Frances came into the room as fresh as a morning-glory. Her cheeks were like peonies, and the fire of her youth and strength danced in her happy eyes. Macdonald rose to greet her, tall, gaunt, and pale from the drain that his wound had made upon his life. He had been smoking before the fireplace, and he reached up now to put his pipe away on the manteltree.

“And how are things at the post?” he asked, as she stood before him in her saddle dress, her sombrero pressing down her hair, her quirt swinging by its thong from her gloved wrist.

Before replying she intercepted the hand that was reaching to stow the pipe away, pressed it firmly back, inserted the stem between his close lips.

“In this family, the man smokes,” she said.

His slow smile, which was reward enough to her for all the trouble that it took to wake it, twinkled in his eyes like someone coming to the window with a light.

“Then the piece of a man will go ahead and smoke,” said he, drawing a chair up beside his own and leading her to it with gentle pressure upon her hand.

“Has Mrs. Chadron been overfeeding you while I was gone? Did she give you chili?”

“She offered me chili, in five different dishes, which I, remembering the injunction, regretfully put aside.”

“Well, they’re coming with the ambulance, I rode on ahead, and you’ll soon be beyond the peril of chili.” She smiled as she looked up into his face, and the smile broadened into an outright laugh when she saw the little flitting cloud of vexation there.

“I could well enough ride,” said he.

“The doctor says you could not.”

“I’m as fit for the saddle this minute as I ever was in my life,” he declared.

She made no reply to that in words. But there was tender pity in her caressing eyes as they measured the weakness of his thin arms, wasted down to tendon and bone now, it seemed. He would ride to the post, she knew very well, if permitted, and come through it without a murmur. But the risk would be foolish, no matter what his pride must suffer by going in a wagon.

“Have you heard the news from Meander?” she inquired.

“No, news comes slowly to Alamito Ranch, and will come slower now that Banjo is gone, Mrs. Chadron says. What’s been happening at Meander?”

“They held their conventions there last week to nominate county officers, and what do you think? They’ve nominated you for something, for—for what do you suppose?”

“Nominated me? Who’s nominated me?”

“Oh, one party or the other began it, and the other indorsed you, for—oh, it’s—”

“For what, Frances?” he asked, laughter in his eyes at her unaccountable way of holding back on the secret.

“Why, for sheriff!” said she, with magnificent scorn.

Macdonald leaned back in his chair and laughed, the first audible sound of merriment that she ever had heard come from those stern lips. She looked at him with reproach.

“It should have been governor, the very least they could have done, decently!” She was full of feeling on the subject of what she believed to be his undervaluation.

Macdonald took her hand, the laughter dying out of his sober face.

“That’s all in the different ways of looking at a man, palomita,” he said to her.

“But you look bigger than sheriff to anybody!” she replied, indignation large in her heart.

“In this country, Frances, a sheriff is a pretty sizable man,” he said, his thoughtful eyes on the fire, “about the biggest man they can conceive, next only to the president himself. Up here in the cattle country the greatness of men is dimmed, their magnitude being measured by appreciable results. The offices of lawmaker, governor, and such as the outside world invest with their peculiar dignity, are 325 incidental, indefinite—all but negative, here. It’s different with a sheriff. He’s the man who comes riding with his guns at his side; they can see him perform. All the law that they know centers in him; all branches of government, as they understand his powers. Yes, a sheriff is something of a figure in this county, Frances, and to be nominated for that office by one party and indorsed by another is just about the biggest compliment a man can receive.”

“But surely, Alan, you’ll not accept it?”

“Why, I think so,” he returned, thoughtfully. “I think I’d be worth more to this county as sheriff than I would be as—as governor, let us say.”

“Yes, but they go shooting sheriffs,” she protested.

“They’ll not be doing so much careless and easy shooting around here since Colonel—Brigadier-General Landcraft—and that sounds more like his size, too—gave them a rubdown with the iron hand. The cattle barons’ day is over; their sun went down when Mark Thorn brought the holy scare to Saul Chadron’s door.”

“Father is of the same opinion. Do you know, Alan, the whole story about that horrible old man Thorn is in the eastern papers?”

“Is it possible?”

“With a Cheyenne date-line,” she nodded, “the whole story—who hired him to skulk and kill, and a list of his known crimes. Father says if there was anything lacking in the fight you made on the cattlemen, 326 this would finish them. It’s a terrible story—poor Nola read it, and learned for the first time her father’s connection with Thorn. She’s humiliated and heartbroken over it all.”

“With sufficient reason,” he nodded.

“She’s afraid her mother will hear of it in some way.”

“She’ll find it out in time, Frances; a thing like that walks on a man’s grave.”

“It will not matter so much after a while, after her first grief settles.”

“Did Nola come back with you?”

