way.  She busied herself with papers, however, unable to
          reply with more than a faltering monosyllable.
               Quartersloe picked up the newspaper again, just the
          barest trace of a smile on his face.
               In a moment, however, Nurse Landy had recovered; but
          she was troubled.
               "Martin, do you remember telling me a few weeks ago
          that policemen function mostly by instinct?"
               "Yes, but I believe I said, too, that there was no
          mentality involved, either," he chuckled.
               "Do you operate that wayx mostly by instinct?"
               "Yes, I'm afraid so."
               "And is it usually accurate?"
               "Uh-huh.  Like now.  What's eating you, Evie?"
               "Well, I don't know, really.  All I can tell you is I'm
          sure there is something terribly wrong in the Allen house,
          and it concerns Mr. Clanton."
               "You don't like Melody Allen, do you?"
               "No.  Frankly, she is absolutely the most deceitful
          person I have ever met.  Behind that beautiful face and
          engaging personality lurks an awful ruthlessness.  And what
          makes it frightening is her high intelligence."
               The policeman was shaking his head.  "Well, there you
          are, honey."
               "No, Martin, that's not it.  I'm not blinded by my own
          animosity.  On the contrary, it makes me immune to her
          charms and more alert to her constant little machinations.
          I've worked with her; I know.  She has an uncanny ability to
          hoodwink almost everyone, Martin, especially men."
               Quartersloe was listening intently now.  "There must be
          more, Evie.  Just what do you think is occurring at the
          Allens'?"
               "Well ... She brought Mr. Clanton in yesterday for cast
          removal.  When Dr. Edwardson would question the old man,
          Melody would try to answer for him, making light of any
          physical complaints he had.  And he does have some, toox
          things that are inconsistent with influenza.  Even the
          doctor is ... is worried."
               "But the old prospector is in and out of his mind,
          isn't he?  And I understand he considers Mrs. Allen to be a
          Godsend, and that he and Abel get along famously."
               "That's true.  Nonetheless, I can't stop worrying about
          that poor little man.  I can't forget, either, that on the
          day Mr. Clanton was discharged,  Dr. Edwardson emphasized
          something to Melody.  He told her to be sure to let him know
          if anything unusual developed.  She did not do that,
          Martin."
               "I see.  Well, what are the inconsistent symptoms?"
               "I suppose it won't sound like much, taken out of
          context, so to speak; but he had a terrible burning
          sensation in his mouth and throat at one point."
               "Umm ... And, of course, you're wanting to imply that
          Mrs. Allen has been maltreating Zebadiah for some reason.
          What reason, honey?"
               Nurse Landy sighed deeply and threw up her hands.  "I
          guess that is where the lack of mentality enters in, Martin.
          I don't know.  I just don't know."
               "Yes," the Mountie said rather absently.  "Perhaps it
          will bear watching."
          
          
          
          
          IX.
          
