home didn't. I wonder ... is it asking too much to ask you to help me plan? You know people and conditions. I don't."

She made the request almost timidly, but he leaped at the opportunity and cried:

"If I can help you, if I could be of use to you, I'd think it was th' finest thing that ever happened to me, ma'am. I've never been of much use to anybody but myself. I ... I'd like to help you!" His manner was so wholly boyish that she impulsively put out her hand to him.

"You're kind to me, so...."

She lost the rest of the sentence because of the fierceness with which he grasped her proffered hand and for a moment his gray eyes burned into hers with confusing intensity. Then he straightened and looked away with an inarticulate word.

"Well, what do you want to do?" he asked, stepping to one side to bring a chair for her.

"I don't know; he's in a frightful ... I've never seen him as bad as this,"—her voice threatening to break.

"An' he'll be that way so long as he's near that!"

He held his hand up in a gesture that impelled her to listen as the notes from the saloon piano drifted into the little room.

"He's pretty far gone, ma'am, your husband. He ain't got a whole lot of strength, an' it takes strength to show will power. We might keep him away from drinkin' by watching him all the time, but that wouldn't do much good; that wouldn't be a cure; it would only be delay, and wasting our time and foolin' ourselves. He'd ought to be took away from it, a long ways away from it."

"That's what I've thought. Couldn't I take him out to the mine—"

"His mine is most forty miles from here, ma'am."

"So much the better, isn't it? We'd be away from all this. I could keep him there, I know."

Bayard regarded her critically until her eyes fell before his.

"You might keep him there, and you might not. I judge you didn't have much control over him in th' East. You didn't seem to have a great deal of influence with him by letter,"—gently, very kindly, yet impressively. "If you got out in camp all alone with him, livin' a life that's new to you, you might not make good there. See what I mean? You'd be all alone, cause the mine's abandoned." She started at that. "There'd be nobody to help you if he got crazy wild like he'll sure get before he comes through. You—"

"You don't think I'm up to it? Is that it?" she interrupted.

He looked closely at her before he answered.

"Ma'am, if a woman like you can't keep a man straight by just lovin' him,"—with a curious flatness in his voice—"you can't do it no way, can you?"

She sat silent, and he continued to question her with his gaze.

"I judge you've tried that way, from what you've told me. You've been pretty faithful on the job. You ... you do love him yet, don't you?" he asked, and she looked up with a catch of her breath.

"I do,"—dropping her eyes quickly.

The man paced the length of the room and back again as though this confession had altered the case and presented another factor for his consideration. But, when he stopped before her, he only said:

"You can't leave him in town; you can't take him to his mine. There ain't any place away from town I know of where they'd want to be bothered with a sick man," he explained, gravely, evading an expression of the community's attitude toward Lytton. "I might take him to my place. I'm only eight miles out west. I could look after him there, cause there ain't much press of work right now an'—"

"But I would go with him, too, of course," she said. "It's awfully kind of you to offer...."

In a flash the picture of this woman and that ruin of manhood together in his house came before Bayard and, again, he realized the tragedy in their contrast. He saw himself watching them, hearing their talk, seeing the woman make love to her debauched husband, perhaps, in an effort to strengthen him; he felt his wrath warm at thought of that girl's devotion and loyalty wasting itself so, and a sudden, alarming distrust of his own patience, his ability to remain a disinterested neutral, arose.

"Do you think he better know you're here?" he asked, inspired, and turned on her quickly.

"Why, why not?"—in surprise.

"It would sure stir him up, ma'am. He ain't even wrote to you, you say, so it would be a surprise for him to see you here. He's goin' to need all the nerve he's got left, ma'am, 'specially right at first,"—his mind working swiftly to invent an excuse—"Your husband's goin' to have the hardest fight he's ever had to make when he comes out of this. He's on the ragged edge of goin' loco from booze now; if he had somethin' more to worry him, he might....

"Besides, my outfit ain't a place for a woman. He can get along because he's lived like we do, but you couldn't. All I got is one room,"—hesitating as if he were embarrassed—"and no comforts for ... a lady like you, ma'am."

"But my place is with him! That's why I've come here."

"Would your bein' with him help? Could you do anything but stir him up?"

"Why of—"

"Have you ever been able to, ma'am?"

She stopped, unable to get beyond that fact.

"If you ain't, just remember that he's a hundred times worse than he was when you had your last try at him."

She squeezed the fingers of one hand with the other. Her chin trembled sharply but she mastered the threatened breakdown.

"What would you have me do?" she asked, weakly, and at that Bayard swung his arms slightly and smiled at her in relief.

"Can't you stay right here in Yavapai and wait until the worst is over? It won't be so very long."

"I might. I'll try. If you think best ... I will, of course."

"I'll come in town every time I get a chance and tell you about him," he promised, eagerly. "I'll ... I'll be glad to," he hastened to add, with a drop in his voice that made her look at him. "Then, when he's better, when he's able to make it around the place on foot, when you think you can manage him, I s'pose you can go off to his mine, then."

He ceased to smile and smote one hip in a manner that told of his sudden feeling of hopelessness. He walked toward the bed again and Ann watched him. As he passed the lamp on the chair, she saw the fine ripple of his thigh muscles under the close-fitting overalls, saw with eyes that did not comprehend at first but which focused suddenly and then scrutinized the detail of his big frame with an odd uneasiness.

He turned on her and said irrelevantly, as if they had discussed the idea at length,

"I'm glad to do it for you, ma'am."

He stared at her steadily, seeming absorbed by the thought of service to her, and the woman, after a moment, removed her gaze from his.

"It's so good of you!" she said, and became silent when he gave her no heed.

So it was arranged that Bayard should take Ned Lytton to his home to nurse and bring him back to bodily health and moral strength, if such accomplishments were possible. The hours passed until night had ceased to age and day was young before the cowman deemed it wise to move the still sleeping Easterner. He chose to make the drive to his ranch in darkness, rather than wait for daylight when his going would attract attention and set minds speculating and tongues wagging.

Until his departure, the three remained in the room where they had met, Ann much of the time sitting beside her husband, staring before her, Bayard moving restlessly about in the shadows, watching her face and her movements, questioning her occasionally, growing more absorbed in studying the woman, until, during their last hour together, he was in a fever to be away from her where he could think straight of all that had happened since night came to Yavapai.

Before he left he said:

"Probably nobody will ask you questions, but if they do just say that your husband went away before daylight an' that I left after I washed his arm out. That'll be the truth an' what folks don't know won't hurt 'em ... nor