drew a queer sort of subdued shriek from his parched throat; but, after a moment of white agony, he began to crawl in the direction of the ranch. He chose that way deliberately, because the slope was downhill, and not so rough as in the upper part of the gorge. With care, for he meant to avoid another slip, but never halting, he dragged his crippled body fully a hundred yards from the foot of the ledge. Then he crept into the shade, at a spot where the side of the Gulch rose sheer for twenty feet, turned over on his back, and lay quietly.

He had almost reached the end of his tether. His face was drawn, and disfigured with dirt and perspiration. His eyelids dropped involuntarily, as though to shut out a world which had suddenly become savagely hostile; but his lips moved in a wan grimace, a wry parody of the generous, warm-hearted smile that people had learned to associate with Derry Power.

"My poor Nancy!" he murmured brokenly. "My dear lost sweetheart! If the Fates have bought you from me, I was no party to the deal, and I'll exact the last cent on it-I swear that by your own sprig of white heather! Someone will pay, in blood and tears, or I'll know the reason why! Yes, someone will pay! Power versus Marten, with the devil as arbitrator! Marten has won the first round; but I'll take it to a higher court. I'll choke the life out of him yet-choke -the beast!"

Of course, Power was light-headed.

CHAPTER III

SHOWING HOW POWER ACQUIRED A LIMP

IF

Ir any sentient thought loomed vaguely through the haze of pain and exhaustion which enwrapped Power like a pall, it was that he would probably lie there a long time before help came; yet he had hardly uttered that half-delirious vow before he was aware of an animal snuffing cautiously around him, and the knowledge galvanized him into a species of activity. He turned on his right side, and raised himself on one hand, the fingers of which closed instinctively on a heavy stone as supplying a weapon of defense.

But his eyes rested only on a dog, a dapper foxterrier, whose furtive curiosity changed instantly to alarm, as it retreated some distance, and barked excitedly. Then Power saw the animal's master, a stranger, or, at any rate, a newcomer, in the district, a man of about his own age, who rode a compactly-built, pony with the careless ease of good horsemanship, and was dressed de rigueur, except for the broad-brimmed hat demanded by the Colorado sun. Evidently the horseman was not surprised at finding someone lying in the Gulch.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Had a spill?"

Power tried to speak; but the dust and grit in his throat rendered his words almost inaudible. Then the

other understood that if, as he imagined, copious drafts of champagne had caused some unaccustomed head to reel, the outcome was rather more serious than a mere tumble. He urged the pony rapidly nearer, and dismounted, and a glance at Power's face dispelled his earlier notion.

"What's up?" he inquired in a sympathetic tone. "Are you hurt?"

Power's second effort at ordered speech was more successful. "Yes," he said. "My leg is

broken."

"Ah, that's too bad. Which leg?" "The left."

"Were you thrown?"

"No."

The stranger noted the soiled condition of the injured man's clothing. He saw that a spur had been torn off, and among the drying dirt on Power's face and hands were some more ominous streaks; since a man may not squirm in agony beneath a shower of jagged granite and escape some nasty abrasions of the skin.

"I see," he said gently. "You fell from up there somewhere," and he looked at the cliff, "tripped over that missing spur, I suppose. Well, what's to be done? Were you at the ranch? I didn't happen to come across you. Shall I take you there?

"No, please to Bison-to MacGonigal's store." "Ah, yes. But it's an awkward business. You can't possibly hold yourself in the saddle. Can you stand on one leg, even for a few seconds?

"I fear not. I'm about done."

"But if I carry you to the face of the rock there, and prop you against it?”

"Yes, I'll do that."

This friend in need pulled the reins over the pony's head, passed them through his arm, lifted Power, not without some difficulty, and brought him to a spot where the precipice rose like a wall.

"There you are!" he gasped; for he was of slender proportions, and Power's weight was deceptive, owing to his perfect physical fitness. "Now I'll mount, and hold you as comfortably as I can; but I don't know how this fat geegee will behave under a double load, so I must have my hands free at first. Will you grip me tight? It may hurt like sin

"Go right ahead!" said Power.

Sure enough, when the pony found what was expected of him, he snorted, raised head and tail, and trotted a few indignant paces.

The rider soon quieted him to a walk; but they were abreast of the scene of Power's accident before he was aware that the man clasping his body had uttered neither word nor groan, though the prancing of the horse must have caused him intense agony.

"By Jove!" came the involuntary cry, "you've got some sand! I'd have squealed like a stuck pig if I was asked to endure that. Who are you? I'm Robert H. Benson, Mr. Marten's private secretary."

66

My name is Power," was the answer, in a thick

"Not John Darien Power, who was at Sacramento!"

"Yes."

"Gee whizz! I've written you several letters. You remember my initials, R. H. B.?"

"Yes."

"Can you talk? Say if you'd rather not."

"I guess not. I wrote him-to Denver; but he's been engaged otherwise."

"Ra-ther! Getting wed. You've heard? I'm sure you're as much surprised as any of us. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he told me why I was wired to come West by next train from New York. 'I want you to take hold,' he said. 'I'm off to Europe for six months on my wedding trip.' That was the day before yesterday, and here he's gone already! I had a sort of notion, too, that our beloved employer would never take unto himself a wife, or, if he did, that the U. S. A. would hear about it."

A hard smile illuminated the pallor of Power's face. "Marten doesn't hire a brass band when he has any startling proposition in mind," he said.

Benson laughed. He was a cheerful, outspoken youngster exactly the kind of private secretary the secretive millionaire might have been expected to avoid like the plague, if Marten had not chosen him deliberately because of those very qualities.

"No," he chuckled. "You and I know that, don't