               Loren White had been unable to break down the
          sorcerer's door for three nights.  For at least the tenth
          time now, he examined his two leather pouches and was forced
          to the same conclusion:  One contained only tobacco; the
          other was empty.  Once again he tore through everything in
          his closet, his bureau, his bags.  He even crawled about the
          floor against the possibility he had dropped a few pellets.
          Nothing.
               He had been to the livery stable twice; but, of course,
          there were no stray particles in his saddlebags.  He sank
          into his chair with his palms on the table and watched his
          hands quiver.  He was short of breath; and it seemed as if
          he might be developing a chest cold.
               "On top of this, that's all I need!  Damn!  What's
          wrong with that supplier?  He said it was on its way.  How
          many days ago was that?  What if it got lost or stolen?  I
          don't know where to start around here to find another
          source.  I'm not sure of Canadian laws about this sort of
          thing, anyway."
               He looked at his watch again.  In ten more minutes the
          mail will have been distributed.  He got up and tried pacing
          away the time.  As he moved about the room he tried to
          divert his mind with other thoughts, but he could not.  He
          didn't give a damn about anything else:  He didn't care
          about painting, or Dad, or Melodyx no, not even Gina.  Not
          now.  Not until he could rid himself of this awful thing
          gnawing away inside.
               "Maybe just plain tobacco will help," he thought
          wildly, reaching for the one useful container.  Filling the
          bowl of his pipe, he spilled a lot on the floor; and the
          match wobbled in his hand, burning his fingers.  He sucked
          his lungs full of smoke.
               "Ah!  I ... I think that does help."
               Two more times he inhaled deeply; then, with a sort of
          whimper, he slammed the pipe to the floor, scattering sparks
          across the carpet.  Little blue spirals began to rise from
          the fabric.
               "Burn, you bastard, burn; I don't give ax!"  He pulled
          on his watch fob.  "Good!  It's time.  Calm down, beast;
          it's got to be there today."  He stamped the smoke from the
          rug.  "It's got to be there today," he repeated.
               It wasn't.
               Loren couldn't believe his eyes.  He stood transfixed
          in the post office, staring inside the little metal box.  It
          yawned back at him like a gigantic empty cave.  There had to
          be a mistake.  He hurried to the window and fell in behind a
          ponderously fat woman talking to Gina.
               "Oh, Miss Olson, that cannot be correct.  Why, that
          tiny parcel couldn't possibly weigh so much.  Please check
          it again."
               Now I've got an elephant blockingx shut up, you
          hulkingx !
               "No, ma'am, it registers the same.  I'm sorry.  Oh,
          hello, Loren," she smiled brightly, then gave him another
          quick look.
               "Hello, Gina."
               "Well, then, there must be something wrong with the
          scale.  I hope you will get it checked at the very first
          opportunity.  These are difficult times, miss; every penny
          counts for some of us."
               "Yes, ma'am.  We'll check it.  I'm sorry.  Here's your
          change."
               Oh, hell!  She's counting it twice.  I wouldn't be
          surprised if she bit into each coin next.
               He coughed pointedly.  The woman whirled and glowered
          at him.
               "Well!"  she huffed then waddled out.
               "Gina, I ... uh ... I'm expecting a package.  Shipment
          of ... of special oils.  It should have been here days ago.
          There was no notice in my box.  Maybe someone forgot.  Will
          you check, please?"
               "Certainly, Loren.  I'll do that for you right away."
          She looked worried and confused as she hurried off.  In a
          moment she was back.  "I'm sorry, there's no package for
          you.  I would have known, anyway."  She reddened.  "Maybe
          tomorrow."
               "Yes, yes, thank you.  Tomorrow."  He turned and walked
          out.
               Gina stared after him.  He looked like a ghost, a
          stranger; and he hadn't even said goodbye.  All because of a
          shipment of oils?  And it had been so beautiful up in the
          mountains.
               She turned away, biting her lip.
               Five minutes later, Tony Slink's hopes rose.  Maybe his
          luck was getting better.  "Hey, Frank Yank!" he called out
          through the barroom haze.  "Where ya' been hidin'?  Get over
          here an' tell me why all Yanks are so ugly."
               "Thank God there's still whiskey," the Montana cowboy
          whispered to himself ..."
               He awoke about an hour before noon on the next day
          feeling a little sick and with a slight headache.  He didn't
          remember leaving the bar.  Putting a hand to his head, he
          groaned; nonetheless, he was thankful for his new
          complaints:  At least the booze had deadened the others.
               He cleaned up and went immediately to the post office
          and was not surprised to find  his box empty, except for a
          crude circular offering "sensitive and caring mortuary
          services."
               "Fitting enough," he thought bitterly, "especially on
          April Fools' Day."
               At least he was hungry now.  He slipped outside without
          encountering Gina and walked into Frank Cafe.
               "Well, if it isn't death warmed over!"  Julie quipped,
          as if she, too, had received the same pamphlet.  "You gonna
          have your regular, or did you just crawl in here to die?"
          She paused, and her voice softened:  "Really, Loren, you'd
          better find a good woman to take care of you.  You don't
          look much like the big cowboy hero that rode into town a few
          weeks ago."
               "Okay, I'll marry you if it will stop your nagging.
          But you'll have to do two things first:  Get rid of your
          husband and bring me an edible breakfast for a change.
          This, of course, ends our engagement, because you'll never
          pass the second part of the test."
               She looked at the broad hand trembling against the
          water glass and worked out a smile.  "I guess you're gonna
          live.  Depends on how much venom I spill on your eggs,
          though."
               His meal over, Loren walked out into the sunlight.  It
          hammered his eyes.  There was a vile thing awakening inside
          himself somewhere, and his chest cold was worse.
               "So how do you get through another day, addict?"  he
          asked himself.
               The answer seemed to come of its own volition.  He had
          a full bottle in his room.
               "At least Gina didn't have to see you crawl out of the
          gutter today," a voice inside his head whispered, as he
          labored up the stairs.
               But Gina had.  She had watched him walk into the post
          office with his eyes riveted on the wall of metal boxes.
          Miss Olson knew the mysterious package had not arrived, and
          she had fled out of sight to the back.
               She could not bear to see his face.  Without warning,
          the man who used to live behind it had largely vanished; and
          the remnant seemed to be devouring himself, little by
          little.  And nothing made sense anymore.
               On the following day, however, she could not avoid him.
          He pounded on the brass bell, forcing her to come forward.
               "Hello, Loren, whatx ?"
               "Gina, there is no-no notice in my box."  His features
          were stark; his skin was beaded with moisture.  "It has to
          be here.  It must be-be lost somewhere in the back.  Please
          s-search around."
               "Yes, Loren," she said almost inaudibly.  Hurrying to
          the rear again, she leaned against a wall, looked up at the
          ceiling, and wiped the corners of her eyes.
               "Are you all right, Gina?"  one of her co-workers
          asked.
               "Yes.  Yes, Mrs. Boxer.  Just give me a minute or two."
               But Mrs. Boxer knew better.  She had seen who was
          waiting at the window.  This was a small town.  After about
          three minutes, she watched the young woman move reluctantly
          forward again.
               "No, Loren, I've had everyone alerted to watch for it,
          and we just looked around again.  Perhaps we could start a
          tracer for you.  But you seem to have a terrible cold.
          Please, what is it?  Let me help you."
               "No, no, I'm fine.  Thanks."
               The door slammed behind him.
          * * *
               Two days later, on Saturday, a sorrel named Clancy
          walked along a muddy trail bearing new signs of wapiti.  A
          masculine-looking girl on his back looked longingly toward
          the reaching peaks as she and the horse plodded upwards.
               His package had come yesterday ... A carton of oils.
          Like a body possessed, he had snatched it from her and fled
          from the building without a word.  An old song a friend's
          mother had written tugged at her mind:
               "Where does the wind go that stirs the silent
          treetops?"  it began.  "How does a heart know when a love
          has gone?"
               A carton of oils ...
               But the whispering conifers made sense now, and so did
          the squirrels' jabbering about spring; and so did Clancy's
          musky fragrance.  He took her up beside a little lake
          between two hills and let himself be tethered about three
          hundred yards from an ascending line of rocks.
               And when the lions came down, she clung to their necks,
          and reveled in their warmth, and breathed them in.
               After a time, she turned and looked up to a lofty place
          where she could almost see a solitary figure laboring to
          translate the work of God.
          * * *
               Melody Allen opened her door and found herself looking
          directly into the eyes of a policeman.
               "Oh!  Constable Quartersloe!"  she exclaimed.  "Ix I'm
          sorry.  For some reason, I expected you to be a neighbor."
               "No, ma'am, I'm the one who should apologize for
          bursting in on you unannounced.  I just happened to be in
          the vicinity, and I thought I'd look in on our famous Mr.
          Clanton.  How is he progressing?"
               Strange how so many of the "innocents" react as if
          they've been caught in some felonious act.  Makes one wonder
          how much nefarious activity hides behind respectable doors.
          Nothing like the element of surprise, though, to catch a
          hand in somebody's cookie jar.
               "Oh, he's better, so much better, especially since the
          casts have come off.  Ah, but there I go again forgetting my
          manners.  Please come in.  Zeb thoroughly enjoys visitors."
          She called forth her most devastating smile.
               Steady, Melody.  He has no reason to be suspicious;
          and, in spite of that impressive uniform, he is a mere man
          like all the rest of them.
               She led the Mountie into the living room.  Zebadiah was
          sitting at the table looking like a contented family's
          beloved patriarch.  A copy of the Frank Sentinel was spread
          out before him.
               "Zeb, honey, we have a distinguished visitor."
               "A lawman?"  he growled.  Then he was snarling
          suddenly:  "Don't let us keep ye, sonny boy.  Hate ta have
          ye miss a nice, legal lynchin' er somethin'.  Er mebbe yer'
          jest out collectin' widder-woman pennies fer their breathin'
          permits, hey?"
               "Zeb, hush!  Whatever happened to your manners?  I've
          never seen you act like this.  Constable Quartersloe is a
          welcome guest in this house, little daddy.  Please don't
          forget that."
               She went over and patted the old prospector's head, as
          if fearful she had been too severe.  Zeb looked up guiltily.
               "Jest not used ta ..." Clanton wilted.  "Mebbe he wants
          some tea."  He started to elevate himself shakily.
               "No, no, Mr. Clanton.  Thank you both.  I can't stay
          very long.  Don't want to miss that lynching; so, as soon as
          I collect your breathing fee, Mrs. Allen, I'll be leaving.
          You are a widow, aren't you?"
               "Hee!  Hee!"  Zeb burst out, in spite of himself.
               "But do sit down for a moment, Constable," Melody
          gushed.  "See how you are, Zebadiah?  This nice young man
          stopped in just to find out how you're feeling."
               "Feelin' fine.  Gonna be headin' out in a day er two.
          Soon as these two run outa' whiskey.  Never felt better in
          my life.  Like a twenty-years-older."
               "No more burning in the mouth or throat, Mr. Clanton?"
               Oh, damn!  How did he find out about that? Who told
          him?  What else has hex?  Careful, careful, Melody, don't
          lose it.  Charm, charm!
               "Naw, ain't had thet but once.  Lately, jest been the
          flu a-hangin' on a bit.  Gittin' stronger ever' day."
               You recovered there nicely, you gorgeous lady, didn't
          you?  Evie, Evie, has your pretty little nose really sniffed
          out something rotten?  Surprise ... good old element of
          surprise.  Almost never fails.
               "Well, that's wonderful," the policeman smiled.  "How
          about coming clean on your little secret, though, Mr.
          Clanton?"
               Two people looked shocked simultaneously.
               "Secret?  Whut?  Ain't nox ."
               "No, no," the officer laughed engagingly.  "I guess
          it's not really a secret.  I'm just curious.  Why do you
          dislike policemen?"
               "Oh, well you ain't a bad sort.  First one I ever met
          thet weren't, though.  Them others wasn't the same a-tall.
          Before they come aroun', this were a big free country, an' a
          man could go out an' live like a man without worryin' about
          ... about nothin'."
               "Yes, I can understand why you would say that.  I have
          a Blackfoot friend who feels the same.  Lives on a
          reservation.  His people used to roam free, just as you
          describe.  His father was poisoned by whiskey traders."
               Zeb and Melody seemed to be in shock as Quartersloe
          rose to leave.
               "It's been nice visiting with both of you.  Thanks for
          your hospitality, Mrs. Allen, and my best to your husband."
               Melody closed the door behind him and leaned against
          it, her heart pounding.
               My God, he's like a smiling cobra!  What a terribly
          dangerous man!  What does hex ?  Who could havex ?
               She started to walk back into the living room, but then
          she stopped.
               Evelyn Landy's face had filled her consciousness.
          * * *
               Mrs. Allen had spent a sleepless night beginning in
          fear and ending in consuming fury.  Curiously, her dreads
          ultimately had been vanquished by Abel and Zeb:  Throughout
          her tossing and turning, she had been aware of a mounting
          irritation over their blissful snores in the face of her
          suffering.  At last, they seemed to epitomize all of her
          difficulties, and her anger flared hot:
               "Just who in hell do you think you are?"  her mind
          screamed out in the darkness.  And then it took in all her
          adversaries.  "What right do you have to stand in my way?
          What makes you think you have the capacity to outmaneuver
          me, you stifling mediocrities?"
               She zeroed in on Nurse Landy.
               "So you turned your police dog loose on me, did you,
          bitch?  And what is this fearful dragon of yours?  He's no
          more than a quavering bureaucrat hiding behind his uniform
          and using sadism to mask his own inadequacy.  No, no, Miss
          Mousy, I see him naked now; and he doesn't scare me
          anymore."
               But the night eventually expired, and Abel had gone to
          work.  As she pulled a chair over beneath her high cupboard,
          Melody realized she had been deceiving herself in part about
          Constable Quaartersloe.  He did frighten her.  Having seen
          the man behind the trappings, however, she felt better
          equipped to deal with him.
               Melody stood on the chair and reached up for the little
          door.
               But you, Zeb, you crumbling skeleton.  Do you honestly
          think you can pit that withered brain of yours against mine?
          Do you think I'm going to let you walk out on me now?
          Didn't I tell you I was going to throw another log on your
          fire?
               Mrs. Allen stepped down and carried the jar to the
          table, covering with her hand the surgical tape bearing its
          crayoned inscription.  She had to be very careful now,
          because Zeb was ambulatory.  But his prostate difficulties
          were very useful:  He made many trips to the bathroom.  She
          could accomplish her secret things when she knew he was in
          there; and her signals to desist were the sounds of his
          pulling the chain and the rush of water from the water
          closet mounted high on the wall.
               She measured carefully before administering the
          additive to his tea.
               That should do it, little elf.  Just a tiny bit more
          from now on.  You got along much too well on the last
          formula.  This one ought to turn you into a very religious
          man and bring you blubbering back to Mama.
               After secreting the jar again, she carried the two cups
          into the living room and had just placed them on the table,
          when Zeb walked in from the bathroom.
               "Thanks, anyways, Melody," he said, "but I don't reckon
          I want thet.  I b'lieve it's whut's been a-causin' all my
          trouble."
               "Youx you what?  What do you mean?"
               The old man sat down stiffly and stared at the wooden
          floor.  "Well, you ... you rec'llect what I told the
          sawbones.  All them liquids.  You know, I ... I have trouble
          a-gittin' rid of 'em."
               Why, you old garbage!  You're like a wet-diapered
          infant.  Do I have to wipe your nose at every step?
               "Zeb, honey, you don't understand.  That's precisely
          why you must take more liquids than younger men.  You have
          to keep flushing those ... uh ... poisons out; otherwise,
          they accumx , they build up in your bladder and make matters
          worse."  She giggled and tapped his hand.  "You're a pot-
          bellied wood burner, Mr. Clanton; and we have to keep the
          soot out of your chimney."
               The mountain man picked up his teacup and slurped.
          "Oh, is thet whut the ol' quack was a-meanin'?  All them big
          words.  Cain't talk like no reg'lar human."
               Melody parked him outside in the sun after that.  She
          had had enough of him and knew another long night loomed
          ahead:  The "flu beetle" was back in town.
               She sat at the kitchen table and stared absently at the
          high cupboard.
               Now, Quartersloe.  How are we going to deal with you?
          How can we get the bitch's bloodhound off my trail? ... All
          right ... We've seen you can't be vamped.  Yes.  But you
          certainly can be outwitted.
               She remained immobile for several minutes.  The Spokane
          Flyer whistled as it rumbled into town.  The bedlam of
          clanging bell and vented steam filled the town as the
          monster chugged into the station.  But Melody was unaware.
               Now, however, her brown eyes widened, and a jubilant
          smile spread across her face.
               "Well, Evie," she gloated aloud.  "Maybe the 'coon will
          tree the hound after all!"  She leaned back into her musical
          laugh.  "A simple little diversionary ploy.  After that, it
          won't matter."
               She went to the sink singing like a dutiful housewife.
          In a moment she paused.
               "How far should I let him go, speaking of diversion?
          It might be interesting, now that the snoopy old man is
          about to be too sick to nose around.  She sloshed the
          dishcloth around inside a porcelain vessel.  "No, no; too
          soon.  He's no good unless he dangles," she snickered.  "You
          will just have to simmer on for a while, little teapot."
               This time, however, she had not been visualizing a
          Mountie.  Her thoughts were of Loren White.
               Images of the fumbling cowboy continued to entertain
          her when, later, her exhaustion forced her to lie down.  Her
          eyes closed.
               She came suddenly awake, having had no awareness of
          time's passage.  "Oh, no, it's started already," she groaned
          to herself.  "Damn him!"
               There were sounds of suffering coming from Zeb's room
          ...
          * * *
               "What do you mean he's sick again?"  Abel demanded in
          uncharacteristic anger; but he lowered his voice when he saw
          the finger before her lips.  "Dammit, Melody, this has got
          to stop!  He has taken over our home.  You're with him night
          and day; you're losing weight and we're both showing the
          strain.  Don't you realize he's been in our house six weeks?
          And he's not really getting any better."
               "What would you have us do, Abel?  he loves you as his
          son now.  He has no family; where can he turn?"
               "There are institutions."
               "Abel!"  she admonished.  "Go in and look at him.  Talk
          to him.  And then come out and see if you can still throw
          him to the wolves."
               Thus, Melody prevailed again; Melody always prevailed.
               That night Zebadiah went out of his mind once more.
          Abel managed to snatch a little sleep by pulling the pillow
          tight against his ears.  His wife, as she had anticipated,
          got very little.  This time she didn't mind at all, however.
               The little fellow frothed and cackled on and on about
          finding the lost Lemon Minex and about a map.
               The next afternoon, Melody gave Nurse Landy another
          start.  Evelyn had been deep in self-appraisal concerning
          Mrs. Allen, wondering if perhaps that talk with Martin had
          been a shameful thing to do.  In retrospect, she wondered if
          enmity really had clouded her judgment after all, as he had
          suggested.
               "Oh, well," she had consoled herself, "Martin didn't
          seem to give my worries much credence.  He probably will
          soon forget about it."
               Then, suddenly, here was Melody standing before her
          looking confident andx yes
          x exquisite, as always.
               "Hello, Evie, I'm sorry I don't have time to visit,"
          she said without a trace of rancor."  I must hurry back to
          Zeb.  He is why I'm here, you see.  I just don't understand
          what's happening.  It's not any kind of emergency, but the
          poor little man has come down sick again.  I don't think he
          has had the flu at all.  I know Dr. Edwardson is terribly
          busy, and he has been generous to a fault; but could you
          possibly work in an appointment for sometime next week?"
               They settled on Mondayx four days hence; and when
          Melody had departed, the little nurse fled back into the
          empty isolation room and closeted herself alone there for
          some time.
               Mrs. Allen hurried away, too, but only because her
          neighbor, Mrs. Clark, wouldn't be able to baby-sit the
          seventy-year-old much longer.  This is not what impelled the
          extra spring in her step, however.  That was brought about
          by visions of an agonized look on bitch Landy's face ... and
          Constable Quartersloe treed by a raccoon.
               Twenty-four hours later, Zebadiah had been back on his
          special tea for two days, and he was still confined to bed.
          Melody hovered over him constantly, of course, today going
          so far as to prop his head up with pillows for easier
          consumption of the poisonous liquid.
               "No, Melody," he gasped this morning, "it jest don't
          sound good.  Mebbe later taday er tamorra'x if I'm still
          here."
               "Now, honey, don't talk like that.  'if I'm still
          here', indeed!  You'll be around for a long, long, time, but
          only if you listen to your nurse.  Come on, now ... that's
          it.  Just little sips."
               Oh, but you've become a sweet old filth, Zeb.  Stay
          insane and sick and keep telling me all about finding the
          Lemon Mine, the way you did Wednesday.  I knew it, I just
          knew it!  I was right about the map, too, wasn't I?
               "Melody," Zeb interrupted her thoughts, "whut do ye
          reckon is a-eatin' at me?  Don't seem like the flu oughter
          keepx," he stopped and caught his breath, "keep a-comin'
          back like this."
               "I don't know, little daddy.  Maybe it's the flu and
          maybe it's not.  There's one thing I know it's not, though,
          no matter what some people may say."
               Fright distended the little fellow's eyes.  "Whut ...
          whut's some people a-sayin'?"
               "Oh, you know, Zebadiah; I'm sure you've heard them.
          Don't let it bother you; I know better."  She looked down at
          her folded hands.  "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it,
          but ... well ... it's that old talk about your beingx uhx
          crazy."
               "You reckon I am?"  he almost whimpered.
               "Of course not!  And that's why I mentioned it.  If
          anyone should ever suggest that to youx and I don't care who
          it isx don't you listen."  Melody put on a great show of
          indignation now.  "You and I aren't going to let someone use
          that as an excuse for not knowing why you're sick!  I'm sure
          with enough care, you'll soon be fit as a fiddle.  You may
          not be able to tramp around alone in the mountains the way
          you used to; but, if you take care of yourself, you'll have
          a lot of good years left."
               The old man's lip trembled.  "Don't know why yer' so
          good ta me," he murmured again.
               She stroked his hair and adjusted his blankets.  "You
          know why; I've told you many times.  We love you, Zeb."
               She sat back and watched him finish his tea.
          "Yesterday, while Mrs. Clark was here, I stopped in at the
          hospital and made an appointment for Dr. Edwardson to have
          another look at you.  You'll see  him in three days.  Is
          that all right, sweetie?"
               "I-I reckon."
               "Good.  And, remember, don't listen to any of that
          'crazy' talk, no matter who says it.  Get some rest now,
          honey."
               Sleep on these things, old bones.  See if the
          implications can penetrate that atrophied brain.
               She started to walk out of the room, but he called her
          back.
               "I got a right, Melody.  Don't be a-keepin' nothin'
          from me.  Who's ... who's been a-sayin' I'm looney?"
               "Oh, now, what good is that going to do, sweetheart?  I
          just didn't want you to start believing it yourself, that's
          all."
               "If I don't know who's got the forked tongue, I might
          start b'lievin' somethin' else:  I might start suspectin'
          ever'body a' bein' the snake."
               She pretended to be shocked.  "Oh!  Wouldn't that be
          awful!  I never thought of that.  Oh, what a dilemma!"
          Melody sat down in a display of perplexity.  Finally, she
          sighed as if in resignation.  "Yes, I do believe it's true,
          little daddy; it is your right.  But if I tell you, you must
          promise me you will never, ever let on you know.  Will you
          do that?"
               "Won't nobody never git it outa' me."
               Melody sighed again.  "All right.  It'sx it's Dr.
          Edwardson.  He's convinced there is nothing wrong with you,
          that it's all in your head.  I wanted to give him one more
          chance to diagnose your illness so we could get you better
          fast, and so he would forget about ... about what he wants
          to do."
               Zeb was glowering.  "Damn sawbones.  Think they know
          ever'thing because a' all thet book learnin' ...Whut's he a-
          wantin' ta do?"
               "Oh, Zeb, don't worry; we won't let anyonex ."
               "Jest-jest tell me, Melody.  I'm gittin' plumb tuckered
          out."
               "He wants to put you into an institution."
               "Instax ?  Whut's that?"
               Melody threw her arms around the tiny man.  "It's ...
          it's an insane asylum, honey."  She felt him stiffen.
               Get set for the coup de fusil, Constable Police Dog.
               "A nut house?  He wants ta-ta throw me in the looney
          bin?"  Zeb was panting.
               "But we won't let him, little daddy; that's my
          promise."  She leaned back and put her finger to his lips.
          "Hush, now; rest.  Don't give it another thought."  She took
          the extra pillows away.
               "I ain't a-goin' to.  I know h-how ta handle rattlers:
          I stay away from 'em."  He glared at the ceiling for a
          moment then closed his eyes.
               "You jest cancel thet 'pointment.  Ain't never goin'
          back there."
               Coup de grce, Mountie.
          
