A saga of the strong.

Part I

(In Which Steve Plays Second Fiddle)

THE MAN FROM THE PANHANDLE

CHAPTER I

A DESERT MEETING

As she lay crouched in the bear-grass there came to the girl clearly
the crunch of wheels over disintegrated granite. The trap had dipped
into a draw, but she knew that presently it would reappear on the
winding road. The knowledge smote her like a blast of winter, sent
chills racing down her spine, and shook her as with an ague. Only the
desperation of her plight spurred her flagging courage.

Round the bend came a pair of bays hitched to a single-seated open
rig. They were driven by a young man, and as he reached the summit he
drew up opposite her and looked down into the valley.

It lay in a golden glow at their feet, a basin of pure light and
silence stretching mile on mile to the distant edge of jagged
mountain-line which formed its lip. Sunlight strong as wine flooded a
clean world, an amber Eden slumbering in an unbroken, hazy dream
primeval.

"Don't move!"