It had not been possible for Prentiss to go with Kate to Prouty but he had promised to come as soon as he could arrange his affairs. This had required something like two weeks, and in the interim the excitement attendant upon Kate’s return had simmered down. She had not been in Prouty since, but Prentiss, having notified her of the day of his arrival, was now awaiting her appearance with an impatience that evidenced itself in the frequency with which he looked at his watch.

As Prentiss stood at the window of the Prouty House looking down Main Street, his face wore a smile that was at once amused and kindly.

So this was Kate’s environment, or a part of it—where she had grown to womanhood. The very pavements seemed invested with a kind of sacredness because they had known the imprint of her feet.

It was little short of idolatry—this man’s love for his daughter—representing as it did all the pent-up affection of his life, and as he had poured that out prodigally so he had lavished his wealth upon her, laughing in keen enjoyment at her dismayed protests.

“Why, girl, you don’t understand at all! What is money for, if not to spend on some one you love?”

The weeks they had spent together had been a wonderful experience for himself as well as for Kate. There were times when he still could not quite realize that this astonishing young woman was his own flesh and blood.

With the experience and intelligent comprehension of a man, she yet was one of the most innately feminine women he had ever known—in her tastes, her small vanities, her quick and comprehensive sympathies; while her appreciation of all that was fine and good, whether in human conduct, the arts, or dress, was a constant marvel. Her childish enjoyment of the most ordinary pleasures was a constant delight and he found his greatest happiness in planning some new entertainment, receiving his reward in watching her expression.

But there was one thing about Kate that puzzled Prentiss, and troubled him a bit: he had observed that while she talked freely of her mother and the Sand Coulee Roadhouse, of Mullendore and the crisis which had sent her to Mormon Joe, of the tragedy of his death, of her subsequent life on the ranch, of her ups-and-downs with the sheep, of anything that she thought would be of interest to him, of her inner self she had nothing to say—of friends, of love affairs—and he could not believe but that that a woman of her unmistakable charm must have had a few. Furthermore, he found that any attempt to draw her out met a reserve that was like a stone wall—just so far he got into her life and not a step beyond.

She reminded him, sometimes—and he could not have said why—of a spirited horse that has been abused—alert for blows, ready to defend itself, suspicious of kindness until its confidence has been won.

Kate had expanded and bloomed in the new atmosphere like a flower whose growth has been retarded by poor soil and contracted space. Her lips had taken on a smiling upward curve that gave a new expression to her face, and now her frequent laugh was spontaneous and contagious. Her humor was of the western flavor—droll exaggeration—a little grim, while in her unexpected turns of speech, Prentiss found a constant source of entertainment.

He had told her of the Toomeys and the circumstances in which they had met; also of the letter endeavoring to interest him in the irrigation project.

“Do you know them?” he had asked, and she had replied merely, “Somewhat.”

When questioned as to the merits of the project, she had answered evasively, “Of my own knowledge I know nothing.” But he could not fail to observe the sudden stillness which fell upon her, the inscrutability of expression which dropped like a mask over her animated face. The name of Prouty alone was sufficient to bring this change, as if at the sound of the word a habit of reserve asserted itself.

Prentiss thought of it much, but contented himself with believing that all in good time he would have his daughter’s entire confidence.

The afternoon train had been extraordinarily late, bringing him in long after dark, so the news of the arrival of this stranger of undoubted importance had not been widely disseminated as yet. In any event, it had not reached Toomey, who banged the door violently behind him as he strode into the office of the hotel. His brow was dark and it did not belie his mood. He was indignant, and with reason enough, for he had just learned that he had dined the barber futilely, since the ingrate had purchased elsewhere a sewing machine of a rival make.

As Toomey was about to take his accustomed seat, his glance chanced to light upon Prentiss’s distinguished back.

He stopped abruptly, staring in a surprise which passed swiftly from incredulity to joy. “The 'Live One!' Prentiss, at last!”

If he had followed his impulse, Toomey would have cast himself headlong upon the newcomer’s prosperous bosom, for a conventional handshake seemed inadequate to express the rapture that sent him to Prentiss’s side in a rush.

“Mr. Prentiss, as I live! Why didn’t you let me know?” It did not for a moment occur to Toomey that Prentiss was in Prouty for any other purpose than to see him.

Roused from a slight reverie, Prentiss turned and responded vaguely:

“Why, how are you Mr.—er—”

“Toomey,” supplied that person, taken somewhat aback.

“Ah, to be sure!” with instant cordiality. “And your wife?”

“She will be delighted to learn you are here. I wish you had come direct to us.”

The reply that he was going to his daughter’s ranch was on his tongue’s end, but something checked it—the recollection perhaps of the singular change which had come over Kate’s face at the mention of the Toomeys' name; instead, he expressed his appreciation of the proffered hospitality and courteously refused.

Glad of the diversion while he was obliged to wait, Prentiss sat down in one of the chairs Toomey drew out and listened with more or less attention while he launched forth upon the subject of the project which would bring manifold returns upon the original investment if it was handled right—the inference being that he was the man to see to that.

It was the psychological moment to buy up the outstanding stock. The finances of the town and its citizens were at the lowest ebb—on the verge of collapse, in fact, if something did not turn up. Furthermore—he imparted the information in a voice lowered to a confidential pitch—he had it from a reliable source that the bank itself had been caught in a pinch and had been obliged to transfer its stock to a depositor to save itself.

Toomey expatiated upon the merits of the proposition and the subsequent opportunities if it went through, until a feverish spot burned on either cheek-bone. And the burden of his refrain was that never since Noah came out of the ark, “the sole survivor,” and all the world his oyster, as it were, had there been such a chance to “glom” everything in sight for a song.