          
          
          
          
          X.
          
               My pretty artist hasn't been around for more than a
          week.  I hope I didn't throw too much cold water on his
          ardor.
               Melody snickered, recalling Loren's clumsy fumblings,
          his guilt-ridden passions; but she couldn't help feeling
          uneasy about his rather long absence.  Then she remembered
          hearing gossip about some uncharacteristic drinking bouts he
          had engaged in during the last two or three days, and she
          smiled again.
               Admit it, Melody Allen, you've merely driven him out of
          his mind, that's all.  Crook your little finger and he'll
          come panting back.  Maybe this is the way it's always been:
          The studs make a big show of snorting about the meadow,
          while the fillies roll around in the grass and call the
          shots.
               She leaned back on her doorstep and soaked in the April
          sun, thankful that the old man had fallen into troubled
          sleep at last.
               Or maybe they're all stupid.  My God, what is more
          malleable than a man?  They're almost no challenge anymore:
          Zeb, Loren, Abel ... well, Quartersloe was difficult for a
          time.  Oh, but how it has changed now!  And how I'd like to
          be a fly on the wall wherever he is when he finds out:  "She
          made a doctor's appointment for her victim?  That doesn't
          make sense!"
               Mrs. Allen laughed out loud.
               Maybe you are the victim, Mr. Mountie.  Ah, but the
          really sweet touch is my getting the poor creature himself
          to refuse to go.  That, Constable, is class; that took
          finesse.  And no need to hurry the cancellation, Melody.
          You've got three days tox oh, damn!
               Zeb was calling for her.
               "Yer' right, Melody," he said weakly, when she had
          walked into his room.
               "Of course, honey, Mama's always right," she teased.
               What is it, dog meat?  Can't you vegetate for more than
          an hour without me?
               He wasn't smiling.  He was lying flat on the bed with
          his head turned toward her.  The face looked waxy, and he
          seemed to be having some trouble breathing.
               "Yer' right.  I don't think I'll ever be able ta  climb
          them mountains alone agin.  I ... I might even be a-dyin'."
               "Nonsense, you're notx."
               "So I gotta be a-tellin' ye somethin', an' I gotta be a-
          askin' ye somethin'."
               Melody's heart leaped.  She sensed a breakthrough at
          last.
               "Well, sweetheart, you just ask anything you want.
          You're part of this family now."
               "Listen, listen, Melody.  They's a secret place out
          where most white folk ain't never been."  There was sudden
          fire in the old man's eyes, and color had flooded back into
          his cheeks.  "I found it, Melody!  I found it right where
          the feller marked it were!  A vein a' pure gold, almost.
          Comin' right out of a rocky ledge.  Hee!  Hee!  The whole
          world's been a-searchin' fer it all this time, an' I done
          found itx me, Zebadiah Clanton!"
               He caught himself, a hint of the old suspicion creeping
          back into his eyes.  Then he looked at her blankly.
               "Whut ... whut was I a-sayin'?"
               Don't go dumb on me now.  Not now, old man!
               "Zeb, darling, you said you had found gold!  I can't
          believe it!  How wonderful!  You're going to be a rich man,
          honey.  And you said you wanted to ask something."
               "Oh ... yeah.  Well ... see, I was jest a-comin' back
          from the strike, an' I had some diggins with me when thet
          ... thet ... ," he shivered, and fear swept across his face,
          "when thet grizzly spooked my horses an' I fell offa' the
          cliff."  He paused for breath.  "I never told you an' Loren,
          er Abel, but I had a pack horse with me, too.  See, Loren
          saw only my saddle horse a-runnin' off; an', unless the pack
          animal run the other way, I - I figger he fell off the
          cliff, too ... Damn, I'm weak."
               "Yes, little daddy, don't hurry; rest a minute."
               Torture me, old corpse!  Drag the story out!  Dangle me
          on the edge, too, flesh-
          crawler!  Oh, it would be just like you to die on me now!
               "Loren said I got caught on some rocks part way down or
          I'd a-been kilt.  Well, I figgger thet pack horse went all
          the way, an' he's prob'ly a-layin' dead down at the bottom
          somewheres.  An' my diggins an' stuff is prob'ly still with
          'im, unless some thieves happened by.  Yer' the only ones I
          kin trust, Melody, you, an' Loren, an Abel."
               "Of course you can, honey.  How can we help you?"
               "If you could ask Loren ta go back there, I'd be
          obliged.  He's the only one knows the spot.  He could bring
          back my diggins an' stuff.  I'll ... I'll make it up ta ye
          like I promised before."
               Melody felt like shouting, and dancing, and singing.
          Pay dirt!  Pay dirt was in sight, and the mother lode was
          glittering just around the bend.  Somehow, she managed to
          restrain herself.
               "Why, certainly, Zebadiah. Such a little thing to ask;
          and I'm sure Mr. White will be pleased to do that for you.
          It's a shame you didn't ask sooner; there very well could
          have been thieves.  But I'll send for Loren right away."
          She looked at the clock.  "Yes, Lester Johnson will be home
          from school by now.  He lives only three houses away, and he
          loves to earn a nickel or two.  You go back to sleep.  I'll
          be gone no longer than ten or fifteen minutes."
               Her feet seemed to have grown wings as she half-ran
          outside.
               The wheels are turning at last, Melody!  It's actually
          starting to happen:  Everything is beginning to fall into
          place!
               It was 6:30 p.m. before Loren White knocked on the
          door.
               "Now you really do look like a corpse!"  Abel cried
          almost angrily.  "Get in before the wind blows you away,
          boy; an'  don't show me any more of your fast footwork.
          What the devil have you been doing to yourself?  Somebody
          said you've been trying to beat out Tony Slink as town
          drunk, too.  An' where the hell have you been hidin'?"
               "Could I come in before the wind blows me away, Abel?"
               "Ay?  Oh," he grinned, "why not?  Melody!" he shouted,
          "Loren's here.  You do look like hell, through, Loren.
          What's wrong?"
               The big miner's wife appeared from around the corner.
          "Oh, hello, Loren; thanks forx .  What happened to you?
          You've lost a lot of weight.  Come in where it's warm."
               "Maybe I died," the cowboy artist suggested with
          something of his old humor.  "Can't a body rest in peace?
          No, I've been under the weatherx chest cold, I guess.  Tried
          to burn it out with booze, but I'm okay now, I think.
          Where's Zeb?"  He avoided Melody's eyes.
               "Damn old badger took sick again day before yesterday,"
          Abel scowled.  "Melody got him an appointment with Doc
          Edwardson for Monday; but old looney says he won't go.  Can
          you beat that?  Hey!"  he burst out laughing.  "You two look
          like twins now!  You must have caught the Bugsy Clanton
          fever, Loren."
               "Don't you ever stop, Abel?"  Melody demanded.  "Sit
          down, Loren; I'll bring you some hot coffee.  Better not
          look in on Zeb; he's asleep now.  That is, if someone's
          shouting didn't wake him up as usual."  She gave her husband
          a severe look.  "Just a moment, Loren, and I'll explain why
          I sent for you."
               Loren got a mocking wink before she glided into the
          kitchen
               "She sent for you?"
               "Yes, Abel.  Didn't you know?"
               "I didn't want to tell the unbelievable story twice,
          Abel," Melody explained, as she re-entered with the coffee.
          "What I am about to tell you will literally knock the ears
          off both of you."
               They sat spellbound and listened.  Neither one,
          however, had any way of knowing the tale had undergone some
          editing:  She did not mention the Lemon Mine, nor the
          alleged richness of Zeb's strike, nor his delirious rantings
          about a map.  She concentrated upon the old prospector's
          "wonderfully good luck finding a little gold after searching
          all his life."
               "Well, isn't that marvelous!  Who would have thought?"
          Loren grinned.  "He finally did it."
               "He couldn't have pulled enough out of the ground to
          pay for all my whiskey and food," the blond giant quipped.
               "Now, Abel," Melody giggled, "he eats like a bird."
               "Yeah, like an ostrich with a tapeworm."
               "Oh, I almost forgot the most important thing.  What's
          wrong with me?"  Melody said.  "Zebadiah wants this to be a
          great secret.  He made me swear not to tell anyone but you
          two.  He says we three are the only people in the world he
          trusts."
               "Silly old conker," Abel sniffed.  "He can trust me to
          the death, but you two ..."
               "That wild, wild little man!"  Loren shook his head.
          "He's maybe the most decadent human I ever ran across; and,
          yet, he has some almostx almost tender qualities."
               "Do you want to make the trip for him, Loren?"  Melody
          asked.  "Are you up to it?"
               His eyes met hers almost for the first time.  "Yes, I'm
          up to it.  In fact, it's just what I need.  It will be great
          to get away for a while."
               "Don't tarry too long.  Perhaps there will be a nice
          little reward waiting for you when you get back."  She
          smiled meaningfully.  "Uh, Zeb  dropped a hint or two ..."
          * * *
               Melody Allen walked along the footpath toward the
          commercial section of town.  She was a bit uneasy.  What had
          Loren meant day before yesterday by his "It will be great to
          get away for a while" remark?  Well, it's too late now.  He
          should have left yesterday to search for Zeb's "diggins."
          Had she given him enough incentive to return, especially if
          he finds there a map to the lost Lemon Mine and recognizes
          it for what it is?  Complications.  Why did there always
          have to be complications?
               She clomped across the Gold Creek bridge.
               And you, Abel.  What should I read into your little
          twister about Zeb:  "He can trust me to the death, but you
          two ..."  Oh, you big gullible oaf!  Don't tell me you're
          getting suspicious now, too?  Dammit!  That's the last thing
          I need.
               She walked into the hospital and found Nurse Landy, as
          usual, busy at the front counter with her papers.
               "Ohx oh, Melx Melody," she stammered.  "But have you
          gotten your times mixed up?  Zeb's appointment isn't until
          two."
               "No, Evie.  I'm sorry.  I'm here to cancel."
               The flare of distrust on the nurse's face was
          unmistakable.  Mrs. Allen read it clearly.
               Don't gloat yet, bitch.  The party isn't quite over.
               "He's still sick, although I don't believe he's in any
          danger; but he absolutely refuses to let the doctor have a
          look a t him."
               "Zeb refuses!  Why?"
               "I wish I knew.  I have a hunch he fears some terrible
          disease and doesn't want to face the truth.  But no amount
          of coaxing will change his mind.  He's adamant."
               "Well, what a strange turn of affairs."  Evelyn Landy
          was perplexed.  "Do you think Dr. Edwardson should stop by
          the house?"
               "No, but that's up to the doctor, of course."  She gave
          a tiny laugh.  "He will do so at his own risk, however.  How
          did Zeb put it?  'Ain't never goin' near no damn sawbones
          agin.'  As I just said, though, the old man is not in any
          danger; and, frankly, I'm beginning to wonder if his whole
          problem isn't, well, mental."
               Evelyn had become inscrutable again.  "Perhaps," she
          murmured.  "Perhaps."
               "Mull that over, little pipeline," Melody taunted
          silently; "I'll bet that gets transmitted in a hurry to the
          mighty Quartersloe."
               The two women engaged in ritual prattle for a few
          moments, each one's secret self heavily preoccupied.  After
          an acceptable time, then, they parted in an air of surface
          amiability.
               On the way home, Melody diverted to Lang's ready-to-
          wear clothing store and looked at the window display.
               "Damn, small-town exhibitionists!"  she whispered.
          "You dissembling, kept sluts!  In a little while I'll be
          buying cheap rags like those for foot wipes."
               She turned away, her "small-town" invective reminding
          her of Abel's growing agitation to hurry off to Fort
          Saskatchewan to nail down his farm purchase.  "How can
          anyone be so driven to suffocate himself?"  she muttered.
          "And he's perfectly willing to drag me down with him.  Well,
          I've managed to delay his departure until April 18, anyhowx
          twelve days from now.  And I've convinced him to stay at
          least two weeks to check and double-check for loose ends.
          That gives me until about the first of May to find the mine
          and disappear.
               "It ought to be enough!  It ought to work!  Oh, Melody,
          you're really making it happen.  You're doing the impossible
          all by yourself!"
          * * *
               "Atta boy!  Split his head open with thet axe!  Ol'
          Blackjack ain't gonna be
          a-cuttin' in on us now!  Hee!  Hee!  Watch out!  Watch out!
          Who's thet a-sneakin' aroun' out there in them weeds?  Pick
          'im off!  Pick 'im off!"
               Zebadiah's ravings had preceded a restless night.
          Then, beginning about 9 a.m., he had launched himself into
          another series of wild vocalizations, each followed by a
          period of exhausted mumbling.  He seemed to be struggling
          against a host of imaginary adversaries, all intent on
          murder or larceny.
               Melody did not try to quiet him.  She merely sat
          watching, listening, and glowering x wondering if the poison
          would have to be cut back again.  She was so weary, she
          almost wished he would die and let her get some rest.
               "No, no!  Stay away from me!  Cannibal!  Cannibal!"
               Zeb's curdling scream terrified her out of a moment's
          nodding and had made her imagine that a mountainous grizzly
          was breaking through into her house again.
               "Shut up!"  She shouted involuntarily.  "Stop that
          infernal racket, you lunatic!"
               Zeb's eyes fixed upon her face without recognition.
               "Hee, hee!" he leered.  "Where's yer fat sister?"
               This was followed by more cries and weeping about
          Stoney curses, demons, "ice people," etc.  At last, perhaps
          from utter exhaustion, he slipped into a coma-like state;
          but Melody didn't care.  She fell asleep.
