The Forbidden Trail   By: Honoré Morrow (1880-1940)

THE FORBIDDEN TRAIL

By HONORÉ WILLSIE

Author of

"The Heart of the Desert," "Still Jim," "Lydia of the Pines," etc.

A. L. Burt Company Publishers New York Published by arrangement with Frederick A. Stokes Company

Copyright, 1919, by Frederick A. Stokes Company

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE DREAMER 1 II. HOPES DEFERRED 32 III. THE NEW DAY 52 IV. CHARLEY 81 V. VON MINDEN 105 VI. THE LETTER FROM WASHINGTON 130 VII. THE RUNAWAY 151 VIII. THE LONELY HUNTER 176 IX. GUSTAV 186 X. DEATH IN THE DESERT 206 XI. DICK'S SICKNESS 228 XII. DICKY'S LAST BOUT 249 XIII. THE GREAT DIVIDE 265 XIV. WASHINGTON 275 XV. RABBIT TAIL'S GANG 295 XVI. THE RIVER RANGE 314 XVII. THE BLACK BOX 345 XVIII. PAPA WOLF 358

THE FORBIDDEN TRAIL

CHAPTER I

THE DREAMER

Roger was only seven. He was tall for his age and very thin. He had a thick crop of black hair and his eyes were large and precisely the color of the summer sky that lifted above the Moores' back yard. These were the little boy's only claims to beauty, for even at this time Roger's face was too much of the intellectual type to be handsome. Beauty is seldom intelligent. Roger's long, thin jaw, his thin, thoughtful mouth, his high forehead, were distinctly of the thinking, dreaming type.

It was midsummer and Roger's tanned legs and feet were bare and scratched and mosquito bitten. He wore a little blue gingham sailor suit, which was much rumpled and soiled.

Charlotte was five. She was tall for her age too. In fact at five she was nearly as tall as Roger. But she was not as thin as he. She had large brown eyes of astounding depth and softness and bronze brown hair that was short and curly. There were lovely curves in her scarlet, drooping lips and a fine arch to her head above the ears. There was a dimple in her round chin. She sat in front of Roger who was astride one end of a great plank that was up ended on a barrel.

"You go over and get Ernie and Elschen, Charley," commanded Roger in a deep, boyish voice.

"I won't!" returned Charley, succinctly, crowding closer to Roger, as she spoke.

"Well now, do you think I'm going to play alone all the afternoon with a baby?" roared Roger. "You're too little to work this teeter tauter with me. I'm not going to stand it, I'm not. You get off!"

"I won't," repeated Charley, none the less firmly that the red lips trembled. "I runned away from our house to play with you and I'm going to play, I am."

"You ain't going to play alone and Mamma says I gotta take you home in half an hour if nobody doesn't come for you."

"I won't go home." Charley ended this time with a sob.

"Now don't bawl!" exclaimed Roger, in alarm, twisting the little girl's head around so that he could peer into her face. He kissed her in a paternal manner. "Don't bawl! I'll take care of you."