“No, she went on to take some things to poor old Mrs. Lassiter. She never has recovered from the loss of her son—it’s killing her by inches, Tom says. And you considering that office of sheriff!” She turned to him with censorious eyes as she spoke, as if struck with a pain of which he was the cause. “I tell you, you men don’t know, you don’t know! It’s the women that suffer in all this shooting and killing—we are the ones that have to bear the sorrows in the night and watch through the uncertain days!”

“Yes,” said he gently, “the poor women must bear most of this world’s pain. That is why God made them strong above all his created things.”

They sat in silence, thinking it over between them. Outside there was sunshine over the brown rangeland; within there dwelt the lifting confidence that their feet had passed the days of trouble and were entering the bounds of an enlarging peace.

“And Major King?” said he.

“Father has relented, as I knew he would, out of regard for their friendship of the past, and will not bring charges based on Major King’s plottings with Chadron.”

“It’s better that way,” he nodded. “Do you suppose there’s nothing between him and Nola?”

“I think she’ll have him after her grief passes, Alan.”

“Better than he deserves,” said he. “There’s a lump of gold in that little lady’s heart, Frances.”

“There is, Alan; I’m glad to hear you say that.” There was moisture in her tender eyes.

“There was something in that man, too,” he reflected. “It’s unfortunate that he allowed his desire to humiliate you and me to drive him into such folly. If he’d only have held those brigands here for the civil authorities, as I requested, we could have forgotten the rest.”

“Yes, father says that would have saved him in his eyes, in spite of his scheming with Chadron against your life, and against father’s honor and all that he holds sacred. But it’s done, and he’s genuinely despised in the service for it. And there’s the ambulance coming over the hill.”

“Ambulance for me!” said he, in disgust of his slow mending.

“Be glad that it isn’t—oh, I shouldn’t say that!”

“I am,” said he, nodding his slow, grave head.

“We’ll have to say good-bye to Mrs. Chadron,” 328 said she, bustling around, or making a show of doing so to hide the tears which had sprung into her eyes at the thought that it might have been a different sort of conveyance coming to Alamito to take Alan Macdonald away.

“And to Alamito,” said he, looking out into the frost-stricken garden with a tenderness in his eyes. “I shall always have a softness in my heart for Alamito, because it gave me you. That garden out there yielded me the dearest flower that any garden ever gave a man”—he took her hands, and folded them above his heart—“a flower with a soul in it to keep it alive forever.”

She bowed her head as he spoke, as if receiving a benediction.

“I hate saying good-bye to Mrs. Chadron,” she said, her voice trembling, “for she’ll cry, and I’m afraid I’ll cry, too.”

“It will not be farewell, only hasta luego[A] we can assure her of that. We’ll be neighbors to her, for this is home, dear heart, this is our val paraiso.”

“Our valley of paradise,” she nodded, her hands reaching up to his shoulders and clinging there a moment in soft caress, “our home!”

His arm about her shoulders, he faced her to the window, and pointed to the hills, asleep now in their brown winter coat behind a clear film of smoky blue.

“I stood up there one evening, weighted down with 329 guns and ammunition, hunting and hunted in the most desperate game I ever played,” he said. “The sun was low over this valley, and Alamito was a gleam of white among the autumn gold. I was tired, hungry, dusty, thirsty and sore, and my heart was all but dead in its case. That was after you had sent me away from the post, scorned and half despised.”

“Don’t rebuke me for that night now, Alan,” she pleaded, turning her pained eyes to his. “I have suffered for my injustice.”

“It wasn’t injustice, it was discipline, and it was good for both of us. We must come to confidence through misunderstandings and false charges very frequently in this life. Never mind that; I was telling you about that evening on the side of the hill. I had been sitting with my back to a rock, watching the brush for Mark Thorn, but I was thinking more of you than of him. For he meant only death, and you were life. But I thought that I had lost you that day.”

She drew nearer to him as they stood, in the unequivocal consolation of her presence, in the most comforting refutation of that sad hour’s dark forebodings.

“I thought that, until I stood up and started down the slope to go my lone-handed way. The sun struck me in the face then, and it was yellow over the valley, and the wind was glad. I knew then, when I looked out over it, that it held something for me, that it 330 was my country, and my home. The lines of gray old Joaquin Miller came to me, and lifted my heart in a new vision. I said them over to myself:

only, there were two lines which I did not repeat, I dared not repeat, even in my heart. My vision halted short of their fulfillment.”

“What are the words—do you remember them?” she asked.

“Yes; I can repeat them now, for my vision is broader, it is a better dream:

He pressed her closer, and kissed her hair. They stood, unmindful of the waiting ambulance, their vision fusing in the blue distances of the land their hearts held dear. It was home.

“Come on, Alan”—she started from her reverie and drew him by the hand—“there’s Mrs. Chadron on the porch, waiting for hasta luego.”

“For hasta luego,” said he.