               Clanton continued quiescent until the following
          morning, escaping one day's "medicine."  He awoke weak but
          lucid.
               "I been sick agin, ain't I,  Melody?"
               "I'm afraid so, honey; but you seem fine now."
               "Don't remember much, but I do rec'lect ye a-stayin'
          close an' a-keepin' watch night an' day the way ye always
          done.  An' I come back alive this mornin' knowin' I was a-
          goin' ta  do somethin' good fer the first time in my life."
               Melody's heart pounded inside her ears, but she managed
          to keep her composure.
               "You don't have to do anything, little daddy, except
          get well."
               "Figgered ye'd say somethin' like thet.  But listen ta
          me, girl.  Year ago March I got me a ... I got me a map.
          Hee, hee!"  He rested a moment.  "From a drunked-up savage
          fer a bottle a' watered-down firewater.  Ign'rant heathen
          thought he were a-trickin' me, but he didn't know whut he
          had.  Said some shaman done witched it with good med'cine.
          Hee!  Hee!"
               He fixed her with a hawkish look then rasped:  "Ye ever
          hear a' the lost Lemon Mine, girl?"
               "Yes, Zeb.  Everyone in the world has.  But you
          couldn't havex ."
               "But I did, young 'un, I did!"  He coughed violently
          for a moment then spit on the floor.
               You pig!  You low-life, filthy pig!  And, dammit!  All
          I can do is look the other way.
               "The paper were drawed by Lemon hisself.  Writ his own
          name on it.  Showed a three-forked stream out in a way, lost
          place in the mountains.  At the headwaters there he done put
          a big cross and writ 'GOLD' in big letters 'longside it."
               "Little daddy, honey!"  Melody feigned astonishment,
          "Is that where your gold samples came from?  Did you
          actually use that map to find the Lemon Mine?"
               Fright possessed him again for a moment, sending his
          eyes darting about everywhere.  "Shhh!  They's always a-
          creepin' 'bout.  Shhh!  Listen ..."
               Mrs. Allen pretended to do as he said.  Then she
          whispered:  "I think it's safe now, honey.  You did find it,
          didn't you?  You found the Lemon Mine, and you're going to
          live out the rest of your days a very rich man.  Isn't that
          amazing?  Isn't that absolutely wonderful?"  She caught the
          frail body in her arms.  "Oh, Zeb darling, after all you've
          been through, you deserve it allx all!"
               "Gonna cut you, an' Abel, an' Loren in on shares."
               "You what?  What did you say?"
               "Cain't go after it alone, so I'd have ta git help from
          somebody.  Enough gold there fer a army, anyways.  Might as
          well split it four ways."
               "Oh, Zeb!  That's the most generous thing I ever heard!
          Who ever could have guessed thatx?"
               "When Loren gits back, I'll draw a new map an' he kin
          file a claim fer the four of us."
               "A new map?  But what happened to the original one?"
               "Don't know, but," the old man looked confused, "but
          think I lost it someways comin' out.  Kept 'er right here,"
          he indicated the breast pocket area, "all the time.  Checked
          ta make sure over an' over ever' day all day long.  Then one
          time it jest weren't there."  His eyes bulged suddenly and
          he took a shuddering breath.  "Musta' been th-them devx ,
          them savages," he stuttered.
               "What savages, sweetheart?"
               "Don't know.  Don't know.  But best tell ye  the gold
          ain't in no nat'ral place.  Man's lucky ta come back alive.
          They's things ..."
               "What things, Zebadiah?"
               But he would say no more.
               For his magnanimous offer, then, the tiny prospector
          was allowed a little napx followed by a cup of piping-hot
          tea laced with a somewhat less generous amount of rat
          poison.
          * * *
               Oh, you doddering old fool!  Don't die on me now, not
          now!
               It was the next day, and Zeb had taken a sudden turn
          for the worse:  He was not talking at all; and, in response
          to Melody's prompting, his tongue seemed leaden, his words
          meaningless.  Muscular activity appeared somewhat impaired,
          and there was subtle, but widespread trembling.
               Maybe it's not the poison.  Maybe he's having a stroke.
          Oh, hell!  Maybe he'll never speak again.  Maybe he'll be
          paralyzed, and his secret will be locked  forever inside
          that worm-eaten brain!
               She hardly left his side all day, adding blankets when
          he gave signs of being cold, removing them when he
          perspired.  She mopped his forehead and wiped his mouth; she
          cooed, clucked, and cajoled.
               At last, she fell to her knees and dropped her head
          down on his bed, surrendering herself to despair.
               When she lifted her face, his faded, blue eyes were on
          her.  There was recognition; and there was a gentle smile.
               Melody gathered him into her arms again and broke into
          tears.
               Oh, Zeb!  You frightened me.  I thought you werex ."
          She raised up.  "How do you feel?  Can you talk?"
               "Ain't dead yet," he smiled.  Then his eyes filled.
          "Saw ye ... saw whut ye was
          a-doin'.  Don't ... don't know why yer' so good ta me."  He
          raised a claw-like hand to her cheek.  "So damn weak ...
          tired ... sleep now."  The  hand dropped like a lever to
          close his eyes.
               She looked down at the wasted face and exhaled.
               Okay, old man.  I don't think we will be needing any
          more poison for a while.  You're obviously not going
          anywhere.
               ... Clanton, true to form, had rallied considerably by
          the next day.  But he didn't think so:  "Melody, I'm a-
          dyin'," he labored.  P-please git me a - a priest."
               "Nonsense!  Don't talk like that.  You're doing much,
          much better today.  And there are two reasons why I won't be
          getting you a priest:  First of all, there aren't any in
          Frank; and, secondly," she grinned and snapped him lightly
          on the head, "you're too bloody ornery to die."
               In another week, the old whiskey trader was out of bed
          and walking about; he even had progressed so far as to take
          two or three short strolls outside.
               This afternoon he was in the living room stretching a
          short glass of whiskey when Melody answered a knock on the
          door.
               "Oh!"
               "Yes, Mrs. Allen.  A bad penny always turns up, doesn't
          it?"  Constable Quartersloe beamed.  "Perhaps that is why
          they call me the Pennycuick of Crowsnest Pass."
               "I'm sure that's not the reason at all," Mrs. Allen
          laughed.  "Our little town is very proud of its number two
          lawman.  Please come inx unless you're afraid Mr. Clanton
          will attack you again."
               Why does he always frighten me?  I've got him on the
          run; and I knew he would be stopping by after his little
          snitch got to him with the latest.
               "Oh, I don't think Mr. Clanton would really attack,"
          the policeman chuckled.
               They entered the living room.  Zeb, baleful and silent,
          watched their approach.  When the Mountie stood before him,
          the mountaineer tossed down the last of his drink and drew a
          sleeve across his mouth.
               "Nothin' kin spile the good taste a' whiskey like a tin
          badge."
               "Funny thing," Quartersloe countered, "my Blackfoot
          friend claimed it was the filth added by whiskey-trading
          murderers."  He broke into laughter and extended his hand.
          "How are you this time, Mr. Clanton?  Are you mending?"
               Zeb's initial scowl was replaced by a grin.  "Fer a
          damn, snoopin-aroun' upstart, yer' a likable little beast."
          He shook the offered hand.  "Feelin' first-rate last coupla'
          days.  Better'n ever.  Set down.  Cain't offer ye no
          whiskey.  'Tain't mine."
               "Now you know he can't do that on duty, little daddy.
          What would you like, Constable?"
               "Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Allen."  He turned back to
          Zeb.  "Well, I'm delighted to hear you're doing well.  I had
          heard you took another bad turn about two weeks ago, and I
          was a bit worried.  You're our most famous elderly resident
          now, you must realize.  Everyone has been uneasy because
          you've been down much, much too long."
               "Ain't down.  Ain't sick.  Doin' fine."
               "Yes, but you never know.  All these ups and downs.
          There could be something seriously wrong, and you shouldn't
          treat your condition lightly, not at your age.  Is it true
          you canceled your last appointment with the doctor?"
               Quartersloe shifted his attention to Melody's face.
          She smiled sweetly.
               Total control this time, Mrs. Allen?  Too much control
          this time, Mrs. Allen?
               Zeb's features had darkened again.  "Betcher life I
          canceled  Ain't never goin' there agin!"
               "Never?  Why?  Didn't Dr. Edwardson treat you well
          before?"
               "Mebbe.  Mebbe.  Jest don't take ta no quacks.  Never
          did ... Young feller, was you borned with a big nose er did
          Laurier pin it on with thet little badge?  An' whut the
          devil does a old man's aches got ta do with the bloody North-
          West Mounted Police?"
               "Zeb, Zeb, honey!"  Melody chastised.  "Why can't you
          ever be nice to this young man?  He's here because of his
          concern for you, that's all.  Do you think he spends all his
          time beating the bushes for criminals?"  She giggled.
          "Great heavens!  He hasn't exactly been looking under our
          beds."
               "Not exactly," the Mountie smiled with little sign of
          humor.
               "Sorry, s-sorry," Zeb stumbled.  "Ain't used ta havin'
          no lawman hangin' aroun' fer tea-talkin'."
               "That's quite all right, Mr. Clanton."  Quartersloe
          stood up.  "Most people have difficulty relaxing around this
          uniform.  It's a shame they can't all be like Mrs. Allen.
          It would make the job so much more interesting."
               Shortly thereafter, the officer took his leave; and
          Melody found herself leaning breathlessly against the closed
          door again.
               "My regards to Evie," she had said.
               "Your best ones, of course," he had laughed.
               "Like a cobra.  Like a damned cobra," she thought, her
          heart pounding.
               Melody Allen walked into the kitchen and began to
          prepare supper; but she was in turmoil once more.  This
          time, however, there was no talking herself out of it:  It
          was obvious by his changed behavior that the Mountie really
          did suspect her of something.  He was openly toying with her
          now, challenging her with veiled but suggestive repartee.
               What a God-awful dilemma!  I can't start the old manure
          factory back on his rat soup, because Quartersloe could show
          up unannounced at any time again.  And Loren is long
          overduex damn!  It's been twelve days.  What the hell could
          have happened?  Maybe the fool cowboy fell off the cadaver's
          cliff and got himself killed.
               She slammed a butcher knife into a cut of beef.
               And if Zeb keeps improving, he might get more silly
          ideas about going off on his own again.
               The thought chilled her.  She stiffened, wiped her
          hands resolutely on her apron, and walked into where Zeb
          sat.  He smiled when she appeared.
               "Zeb, honey, something just occurred to me, something
          we just have to face."  She put her arms around his neck but
          leaned back to look into his eyes.  "I know you're feeling
          fine now, but you were almost as fit just before that last
          attack.  The policeman is right:  We don't know what's
          causing all these ups and downs.  Who knows?  You may never
          have any more trouble.  On the other hand, you could suffer
          another ... uh ... seizure at any timex any minute.  Listen
          to me for a bit, honey."
               Zebadiah watched her, his face expressionless.
               "Now I'm not suggesting you go back to the doctor.  I
          know you would refuse to do that.  I respect your decision,
          because it's your right; and we're not going to let anyone
          drag you away from us."
               Melody stopped and put a hand across her mouth,
          fabricating a look of sudden horror.
               "Do you suppose?  Oh, no!  I just could never believe
          that!   Still ..."
               Her behavior filled the old man with fear.  "Whut,
          Melody?" he croaked.
               "Well, it's probably not truex just a silly fright I
          had there.  But why else would that policeman show up here
          twice?  I'm sure he doesn't really give a damn about your
          welfare ... Zeb!  I'll bet he's working with Dr. Edwardson
          and Nurse Landy!  I'll bet they're trying to see if they can
          estabx if you're showing sings of insanity sox ."
               "Why, them damn, sneakin' night crawlers!"  Zeb spat.
          "So's they kin toss me in the looney bin."
               "Well, we showed them, didn't we, sweetheart?  No
          looney bin candidate could have out-talked a policeman the
          way you did today.  Why, you did so well, maybe we should
          elect you to political office."
               Melody did a little dance, to Clanton's obvious
          delight, then she stopped and grew serious again.
               "But let's forget that arrogant little policeman.  We
          must address that other matter; it won't go away no matter
          how much we would like it to:  When you got so sick this
          last time, Zeb, you couldn't talk at all; in fact, you could
          hardly even move.  I was terribly frightened; and I was
          afraid that ... that you had had a stroke, that you might
          never be able to talk or move your hands again."
               She could see anxiety returning to the old prospector's
          features and took heart.
               "The point is, little, daddy, I couldn't bear to see
          you lose out on the greatest good fortune of your life.  If
          you should ever become as sick as you seemed then, do you
          realize what it would mean?  You would know inside your head
          exactly where the lost Lemon Mine is; but you would never be
          able to get there, or tell anyone about it, or draw a map so
          someone could find it again for you."
               She paused ominously.
               "Sooner or later someone else would stumble across it
          and steal it from you."  She paused again.  "Well, let's
          make sure that doesn't happen, honey.  Draw the map today,
          right now, right this very minute."
               He looked at her sourly.
               "No.  Ain't a-gonna do it.  Don't need ta, 'cause I
          ain't a-gonna git sick no more.  Gonna wait fer Loren ta
          come back any day, an' I'm gonna ride out with 'im an' lead
          'im ta the place myself."
          