If Prentiss’s eyes twinkled occasionally, Toomey was too intent upon presenting his case in the strongest possible light to notice it; nor did he desist until Prentiss displayed signs of restlessness. Then, not to crowd his luck, he let the subject drop and sought to entertain him with a running fire of humorous comments upon the passersby.

Toomey excelled at this, forgetting, as is frequently the case, that no one of those whom he lampooned was as fitting a subject for ridicule as himself.

During a pause he observed:

“By the way, there’s a woman of your name living about here.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“No connection, of course—different spelling, but not apt to be in any case.” There was a covert sneer in his voice.

“How’s that?” casually.

“She—” with a shrug—“well, she isn’t up to much.”

Prentiss stirred slightly.

“No?”

Toomey detected interest and lowered his voice.

“In fact, she’s no good.”

Prentiss sat quite still—the stillness of a man who takes a shock in that way.

“They call her the 'Sheep Queen,' but we Old Timers know her as 'Mormon Joe’s Kate.' She shipped a while back, and just come home all dolled up. Made a little money, no doubt, but any pinhead could do that, the way prices are. She’ll never get ‘in,’ though.”

“‘In’ where?”

“In society. For a little burg,” with pride, “you’d be surprised to know how exclusive they are here.” The speech showed what, among other things, the years in Prouty had done to Toomey.

A half-inch of cigar burned to ashes between Prentiss’s finger-tips before he spoke.

“So—the Sheep Queen is ostracized?”

“Well—rather!” with unctuous emphasis. “My wife tried to take her up—but she couldn’t make it stick. Found it would hurt us in our business, socially, and all that.”

Prentiss raised his cigar to his lips and looked at Toomey through slightly narrowed lids which might or might not be due to smoke as he asked:

“Just what was her offense?”

Toomey laughed.

“It would be hard to say as to that. She came here under a cloud, and has been under one ever since. She has no antecedents, no blood, and even in a town like Prouty such things count. Her mother was Jezebel of the Sand Coulee, a notorious roadhouse in the southern part of the state; her father was God-knows-who—some freighter or sheepherder, most like.”

“Interesting—quite. Go on.”

Toomey did not note the constraint in Prentiss’s voice and proceeded with gusto:

“She followed off a fellow called Mormon Joe, and trailed in here in overalls behind the little band of ewes that gave them their start. He took up a homestead back in the hills and they lived on about as near nothing as anybody could, and live at all—like a couple of white Indians sleeping in tents and eating out of a frying pan.

“A chap that was visiting me one summer brought her to a dance here at the Prouty House—did it on a bet that he hadn’t sand enough. She came downstairs looking like a Christmas tree. Everybody gave her the frosty mitt and they had to leave.”

Prentiss watched a smoke ring rise before he asked:

“Why did they do that?”

“So she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.”

Toomey laughed, and added:

“They took a ‘fall’ out of her every time they could after that. There was something about her that invited it,” he added reflectively, “the way she held her head up, as if she defied them to do their worst, and,” chuckling, “they did.”

Prentiss thrust a forefinger inside his collar and gave it a tug as though it choked.

“This Mormon Joe—what became of him?”

The gleeful light went out of Toomey’s face.

“He was killed in a shack down here.”

“How?”

“A trap-gun.”

“By whom?”

Toomey recrossed his long legs and sought a new position for his hands with the quick erratic movements of nervousness. He hesitated, then replied:

“They suspected her.”

“Why?”

“She was the only one to benefit.”

“There was no proof?”

“No.”

“What do you think?”

Toomey deliberated a moment:

“I believe her innocent, myself,” he finally replied.

“So she grew up out there in the hills without any friends or social life,” Prentiss commented, musingly.

“There was always a camptender and a sheepherder or two about,” Toomey answered with slurring significance.

Prentiss brushed the ashes from his cigar.

“And Prouty had no sympathy with her in her loneliness, but considered her a legitimate target—somebody that everybody 'took a fall out of,' you say?”

There was a quality in his voice now which made Toomey glance at the man quickly, but it was so elusive, so faint, that he could not be certain; and reassured by his impassive face he went on:

“Why shouldn’t they? What would anybody waste sympathy on her kind for?” His thin lips curled contemptuously.

Again Prentiss sat in the stillness in which not a muscle or an eyelid moved. He seemed even not to breathe until he turned with an impressive deliberateness and subjected Toomey to a scrutiny so searching and prolonged that Toomey colored in embarrassment, wondering the while as to what it meant.

“I presume, Mr. Toomey,” Prentiss finally inquired with a careful politeness he had not shown before, “that it would mean considerable to you in the way of commissions on the sale of stock if this project went through?”

Toomey’s relief that he had not inadvertently given offense was so great that he almost told the truth as to the exact amount. Just in time he restrained himself and replied with elaborate indifference:

“I’d get something out of it for my time and work, of course, but, mostly, I’m anxious to see a friend get hold of a good thing.”

This fine spirit of disinterested solicitude met with no response.

“I presume it’s equally true, Mr. Toomey, that the completion of the project means considerable to the town?”

“Considerable!” with explosive vehemence. “It’s got where it’s a case of life or death. The coyotes’ll be denning in the Security State Bank and the birds building nests in the Opera House in a year or two, if something don’t turn up.”

“How soon can you furnish me with the data you may have on hand?”

“About six minutes and four seconds, if I run,” Toomey replied in humorous earnestness.

Prentiss’s face did not relax.

“Get it and bring it to my room—at once.” His voice was cold and businesslike, strongly reminiscent now of Kate’s.