          
          
          
          
          
          XI.
          
               This time it felt as if some gigantic object had
          slammed into the mountain; and Timberman Albert Cordon, deep
          inside the coal mine, felt his chest constrict in fear.  It
          was 1:30 a.m.  The big Turtle shuddered momentarily after
          the shock, and tunnel supports groaned painfully.  Albert
          watched black powder sift to the floor again here and there,
          after which everything seemed normal.
               In the dim light of his lamp, it was as if he could see
          his wife, Marie, standing close; and the cascading dust
          became ebony hair shimmering down her back.  She had given
          him four sons.
               Later that morning he walked over to the office and
          said the words that would remove the terror from their
          lives.
               They would go to Calgary, and he would return to the
          world of the sun.
               Almost coincident with the miner's exit from the hole,
          Louis Malfin, trapper, emerged from his tent beside the
          Oldman River and looked up at Turtle Mountain.   Al-
          though he was weighted down with years, for the first time
          in his life Louis realized his eagle vision was shutting
          down.
               But his secret ear was as sharp as ever.  All night he
          had listened to the communing of rocks and water with trees
          and windx with mountain and ice; and he knew that the
          message had changed at last.
               Malfin limped over to his hobbled burro and ran his
          fingers up and down its spine.  Then he dropped to his knees
          and removed the little animal's fetters.  Rising stiffly, he
          straightened and slapped the donkey hard on its rump.
               "Go, little brother, go!"  he whispered urgently, as
          the creature disappeared into the jack pines.
               Now Louis made his way back inside the tent where he
          lay down on his old bearskin and pulled the worn blankets
          over himself.  At this moment there was no elementals' song;
          but when he closed his eyes he saw clearly a young woman's
          face.  Her lips were moving.
               "Oui, Maman," he smiled, Je viens."
          * * *
               It was Sunday when Loren White had struck out for the
          wilderness again on his mission for Zebadiah Clanton.
          Church bells throughout the town extolled the warm, spring
          awakening and collided with the black thoughts of the
          Montana cowboy-artist.  He managed to return the greetings
          of those townspeople he encountered as he passed through the
          settlement; however, his mind was largely preoccupied.
               "Perhaps there will be a nice little reward waiting for
          you when you get back," she had teased under the very nose
          of her husband.
               "Good old Abel," Loren thought, gritting his teeth.
          "He breaks his back inside the mountain every day for her;
          and every stray cur is his friend.  But you, Loren White,
          you'd take a step up in honor by rolling around in the weeds
          with a streetwalker! ... 'them kinda' things a man's gotta
          lick on his own,' Louis Malfin had said.  'Cain't 'spect
          nobody else ta do the facin'-up fer him.'  So just how do
          you face up to anything, little cowboy coward, if not in a
          dark closet like any other cringing dope fiend?
               "Well, what do you expect, Dad?"  he asked the ghost in
          his head.  "So I'm throwing my life into a pile of horse
          shit.  Isn't that where horse shit belongs?"
               Fresco, with Chesty the pack horse following, had taken
          him out of Frank now, and the spectacular Canadian Rockies
          suddenly were filled with another voice, another face:
               "Have you really heard it?  Do you really know it?  The
          song, I mean? ... I love the tangled, wild places ...You are
          a remarkable man, Mr. White.  Thank you for the words."
               Gina!  Gina was as sparkling and fresh as an alpine
          stream.  And he hadx !"
               Loren clamped his mind shut.  This he could not face.
          This he would not face:  "Me an' Melody Allen, Melody Allen;
          Melody, Melody, Melody Allen," had become his drunken
          marching song.
               The monotony of the long ride became his narcotic now.
          He passed through one coal town after another:  Blairmore,
          Coleman, Sentinel, Crowsnest.  Abruptly, he came awake
          again.
               "Just look at Crowsnest Mountain over there, Fresco!"
          he marveled.  "And I never did paint it.  It looks for all
          the world like a mighty fortress standing guard over the
          pass."
               He shivered at the simile, once more visualizing Louis
          Malfin, mystic unaware, speaking of demons hunting down
          violators of the sacred places.  Louis had whispered about
          hidden tangles, about secret people "from a time before
          time," and had warned Loren he had been "walkin' on the edge
          a' the pit."
               The Yank pushed over the top of the divide into British
          Columbia.
               "Hell," he sneered, "I haven't been on the edge, Louis,
          I've been in it!"
               In the late afternoon he came to an "S" curve in the
          road.  Over his shoulder he could see the snowy peak he had
          admired on his way up with Dr. Edwardson.  Not very far
          beyond the curve, he knew, was the side path out of which
          Zeb's runaway cayuse had come bounding in February, a little
          less than two months ago.  It seemed like a year.
               Sure enough, it wasn't long until he found  the trail
          and turned off.  At length, he came to the spot where the
          great golden eagle had flared up as if to warn him; and a
          low dread traveled up his spine to touch the hair follicles
          at his nape.  He fought off an impulse to flee.
               Finally, they rounded the high rock outcropping and
          stopped at the wide place alongside Clanton's cliff.  Loren
          looked up the hillside, half-expecting to see grizzly but
          discovered nothing but trees and boulders.
               The sun was low now.  He would have to search for the
          old man's "diggins" in the morning.  By the time he had seen
          to the horses, built a campfire, and tended to his own
          needs, it was dark.
               He wrapped  himself in  his blankets and propped his
          head against his saddle, as he had countless times before in
          innumerable, lonely places.  In the good years, this had
          been his opportunity to reflect on surrounding miracles, to
          revel in his own participation, his unquestioned kinship,
          with eons of mystery.
               But now it was a time only for blotting out accusatory
          sounds, images, and ugly promptings.
               He reached for his pipe and pouches, his jagged keys to
          the cave ...
          
               In the late morning he walked close to the edge of the
          drop where he had found the little mountain man's solitary
          boot.  He looked down at the ledge that had prevented
          Clanton from falling the rest of the way.  It was south-
          facing; and the snow on its surface had been largely
          replaced by mud.  Black globs and spatterings of it, in
          fact, were plastered all over nearby rocks; and the little
          collection of earth from which the stuff had come was all
          scraped and abused.
               "Looks as if something went mad and tore up the place
          searching for that old man," Loren speculated.  But he shook
          the idea away and centered on finding a way down to the very
          bottom, where Zebadiah believed his pack horse to be lying.
               "No way from this point," he concluded, moving back and
          walking over to Fresco.
               He rode westward along the precipice edge for about two
          miles before giving up.  If anything, the drop in that
          direction became steadily more hazardous, and it was boxed
          in here at the end.  The opposite side of the canyon was
          sheer rock all along with a drop of several hundred feet.
          He turned around and explored along the way he had come.
          Not far beyond Zeb's point of fall, the trail curved sharply
          back upon itself, reversed again, and split off to  thread
          through a broken mass of rocks on a long, steep incline to
          the bottom.
               He went back to his campsite and hooked up Chesty.
          Then the little caravan worked its way to the canyon floor
          and doubled back until it came in line with Zeb's ledge, now
          some thirty feet straight above.
               Directly in front of Loren, hidden by rocks, bushes,
          rubble, and partly-broken trees, lay a dead horse, its bones
          almost completely gnawed and picked of flesh.  Even the pack
          cinch had been chewed in two.
               "That's got to be it!"  Loren exclaimed.  Dismounting,
          he walked over to the remains and into a surrounding of cold
          air.  He pulled hard at the pack saddle.  When it came free,
          there was a rattling of loose bones.  But the rattling
          didn't stop.  White leaped back.  Inside the rib cage,
          coiled on the backbone, was the largest rattlesnake he had
          ever seen.
               His first flash of thought was that it was too early
          for timber rattlers to be out; but any reasoning was
          overwhelmed by an onrush of fear; and he wanted nothing but
          to get away, to run headlong, to tear away from the furies
          like Clanton's cayuse.
               "Hold it, old woman!  What the hell's wrong with you?
          Have you fallen totally apart?"  he admonished himself.  "My
          God, Montana used to be alive with rattlers in the
          summertime.  How often did you wake up out on the prairie
          and find one snuggled up beside you?  All you ever did was
          ease out of the blankets and crush its head with a rock."
               He leaned over and picked up a boulder.  But when he
          looked back to the skeleton, there was no sign of the
          reptile, and the clutch of cold had dissipated.  His
          trembling and unwarranted dreads had not.
               "How could he have gotten away so fast?  There just
          wasn't enough time."
               "Tshyplal kin take the form of a vulture," Louis Malfin
          seemed to be saying again from the shadows ... "his demon, U-
          Makiluk, prefers slitherin' about in the body of a rattler."
               Loren's blood seemed to coagulate in his veins, then,
          when he remembered what the old trapper had said before
          that:
               "... U-Makiluk.  Thet means 'rout.'"
               A trace of the old fire suddenly returned, however:  He
          got mad.  He leaped over to  the clutter of bones and kicked
          hard, sending pieces clattering through rocks and bouncing
          off branches.  Both horses vented their alarm.
               "Damn, silly old maid!"  he shouted.  "Nothing but a
          quavering little reptile trying to defend itself."
               Feeling somewhat vindicated, he began a cursory
          examination of Zebadiah's belongings.  There were the usual
          prospector's tools and survival equipment.  Some items were
          smashed. In addition, he found two small and colorful, but
          hideous-looking,
          icon-like objects fashioned from a material similar to
          petrified wood.  Each had long wavy hair coming from the top
          of its head.  The strands had a lustrous quality, almost as
          if alive.  The figures were undamaged.
               And there were two bags of gold.
               White whistled.  "Damn me!  He really did it!  I wonder
          how much more is out there where this came from?  And all
          Melody said was that he had found 'a little gold.'"
               He had nearly finished securing Zeb's belongings to
          Chesty's back when a shadow scudded across the face of the
          bluff.  He raised his eyes in time to see a magnificent,
          golden eagle passing overhead, the sun, pinion filtered,
          setting its wings afire.
               "Looks like the same big fellow we saw on our trek in
          last February, Chesty," Loren said.  "Never did paint himx
          or anything else, for that matter."
               Then, once again, he was struck by an uneasy feeling
          that the creature held some significance he did not
          understand.
               "What kind of a lop-sided place is this, anyway?"  He
          shivered.  "It's just like before."
               When they had started the trek back, however, he
          recalled something Dr. Edwardson had said.  It had to do
          with brain damage.
               They had proceeded only about fifty feet when a loud
          rumbling came from beyond the bend ahead.  Both horses
          squealed and danced about as a shock wave was transmitted to
          their hooves.  A black cloud of birds rose up from the area,
          and a pair of elk burst from the trees to pound past the
          little procession, missing them by inches.  The clamor
          ceased after about thirty seconds, and Loren was able to
          calm the horses enough to continue on.
               "Well, if it's bloody brain damage, the whole world's
          got it!"  Loren gasped.  He was breathing heavily.  "Now
          what the hell is going on?  And, dammit!  We've got to head
          right into that spot; it's the only way out."
               When they came in sight of the long incline by which
          they had reached the canyon floor, however, he hoped he was
          wrong.  The trail out was blocked now by a monumental slide
          of huge rocks.
               The man from Montana reined to a stop and looked
          around.  He was aghast.  They appeared to be bottled up:  He
          had already sought in vain a way down to the rear, and the
          towering, south wall was out of the question as far as the
          eye could see.  But instead of desperation, Loren felt a
          flood of anger again.  He raised up in his saddle and shook
          his fist at the canyon.
               "Go to hell, U-Makiluk, or whatever your bloody name
          is!"  he shouted.  "There's no way you're going to trap usx
          we'll get out!  We'll get out!"
               But the mountains mocked him, bouncing his words back
          and forth until they died.
               Loren explored eastward for about an hour, finding no
          exit.  At last they stopped again, because they could go no
          farther:  The canyon narrowed to a point.  It was closed at
          both ends.  The big cowboy dismounted and let the horses
          nibble at new grass while he fixed his eyes on every detail
          of the cliffs.  Then his gaze dropped to a little stream
          emerging from the base of the rocks ahead, and he realized
          the flow was coming around a baffle-like projection
          obstructing his view beyond.
               He ran around the barrier and saw that the rivulet had
          carved a serpentine channel through the stone all the way
          from the top.  It looked hazardous but potentially
          negotiable for a man leading one horse.
               "You first, Fresco!"  he called enthusiastically, as he
          jogged back to his mount.
               And then it was a furious battle upwards.  They slipped
          and swayed, sloshed and stumbled, leaped and strained, and
          finally reached the summit.  Loren fell to the ground until
          his breathing returned to normal.  Then he sat up and looked
          at his torn, wet clothing, his abrasions.
               "Dammit, Fresco," he muttered, standing up.  "Now I've
          got to go do it again."
               By the time he had dragged the pack horse up and had
          rested, the day was ending, and he prepared camp where they
          were.  Hot coffee and food restored him considerably; and
          when he lay back against his saddle with warm blankets
          enclosing his body, he felt triumphant, albeit somewhat
          foolish.
               "Nothing but a damned snake, idiot," he muttered, as he
          tamped tobacco around two tiny pellets and held a glowing
          firebrand to the bowl of his pipe.
               After the rush of nausea had passed, he was embraced by
          a gentle euphoria, then nothing mattered beyond his being
          warm and alive before the crackling fire.
               And then his father seemed to be standing over him,
          admonishing as usual.  But it didn't matter:  Loren couldn't
          see the face.  It had been a blur in his memory for years.
               "Shut up, Dad," he muttered thickly.  "Go away, Dad,"
          he whispered, closing his eyes.
               When he reopened them, he saw two gigantic figures
          standing motionless on the other side of the campfire.  They
          appeared to be about seven feet tall and were totally
          covered with snow-white hair.  Loren thought he heard the
          hobbled horses clamoring in the background.
               "Well, well, a coupla' big teddy bears," he giggled.
          "Did you come outa' my pipe or outa' my dream?"
               No sound or movement came from the pair.  They merely
          stood in the flickering light with their eyes fixed upon
          him.  Then, gradually, it seemed to Loren there were non-
          voices implanting thoughts in his brain:
               "We are here at great peril at the hands of Tshyplal,
          The Annihilator," one seemed to say.  "But we have come for
          the sake of the ancient one who listens beneath The Mountain
          that Walked.  He hears the cries of the wounded land, this
          man, the one who saved a child of our father.  He has
          enveloped you in his love and made you worthy in our sight."
               Loren struggled in confusion.  "Who ... what are you?"
               "We are Apahani, and we were here before the molten
          rocks cooled; and we were here when the world was ice, and
          when the great peaks scraped up into the skies and the dry
          land separated.  And we watched in sadness when the new
          white plague crept forth upon the sacred earth."
               "I don't understand.  What are you saying?  Are you
          real?"
               "And so we have come to warn you.  You must arise now
          and flee from this place.  You must do this at once, this
          very instant; because you are in awful danger at the whim of
          evil forces enraged because of your association with that
          other old man and the sorceress who controls him.
               "Get up!  Stand up!  Throw into the flames your wild
          man's stolen, yellow fire, the evil idols, and the devil
          crystals devouring your mind.  Fly away from the Crowsnest
          now!  There is little time remaining."
               White sat up and blinked across the campfire.  There
          was nothing there; and, except for sputtering faggots, there
          was no sound.  He put a hand to his head.
               "What kind of a ridiculous dream was that?"
               He fell back against his saddle and groaned, clamping
          his eyes shut again.
               "I wonder what the hell time it is ... Apahanis!  Louis
          Malfin, you old devil.  See what kind of crazy nightmares
          you're giving me?  Damn!  Damn!  Can't I ever find peace?
          Can't I ever get any rest?"
               He sat up again and reached for his pipe.
               "Me and Melody Allen," a burning log hissed, "Melody
          Allen; Melody, Melody, Melody Allen ..."
          * * *
               The world was aroar in flames.  Dark animal shapesx
          bleating, snarling, trumpeting, and yappingx were leaping
          over him out of the night and bounding about him through a
          tempest that ripped burning embers from the trees, slamming
          them into the ground or against towering rocks.  He tried to
          find the horses, but smoke blinded him, filling his lungs.
          He staggered about, choking and struggling for breath amid a
          cascade of sparks.  The searing wind twisted  him about,
          totally disorienting him, pummeling him inside a breaking
          wave of fury and fire.
               He fell and hit something hard.
               After a long, long time, he could hear rushing water
          and the crash of thunder.  He opened his eyes and saw
          through repeated flashes of lightning a pounding downpour of
          rain.  He seemed to be caught among jagged projections
          inside a cave; and he could sense some awesome force
          plummeting down upon him from the heights outside.
               There was an impact, then dead silence; and he found
          himself suspended in a paralyzing, white cold.  His chest
          was compressed, and he could not move; nor could he see
          beyond the opaque white crowding against his eyes.
          Unaccountably, although he could not breathe, he felt no
          need for oxygen.
               In his mind, for just an instant, three fantastic
          figures materialized dimly.  They seemed to be part human,
          and all were moving toward himxone standing high on thick,
          clawed paws, another scraping along on its belly, the last
          one bouncing forward in the gait of an ungainly, black bird.
               "Oh, no!" a voice screamed.  "Somebody help me!"
          * * *
               Everything was crimson.  Loren White opened his eyes
          and found the sun shining in his face.  He was in his
          bedroll on the grass, and he thought he could hear birds
          singing; but he was afraid to turn his head to orient
          himself for fear the terrors would begin anew.
               Then he heard a familiar, soft nicker.  He raised his
          head slightly and was almost overjoyed to see Fresco
          standing a few feet away looking at him entreatingly.
          Chesty was some distance off drinking from a stream.
               Loren let his head drop back, thankful now for the warm
          sunlight, the peace:  The long night was over.  Finally,
          however, the urgency of his situation broke through:
               "I've got to get out of this place," he said weakly.
          "It's warped.  There's something unnatural here.  I'm not
          that unbalanced."
               He raised up on his elbows into a sickening vertigo,
          and his breathing quickened.
               "What the blazes?  I'm as weak as a kitten!"
               He came to a sitting position with great difficulty.
          Locking his hands around his knees, he let his head drop and
          waited for a semblance of strength to return.  Then he
          realized he was terribly thirsty and hungry.  Crawling to
          his pack, he found the canteen.  When he was quenched, he
          fumbled about and withdrew several pieces of his beef-jerky
          staple.  As he devoured them, he looked down at himself in
          confusion:
               "My clothes are filthy and almost ripped from my body!
          And I'm covered with wounds.  I don't remember getting that
          messed up bringing the horses out of the canyon.  And why am
          I so damned weak?  I'm not sure I can even stand up."
               He staggered to his feet, nonetheless, but swayed
          precariously, a dark film trying to edge across his vision
          from the sides.
               "Am I dying?"  he asked himself hoarsely.  "Well, one
          thing is sure:  If I don't get out of here, I soon will be."
               What followed was another kind of foggy nightmare.  His
          condition gradually deteriorated; and he became like an
          automaton, stumbling about in a mental cloud, taking
          inordinate amounts of time doing simple tasks, all requiring
          enormous effort.  His existence subsided into semi-awareness
          and painful slow-motion.
               Now he descended into a half-dream state of alternating
          darkness and light, where he had intermittent glimpses of
          Fresco's head bobbing up and down before him in an endless
          journey through swaying pain.
               Loren was aware of colliding with hard ground several
          times; and it seemed on those occasions that a giant being
          covered with white hair would ease him back into the saddle
          and return the reins to his hand.  Once or twice, too, in a
          dizzy twilight, he imagined this same snowy figure to be
          moving up ahead as if leading the way.
               Moreover, he had a dim recollection of the non-voices'
          returning for a time.  They were engaged in some kind of
          monotonous repetition:
               "Break out!  Break out while the way is still clear!
          In a little while you will pass the point of no return ...
          Break out!  Break out ...!"
               It was pitch black when he realized he was falling
          again.  His back slammed onto an unyielding surface, and he
          felt both feet crash against something upright.  He tried to
          breathe, but his lungs were immobilized in pain.
               There was a fumbling noise he could not identify, then
          light flooded over him but quickly began to fade.
               "Loren!  Loren!"  she screamed from some hollow place.
          "Oh, no, Zeb!  Help me, Zeb; it's Loren!"
          
          
          
          
          
          XII.
          
               Go ahead, taunt me with it, you addled old miser!  It
          won't be yours for long.  Oh, but it does stick in my craw
          to have to sit here and smile sweetly while you lust over
          that gold like some kind of drooling pervert.  And you're
          still balking, aren't you?  You still refuse to let the map
          seep out of that calcified brain.  But I'll pry it out yet,
          Zeb; I'll pry it out.  Any time now:  I'll think of a way.
               Zeb was sitting at the living room table.  He had just
          re-tied the tops of the gold bags after leering at their
          contents for what seemed to be the hundredth time.  The
          "yellow fire" had temporarily revivified the old man; but
          his face was flushed, his movements were jerky, and the
          crazed look would take over his eyes occasionally.
          Moreover, he had never ceased to suffer flashes of
          disorientation, nor had those sporadic interruptions of
          memory disappeared.  These latter symptoms, of course, were
          a continuing source of anxiety for Melody:  She was in dread
          of his losing his mind altogether, thus locking the location
          of the Lemon Mine behind a wall of insanity.
               "I'm sorry, little daddy," Melody said with a start,
          realizing the old prospector had been trying to penetrate
          her thoughts.  "I guess I was daydreaming again.  What did
          you say?"
               "Said I still cain't b'lieve Loren done it.  He near
          killed hisself, but he brought back my diggins.  We're gonna
          be rich!  Rich!  Soon's he's mended, him an' me's
           a-headin' outx if I kin think of a way tax .  Gonna take
          him ta the mine an' have him stand guard there while I file
          a claim fer the four of us."
               "Oh, it's so wonderful, honey!  And won't Abel be
          astonished when he gets back from Ft. Saskatchewan?  I'm
          glad we decided to keep it a secret from  him until our
          wedding anniversary in May.  Thanks to you, he'll have the
          best anniversary present any man ever did."
               Zeb looked suddenly worried.  "Are ye sure Loren's
          gonna make it?  He looked like a dead man outside the door
          last night.  Still looks like a dead man, too.  How long ye
          figger he's gonna lay like a corpse in my bed the way he's a-
          doin'?"
               Melody favored the little man with one of her coy
          smiles.  "Well, you just keep cuddling close to him there,
          sweetie, and he'll soon be prancing around here like old
          times."  Her mood changed.  "But I cannot imagine what
          happened to him:  He's filthy and covered with nasty cuts
          and bruises, his clothes are ripped to shreds, and they were
          hanging on him as if to a skeleton.  Honestly, Zeb, you'd
          think he hadn't had a bite to eat since he left.
               "And I can't understand what took him so long, can
          you?"
               Clanton looked suddenly secretive.  "Well ... uh ...
          now he's done been in ... in wilderness country.  Cain't
          never tell whutx whut a body's gonna run inta out there.  Er
          mebbe he jest couldn't find the place agin at first.
          Prob'ly had ta search aroun' fer days.  Yeah, an' mebbe it
          took a heap a' time ta find the pack horse, too."
               But Melody did not miss the evasiveness, and she
          remembered Zeb's fearful declaration some days ago that the
          gold wasn't in a "nat'ral" place, that a person going there
          was lucky to come back alive.  He had hinted about "things,"
          too.  What could he have meant by that?
               Well, you're either a damn liar, Zeb, or your reason
          has just about left you.  And I'm afraid we might be looking
          at both problems, you tight-lipped old nose wipe!
               She found herself thinking back to last night.  There
          had been that terrible fright when she had been awakened by
          the loud crash at her front door.  She had come back to
          consciousness expecting to see the giant bear exploding into
          her house again, especially since she could hear Zeb's
          whimpering in his room.  She had lain in her bed too
          terrified to move, because Abel was not there to protect her
          this time.  He had left on his farm trip just that morning.
               But there had been no further racket after the initial
          disturbance; and then she had heard a whinny.  She sat up in
          the dark.
               "That horse is right outside the front door!  It would
          be a mile away if a grizzly were prowling around out there.
          xLoren!  Could it possibly be Loren back with the gold?"
               All trepidation left her.  She threw on her robe as she
          ran.  She managed to turn on the hall light, but her
          excitement gave her difficulty with the door latch.  At
          last, however, she was able to push the door open; but the
          sight of Loren lying before her in bloody rags thrust her
          into new terror.
               "Loren!  Loren!  Oh, no, Zeb!" she screamed.  "Help me,
          Zeb; it's Loren!"
               Then she saw the two horses milling about nervously.
               "Loren's pack horse!  His pack hose is loaded!  Zeb's
          gold!"
               She stepped over the fallen man and walked carefully
          toward the animal.
               "Come on, boy; easy, boy," she soothed.  "Don't spook
          him now, Melody, whatever you do ... That's it, easy, easy."
               Just as she reached the horse, a shadow lobbed out from
          the doorway.
               "Loren!  It is Loren!" Zebadiah screeched.  Then his
          sharp intake of breath could be heard.  "My diggins!  Them's
          my diggins!"
               Then he, too, tottered over the unconscious cowboy.
               "Hold 'im, Melody, while I work at these ties.  Why is
          it sox ?  So damn weak, yet.  Yessiree, thet's my pack
          saddle!  The fall musta' broke the cinch there.  Damn,
          Melody!  Kin ye tie this critter ta thet tree an' give me a
          hand?  I cain't even git at anything."
               In a few moments, they were making trips back and forth
          into the house to transfer Zeb's belongings to the living
          room.  This process required them to step repeatedly over
          the crumpled man who would groan occasionally; but they
          seemed not to notice.
               When they were finished, Zebadiah made an animal-like
          noise, retrieved the two bags of gold, and held them
          triumphantly over his head.
               "See!  See!  Ye thought I was looney er lyin', mebbe!"
          He began to dance around the room, then he plunked the bags
          on the table.  "Hee!  Hee!  Ever see real, outa'-the- ground
          gold before, Melody?  Wanna see Lemon-yeller gold, Melody?
          Hee!  Hee!  Take a look at 'er!"  He untied the bags.
               She gasped.  "It's beautiful!  It's a gorgeous yellow!
          I thought it would bex."
               "Thisyere's almost pure gold, girl, almost pure!  An'
          they's a ton of it jest like this a-waitin' fer us out
          there.  Me an' Lorenx ."  He stopped.  "Damn!  Guess he's
          still
          a-layin' outside in the dark."
               "Oh, my goodness!  Why the poor man!"  She employed her
          innocent, shocked look.  "How could we have been so
          unfeeling?  Are you strong enough to help me get him
          inside?"
               "Dunno.  Reckon I kin try."  He grinned toothlessly.
          "If I cain't, we kin use one a' them horses ta pull 'im up
          through the door."
               "Oh, shame on you, Zeb!  Let me hide the gold first,
          though.  Someone may show up.  There's been a lot of racket
          here tonight."
               "No.  I'll be a-stashin' it in my closet.  You tie up
          the other horse, if he ain't run off.  I'll be right out."
               Somehow, they managed to drag the big cowboy by stages
          into Zeb's bedroom.  They ripped off the remains of his
          shirt, removed his boots, and rolled him into bed.
               Understandably, neither the  young woman nor the old
          man slept much after that ...
               "Didn't tell ye, Melody," Zeb brought her thoughts back
          to the present.  He was looking grim.  "They was somethin'
          missin' from my gear.  Noticed it last night, and I been a-
          worryin' about it ever since.  If ... if we don't find them
          things, we ... "
               "What things, honey?  We got the gold.  That's all that
          matters."
               "No, ye don't understan'.  You  rec'lect I told you how
          the map jest up an' disappeared right outa' my pocket when
          I'd been a-checkin' on it all the time?  Well, I had a pair
          a' little witchey dolls with this stuff.  Stx got 'em from
          another dumb savage.  Well, they ain't here.  Kept 'em
          'cause I thought I could sell 'em ta some city dude."
               "Oh.  Well, perhaps Loren threw them out."
               "Don't think so.  Why would he do thet?  They didn't
          weigh much a' nothin'."
               "Some of your things were broken.  Maybe the dolls were
          as well."
               "Mebbe.  But he didn't toss out any a' the other broke
          stuff."  The familiar look of fear returned.  "No.  'Spect
          Loren run inta some a' them murderin'x."
               "Murderers?  What do you mean, Zebadiah?  What
          murderers?"
               He looked at her blankly.
               "Whut?  Whut did ye say?  In Frank?  Was somebody in
          Frank kilt?"
          * * *
               "How long have I been here?"  Loren White asked weakly
          from the bed he had been sharing with Zeb.
               "You're starting your third day," Melody said.  "You've
          been sleeping most of the time.  How are you feeling?"
               "Like ground meat.  Can't understand how I got so
          mauled.  Look at all these abrasions.  Must have been in a
          fight with one of Gina's cats."
               The cowboy-artist flushed suddenly, and Melody fixed
          him with a distrustful look.
               "Gina?  Gina Olson?  I didn't know shex."
               "Hey, young feller," Clanton interrupted.  "Ye did it!
          Ye brought back my diggins!  When Abel gits back from Ft.
          Saskatchewanx."
               "Abel is gone?  When did he leave?"
               "Mornin' a' the same day ye tried ta break down the
          door with yer head.  April 17th er 18th.  An' I been a-
          havin' ta bed down beside yer ugly body ever since."
               Loren gave a shallow laugh.  "Hey, you addled old cuss!
          Better get a new calendar:  I left on April 5th, and I
          haven't been gone more than about three days.  Better lay
          off ofx ."  He stopped himself, noticing the questioning
          looks passing between Melody and Zebadiah.  "What's wrong?
          I'm sure it was on the 5th."
               "It was, Loren.  But you were gone a little over
          thirteen days," Melody said.  "I should know:  I counted
          every one.  I was afraid something terrible might have
          happened to you.  How could youx ?  Well, you have obviously
          been through some kind of harrowing ordeal, and you have a
          lot of recovering to do yet.  You'll remember when you feel
          better, I'm sure."
               "Thirteen days!  But that's impossible."  He put a hand
          across his eyes for a moment.  "Maybe Ix Maybe I ... I don't
          know."
               "Whut happened out there, young feller?"  Zeb  looked
          frightened.  "Ye didn't run inta anythingx uhx ye didn't go
          an' fall offa' my cliff, too, did ye?"  he added with a
          false show of humor.
               Loren's face was marked by confusion.  "I had some ...
          I guess ... nightmares you'd never believe.  Hairy giants
          whispering inside my head, forest fires, electrical storms,
          avalanches, landslides.  Maybe I'm the one who'd better lay
          off thex the booze."  He tried to laugh again.  "Man, I even
          dreamed about part-human animals comin' at me."
               Zeb had paled, and he was trembling visibly.  "I had a
          coupla' little long-haired kinda' witchey dolls with my
          other stuff on the pack horse. They wasn't with the gear ye
          brung back.  Did ye throw 'em out?"
               "No, Zeb.  Look again.  I brought them.  Who could
          forget loading up those horrible things?"
               The old man turned grey.  "If ya  don't mind, I'm gonna
          head fer my chair by the stove.  Ain't feelin' so good all
          of a sudden-like."
               "Oh, honey, can I help you?  Can I get you something?"
          Melody Allen postured dramatically.
               "No.  Be all right."
               The little man shuffled away unsteadily.
               "How's he been, Melody?"
               "A lot better.  He gets his little spells, but he's
          almost normal nowx for Zeb.  You're the one we've got to get
          on the mend, though."  She smiled provocatively.  "In a
          hurry.  I have plans for you that require the ... services
          of a vigorous young man."
               Loren rose up part way then fell back.  "Melody!  I
          can't stay here.  Abel is gone.  He'd never undesrstand.
          And there's the neighbors!"
               "Neighbors!  To hell with the neighbors!"  Melody
          stopped, realizing she had forgotten her lines.  "I'm sorry,
          Loren.  It's just that I get infuriated with the small minds
          one encounters in a compressed community like Frank."  She
          put a soft hand on his forehead.  "Don't worry about it.
          They know we have a chaperone.  Anyway," she grew suggestive
          again, "you're in no shape to be a threat to anyone.  Go to
          sleep now."
               She walked away but paused at the door.
               "Perhaps you're the one in danger, cowboy."
          * * *
               It was the night of April 24, and Melody felt time
          pressing in on her again.  Abel had been gone a week
          already, and the Yank had been recuperating in her home for
          the same length of time.  Loren was much improved, but he
          was not quite ready to travel again into back country.
               And that old lunatic is driving me up the wall with his
          talk about "headin' out."  Do you suppose he's thinking
          about doing it on his own again?  Oh, you've got to do
          something, Melody!  What if Abel should come home
          unexpectedly?  I don't think he would believe Loren is sick
          enough to continue bedding down here.  Even Abel is not that
          gullible.  Damn!  Damn!
               She was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling once
          more.
               After all my work!  I'm so bloody close; but all I can
          do is smile, and pretend, and slave for those two like a
          damned scullery maid.  And wait, and wait!  But I can't, I
          just can't!  There's not enough time!  That cowboy, too:  Is
          he getting guilt pangs?  Oh, hell!  What if he turns into
          little Miss Fraidy Cat on me again?  Are both of them going
          to run off?
               She slammed over onto her belly and started to sob into
          the pillow.  Then she stiffened, rolled over and sat up in
          the dark.
               No, dammit!  I'm the one who's turning into little Miss
          Fraidy Cat!  Work it out, woman!  What the blazes are you
          accomplishing falling apart in the dark?  There's still
          time.  There's still time.  Loren will be able to go in
          another few days.  Zeb is the real problem.  It's always the
          old cadaver.  I just have to make sure he can't leave.  Yes,
          I have no choice.
               Constable Quartersloe's frightening image filled her
          mind for an instant, but she shook her head violently.
               To the Devil with you, Quartersloe!  I don't care if
          you do come sneaking around here again.  You haven't been
          able to figure out anything yet, have you?  You, too, you
          mooning cow-kicker!  I'll just have to heat you up a bit
          more, that's all.
               And so it developed that Zebadiah Clanton's body became
          reacquainted with rat poison on the following morning.  It
          had been free of it this time for sixteen days.
               In addition, the other interloper in Abel Allen's house
          was barraged throughout the day with tender little gestures
          wafted on tantalizing perfume.  Loren, if he had been
          harboring any earlier bouts with principle, soon lost them
          in familiar, disturbing fantasies; and the drumbeat rattled
          forth anew:
               "Me and Melody Allen, Melody Allen; Melody ..."
          
               Suddenly, it was April 26, but summer appeared to have
          pounced upon them early:  It was hot.  And although Melody
          had reduced the strength of the additive to his tea, the
          little white-haired man became sick again.  Melody watched
          him now, knowing he could die, knowing the constable might
          show up to probe around and ask more questions, but she
          found herself gloating, nonetheless:
               How does it feel, bastard?  Not so cocksure anymore,
          are you?  Aren't you sorry you put me through all this?  Got
          a belly full of fire again?
               "There, there, honey," she clucked, mopping his face.
          "Don't fret.  Mama's here; Mama's right here."
               "What is it, Melody?"  Loren whispered.  "Can I help?
          Shall I get Doc?  He seems to be in a lot of pain."
               "No, no, Loren.  Zeb doesn't want to see any more
          doctors, and he's going to be just fine, anyway.  He's
          merely having another one of his spells.  But I'll take care
          of him the way I always have, won't I, little daddy?  Go in
          and light up your pipe and read the paper, Loren; everything
          is under control."
               Loren, of course, went dutifully.  His mind was too
          consumed with other prospects to worry much about a crazy
          old mountain man any longer.
               "I have plans for you that require the services of a
          vigorous young man," her sultry voice repeated silently,
          beating against his brain ... "Perhaps you're the one in
          danger, cowboy."
               He looked at the paper but saw nothing.  And he didn't
          worry much about Abel Allen now, either.  After all,  he
          didn't really owe the big man anything.
               In the other room Zebadiah Clanton looked up at his
          nurse plaintively:
               "Mel - Melody.  I'm so sick an' weak agin."  He gasped
          for breath.  "It's jest like before, mebbe worse.  I thought
          I done licked it."
               "I know, sweetheart, I know.  But I'll stay with you,
          you know that.  Don't be frightened."
               "Mebbe ... mebbe I am a-dyin'.  Er mebbe I'm havin' ...
          one a' them ... strokes, like ye said."
               "I don't know, little daddy; but as soon as you feel
          betterx maybe tomorrowx you really must draw that map.  We
          don't want anyone to steal your gold mine, do we?"
               The familiar, suspicious look crowded across his thin
          face.  Then he shut his eyes.
               "No, we don't.  Don't need ta draw ... ta draw no map,
          neither.  Lemme sleep.  I'm a sick man."
               Fear grabbed at Melody's throat.  "Has he figured
          something out?  Has he seen something?"  her mind quailed.
               The next day, however, Mrs. Allen's dreads in that
          regard were swept away.  The little whiskey trader drank his
          special tea dutifully and, true to form, he rallied somewhat
          in spite of it.
               It was oppressively hot again.
               By the twenty-eighth, Zebadiah, still sick, had begun
          to waver in his reluctance to reconstruct the map; and Loren
          seemed fit enough to leave.  Melody resolved, however, not
          to reveal her plans to the artist until the stage had been
          properly set.  And then another thought struck her:
          Strangely, Zeb had not tried to mention again to the
          Montanan anything about a second journey into the
          wilderness.
               "Maybe tomorrow," she thought breathlessly.  "Maybe
          I'll have the map tomorrow and can send Loren off right
          away.  If Abel returns too soon, I can handle his suspicions
          if the cowboy has gone; and I can always spirit my pretty
          coal miner away from here once more on a wild goose chase.
          Yes, I can say I heard about crooked operators selling off
          worthless land in the Ft. Saskatchewan area, or something.
               "Tonight or tomorrow, your old pustule.  No more
          waiting!"
               The continuing heat seemed to aggravate her fury.
          * * *
               "Oh, and have you heard?"  the portly one asked in
          outraged delight.  "Poor Mr. Allen had barely left on his
          trip to Ft. Saskatchewan when that strange American artist
          moved right in with the Allen woman.  The very same night!
          Why,  it's the most disgraceful thing I've ever heard.  This
          is supposed to be a decent community."
               "Oh, my, yes," the skinny one tittered.  I heard all
          about it three days ago fromx ."
               "But I have it on good authority," the fat one
          persisted.  "One of their neighbors assured me it was true.
          She saw that drunken foreigner being dragged into the house
          in the dead of night about ten days ago.  And the brazen
          womanx you recall, she still has that lunatic mountain man
          living in, toox that uppity hussy is telling everyone her
          precious Mr. White is suffering from some obscure fever."
               The big-nosed one giggled now.  "But we've heard about
          such fevers, haven't we?  And I'm sure our tender-hearted
          nurse has been working on it diligently."
               "No doubt.  And we've heard about such nursing, too,
          haven't we, sweetie?"
               There was ill-restrained laughter.
               "Perhaps we're not being fair," the skinny one said
          sanctimoniously.  "After all, the old man is in the house
          with them."
               "That's true.  But, on the other hand, possibly we can
          understand now why the old reprobate has been so reluctant
          to leave."
               Now their laughter was totally indulged as the trio
          walked out of the post office.
               A pretty young woman with short blonde hair had been
          sorting mail just behind the row of metal boxes shielding
          her from the three women.
               She was taken ill unexpectedly and had to go home
          early.
          
          
          
          
          XIII.
          
               It was 11 p.m., April 28, 1903.  The town of Frank was
          caught in a deep freeze, colder than any night of the
          winter; while the cloud that had enshrouded Turtle Mountain
          since evening persisted, as if to hide the stresses grinding
          within.
               And Melody Allen lay in bed gloating about other masks
          concealing other impellers:
               My God, what pitiful creatures these men are when all
          that hypocrisy is peeled away!  That's when you see them for
          the shallow things they really are.
               She stifled a laugh.
               They strut around mouthing their honor, and duty, and
          brotherhood, and Godx God!  Their god is their screaming
          libidos.  This is the ring in the raging bull's nose,
          Melody.  Grab it and you can crush him underfoot like a bug.
               Loren had crept out of her room a few minutes ago.  She
          smirked again knowing he belonged to her now; and it had
          been so easy.  Such a transparent little ruse it was, too.
          She giggled.
               Comic opera!  What a silly little comic opera!  It was
          a shame, though, that there was no audience to see your
          performance, Mrs. Allen:  "Oh, no, Loren, you must stop!  We
          can't do this!"  But then you nudged him close to the chasm
          and dangled him a little.  Finally, you pushed him away from
          it.  "But how do I know you're not ... how do I know you
          honestly care for me?  How can I really trust you?"  And so
          on, and so on.  But then the little beast opens an artery in
          his ethics and bleeds out his devotion:  "Anything, I will
          do anything, Melody!"
               It was hilarious.  At the height of Loren's distress
          she had been struck by a perverse urge:  "Oh, but what about
          your great friendship with Abel?"  she wanted to ask.
          Fortunately, she overcame the idea; and the drama swept on:
               "Oh, yes, sweetheart, I'll run away with you if I can
          be sure you're not toying with me just to ... to take
          advantage of me."
               Melody pressed the pillow over her mouth and let goose
          feathers absorb her mirth.
               Oh, you poor little clown, Loren!  And I was such a
          magnificent Sarah Bernhardt.  You had him so numb, Melody,
          he hardly seemed to hear when you told him Zeb had found the
          fabulous, lost Lemon Mine.  Now that's not just numb, that's
          gibbering dumbnumb!  Yes, then another little push to get
          the panting animal to back away again.  Now a throbbing "Do
          one thing for me, Loren, just one thing; so I can be sure.
          Tomorrow morning, get Zeb to draw a map to the mine then go
          out again and verify it.  When you come back, we'll run off.
          We'll run away together!"
               Her humor drained away.
               Just once I'd like to find a real man!  I wonder what
          it would be like to encounter one who would have the guts to
          reach out and take what he wants, to really be the power his
          bulk and muscles pretend to represent?
               But their was no laughter in the Montana cowboy.  The
          song was dead; and the shadow-pixie mouldered in the leaves.
          Loren lay beside the snoring, occasionally vocalizing,
          little Zebadiah Clanton and listened to his own clamoringx
          the baying hounds within.  Gradually, their wailing choked
          off into invisible smoke stealing up in the darkness.
               The hot fires began to die; the sorcerer's door scraped
          ajar; and what was left of the man crept through ...
               Time moved to 3:40 a.m., April 29, 1903.  It didn't
          seem to Melody Allen that she had slept more than ten
          minutes before the old man wrenched her awake with his
          groaning and moaning.
               How the devil does Loren stand it?  You would think he
          hasn't heard a sound.  How long is that old maniac going to
          keep it up?  If I could only go in there and gag him!  How
          can Ix?
               Then she thought of something.
               Well, well, Zeb, you neglected little rat! Mama forgot
          to give you your poison yesterday, didn't she?  Your little
          tummy must be all upset.  Well, we'll see to that right now.
               She leaped from bed, turned on her light, and reached
          for her robe.  When she had flooded the other bedroom with
          light, Zeb's eyes snapped open, and he stared back at her
          like a wounded mouse.  Loren gave no sign of awareness.
               "Oh, little daddy, you poor dear.  I couldn't help
          hearing your suffering.  What's wrong?  Where does it hurt?"
               "Don't hurt.  Nightmares.  But I'm so damned weak.
          Jest cain't seem ta kick this thing.  Gittin' blamed tired
          a' beggin' fer air."
               She leaned over and patted his hand.  "Well, I'll bet
          you just need something hot and warm to soothe away your
          distresses.  You stay right here now.  I'll be back to share
          a cup of tea with you.  I need something myself.  I've been
          staring at the walls like an owl."
               "No, Melody, reckon it won't help none.  Anyways, it's
          ... it's gonna disturb Loren here."
               "No, Zeb honey.  Remember, you must listen to your
          nurse.  I know what that tired old body needs.  And Loren?
          Don't worry about him.  Look at him there sleeping like a
          baby.  Hush, now; relax.  I'll be back in a moment."
               Melody went into the kitchen.  There were good, glowing
          remains in the firebox; and, in a moment, the small chunks
          of coal she tossed in had burst into flame.  A short while
          later, she removed the kettle and poured boiling water into
          the teapot.
               While the mixture brewed, she climbed on a chair and
          removed the jar from behind the high cupboard door.
               "You filthy little wretch, Zeb," she muttered, as she
          carried the container to the kitchen table and sat down.
          "I'm even getting sick of adding this to your tea every day.
          Monotony, boredom, and frustration."
               Melody yawned.  Now she poured both cups full and
          opened the jar.  Still muttering, she inserted a teaspoon,
          withdrew it, and sprinkled just the right dosage into
          Clanton's cup.
               "That cowboy had better choke the map out of your neck
          today, Mr. Clanton, or I might give you an accidental
          overdose of this, just to enjoy yourx !"
               A bony hand snatched the jar from the table and brought
          it up close to crazy, blue eyes.  The surgical-tape label
          was smudged now and ragged at the edges, but its inscription
          left no room for misinterpretation.
               "Pizen?  Rat pizen!  Ye been a-pizenin' me?"  Zeb
          screeched.  He began to dance around the room, his screams
          growing louder and louder.  "All this time ye been sneakin'
          aroun' an' a-pizenin' me?  Why?  Why?"
               He stopped dead and stared.
               "Zeb, honey," Melody pleaded.  "You don't understand.
          That's not poison.  That's an old label I didn't bother to
          scrape off.  It's old and gummy, Zeb.  No, that's not rat
          poison, it'sx !"
               "Gold!  Ye done it fer my gold," he whispered hoarsely.
          "I heerd ye jest now.  You an' the cowboy!"
               Now the old man resumed his hopping about, shaking his
          fist, slavering and yowling again:
               "Yer' both in cahoots with the cannibal!  I shoulda'
          knowed!  Tshyplal, Tshyplal, ye murderin' devil!  Git yer
          witch away from me!"
               Loren, red-eyed and disheveled, appeared in the kitchen
          doorway.  He seemed dazed.
               "Zeb, Zeb!  Calm down! What's wrong?  What's all the
          yelling about?  Be quiet!"
               Melody Allen glared at the big man then shoved past him
          out of the room.
               White's words had been like a hand over the old
          prospector's mouth.  He began to whisper haltingly:
               "Ye ... ye were likex like a son ta me, Loren.  I ...
          loved ye like my own.  Why did ye do this ta me?  Why did ye
          drag me offa' the ... the rocks jest ta do this?"
               "What are you talking about, Zeb?  Why did I do what?
          Has the whole world
          gonex ?"
               Melody pushed the cowboy roughly aside again and
          slammed back into the kitchen.  She had Abel's rifle in her
          hands.
               "Draw the map right now, you filthy old man, or I'll
          blow your brains out!  And don't try to fake it, either.
          We'll find out, then I'll still blow them out, but I'll
          start on your scrawny legs and work up."
               "Melodyx Melody!"  Loren gasped.
               "Shut up, Loren.  Get him paper and pencil."
               Zebadiah made a gagging sound then staggered backward
          into a foot stool and crashed to the floor.
               At the same moment, Loren took a step toward the rifle.
               "Stop, Melody!"  he shouted.
               Far off in the distance, a wolf howled.  Before the
          first note had died, the cry was picked up by another, then
          another.  A deafening "crack!" came from the direction of
          Turtle Mountain, causing Melody, Loren, and Zebadiah to
          swivel their heads involuntarily in that direction.  There
          was a consuming roar, then a crushing force collided with
          the house.
               An entire wall broke loose and flew directly at them.
               The clock registered 4:10 a.m.x
               But then it disintegrated ...
          * * *
               The hard crystal on Evelyn Landy's finger broke a thin
          ray of sunlight into a tiny dazzle of colors.
               "A rainbow," Dr. Edwardson murmured ... "'And the bow
          shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may
          remember the everlasting covenant between God and every
          living creature ...'," he added almost inaudibly.
               "Out of the horror," he continued, "a gem.  Your
          diamond, as I'm sure you are aware, Miss Landy, was created
          from carbon by tremendous heat and pressurex calamity, if
          you will."
               "Yes," Constable Quartersloe seemed to agree, " and
          Frank is a coal ... a carbon town.  But I see only death and
          destruction.  I find no diamonds; I see no rainbows, except
          a small one on a lady's hand."
               "No, Martin, you're mistaken," Nurse Landy said softly.
          "The diamonds are Sid Choquette, who flagged down the
          Spokane Flyer before it could slam into the rocks.  The
          diamonds are seventeen miners who clawed their way out of a
          mountain that tried to entomb them.  The diamonds are the
          people who dug out their neighbors.  The diamonds are the
          miracle of a tiny baby thrown from the top floor of her
          house, only to land on a bale of hay that somehow tumbled
          beneath her from the livery stable a half-mile away."
               Dr. Edwardson continued the theme:  "They are all the
          people who survived, tempered by tragedy into realizing the
          true meaning of brotherhood and how precious all life really
          is."
               "You're right, of course," the Mountie confessed.
          "Perhaps it's my profession.  Perhaps I'm conditioned to see
          only the black side."
               Evelyn Landy reached for his hand.  "No, Martin.  A man
          who weeps for his brother is motivated from the Highest."
               There was a long silence among them, each trying to
          cope individually with the enormity that had changed their
          lives forever.
               It was May 13 now, two weeks after the mountain fell,
          burying the largely residential flats east of Gold Creek
          under rock upwards of one hundred feet deep.  This
          throughout an expanse measuring a mile by more than a mile
          and a half.  The commercial section of town was unscathed.
               Dr. Edwardson, Constable Quartersloe, and Evelyn Landy
          were seated around the table in the hospital's kitchen area.
               "The people are not moving back," the young policeman
          said at last.  "They're leaving; the town is dying."
               "So many people," Evelyn sighed; "so many old friends
          scattered by the winds.  The Olsons left yesterday, heading
          back to Victoria."
               "Did you know Gina Olson was in love with Loren White?"
          Martin Quartersloe asked, opening a subject they all had
          been avoiding.
               The physician shook his head almost in anger.  "Yes,
          yes, and Loren was a fine person, in spite of the gossip
          about him and Mrs. Allen.  I don't know why he despised
          himself so, why he came to suppress the beauty inside ...
          Gina and Loren ... what a damn waste!  If only he had talked
          to me!"
               Evelyn turned the engagement ring between two fingers
          and looked at the uniformed man beside her.
               "One day, right after one of your visits to the
          hospital, Martin, Loren told me what a fine young man he
          considered you to be.  'Snatch him up,' he said; 'I've never
          seen two people more right for each other.'"
               The Mountie stared at the floor and swallowed hard.  "I
          liked him the first time I saw him.  I couldx I could punch
          him out for getting killed."
               When the young couple had left, Dr. Edwardson sat
          immobile for a while, staring
          blankly at one of the silent chairs before him.  He wiped
          the base of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger before
          rising and walking to a cabinet.  When he turned back to the
          table, he held a bottle of brandy and two empty glasses.
               He sat down, poured twice, and pushed one glass across
          in front of the empty chair.
               His toast was silent ...
          * * *
               Not long after that, a sign prepared by the Alberta
          government appeared on the western edge of the rubble:
                         Disaster struck the town of Frank at 4:10
          a.m. April
                     29, 1903, when a gigantic wedge of limestone,
          2,100 feet
                    high, 3,000 feet wide and 500 feet thick, crashed
          down from
                    Turtle Mountain.
                         Ninety million tons of rock swept over a mile
          of
                    valley, destroying part of the town, taking 70
          lives, and
                    burying an entire mine plant and railway in
          approxi-
                    mately 100 seconds.  The old town was located at
          the
                    western edge of the slide where many cellars still
          are
                    visible.
               And so it came to pass that the big Turtle fell asleep
          at last, unaware of the destruction it had wrought.
               And blind to the glittering diamonds.
          
          
          
          
                                                              End Of
          Part One
          
          
          
          
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