Kate Cathrew—Cattle Kate Cathrew—lived like an eagle, on the crest of the world looking down. She looked down along the steep slopes of Mystery Ridge, dark with the everlasting green of conifers, speckled with the lighter green of glade and brush patch, the weathered red of outcropping stone—far down to the silver thread of Nameless River flowing between its grass-clad banks, the fair spread of the valley with its priceless feeding land.

The buildings of Sky Line Ranch lay nestled at the foot of Rainbow Cliff, compact, solid, like a fortress, reached only by cattle trails, for there was no wagon road. There could have been none on these forbidding steeps. The buildings themselves were built of logs, but all that was within them had come into the lonesome country on pack-mules, even to the big steel range in the kitchen. The house itself was an amazing place, packed with all necessities, beautiful with luxuries, its contents worth a fortune. It had many rooms and a broad veranda circled it. Pine trees stood in ranks about it, and out of the sheer face of Rainbow Cliff at the back a six-inch stream of crystal water shot forth in a graceful arc from the height of a man’s shoulder, to fall into a natural basin in the solid rock by its own ceaseless action.

And stretching out like widespread wings on either side this majestic cliff ran crowning the ridge for seven miles, a splendid escarpment, straight up-and-down, averaging two hundred feet from its base in the slanting earth to the sharp line of its rimrock.

Rainbow Cliff, grim guardian of the Upper Country and the Deep Heart hills themselves, supposed to be impassable in all its length, dark in the early day but gleaming afar with all the colors of the spectrum when the sun dropped over toward the west at noon. It was this gorgeous radiance, caused by the many shades of the weathered stone, which had given the battlement its name. No man was ever known to have scaled the cliff—save and except John Allison, found dead at its foot two years back—for the giant spine was alike on both sides. Men from the Upper Country had penetrated the Deep Hearts to its northern base, but there they had stopped, to circle its distant ends, void of the secrets they had hoped to wrest from it.

And Kate Cathrew lived under it, a strange, half-sybaritic woman, running her cattle on the slopes of Mystery, riding after them like any man, standing in at round-up, branding, beef-gathering, her keen eyes missing nothing, her methods high-handed. Her riders obeyed her lightest word, though they were mostly of a type that few men would care to handle, hard-featured, close-lipped, sharp-eyed, hard riders and hard drinkers, as all the world of the Deep Hearts knew.

Once in a blue moon they went to Bement, the town that lay three days’ ride to the north beyond the hills, and what they did there was merely hinted at. They drank and played and took possession of its four saloons, and when they finally reared out of it to go back to their loneliness and work, the town came out of its temporary retirement, breathing again.

Yet Kate Cathrew handled these men and got good work out of them, and she belonged to none of them.

Not but what there were hot hearts in the outfit and hands that itched for her, lips that wet themselves hungrily when she passed close in her supreme indifference.

But Rio Charley carried a bullet-scar in his right shoulder, and Big Basford walked with a slight limp—yet they both stayed with her.

“Sort of secret-society stuff,” said Price Selwood once, “Kate is the Grand Vizier.”

There was no other white woman at Sky Line. She would have none. Minnie Pine, a stalwart young Pomo half-breed, and old Josefa, brown as parchment and non-committal, carried on the housework under her supervision, and no one else was needed.

At noon of the day after Kate’s visit to the store at Cordova, she sat in the big living-room at Sky Line looking over accounts. An observer having seen her on the previous occasion, would hardly have recognized her now. Gone were the broad hat, the pearl-buttoned shirt, the fringed riding skirt and the boots.

The black hair was piled high on her head, its smooth backward sweep crinkled by the tight curl that would not be brushed out. There was fragrance about her, and the dress she wore was of dark blue flowered silk, its clever draping setting off her form to its best advantage, which needed no advantage. Silk stockings smoothed themselves lovingly over her slender ankles, and soft kid slippers, all vanity of cut and make and sparkling buckle, clothed her feet in beauty.

She was either a fool or very brave, for she was the living spirit of seduction.

But the sombre eyes she turned up from her work to scan the rider who came to her, his hat in his hands, were all business, impersonal.

“Well?” she said impatiently.

The man was young, scarce more than a boy, of a devil-may-care type, and he looked at her fearlessly.

“Here’s something for you, Boss,” he said grinning, as he handed her a soiled bit of paper.

It was thin, yellowed with age, and it seemed to have been roughly handled.

The mistress of Sky Line spread it out before her on the top of the dark wood desk.

It was unsigned and the characters, while hurriedly scrawled, were made by bold strokes, as if a strong heart had, indeed, inspired them, a strong hand penned them.

With a full-mouthed oath Kate Cathrew crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and flung it in the waste-basket against the wall.

“How did you get that?” she demanded.

“On the point of the knife you sent th’ girl,” he answered soberly, “an’ right near the middle of my stomach.”

For a considerable space of time the woman sat regarding him. “I sent you to help in the breaking of morale,” she said coldly, “not to bring me back defiance. Next time I’ll send a more trustworthy man.”

She nodded dismissal, and the youth went quickly, his face burning.

At the far end of the veranda he almost ran into Big Basford, whose huge, gorilla-like shape was made more sinister and repellant by the perceptible limp. Basford was always somewhere near, if possible, when men talked with Kate Cathrew.

His great strength and stature, his small eyes, black and rimmed with red, his unkempt head and flaring black beard, everything about him suggested a savagery and power with which few men cared to trifle.

He scanned the boy’s flushed face with swift appraising.

“I take it,” he said grinning, “that the boss wasn’t pleased with you?”

“Take it or leave it,” said the other with foolhardy daring, “is it any of your business?”

With a smothered roar Big Basford leaped for him, surprisingly nimble on his lamed foot, surprisingly light.

He caught him by the throat and bore him backward across the veranda’s edge, so that both bodies fell heavily on the boards of the floor.

“You’ll find what’s my business, damn you,” gritted Big Basford; “you——!”

He got to his knees and straddling the lad’s body came down on his throat with all his weight in his terrible grip. At the sound of the fall Minnie Pine leaped to a window.

“That black devil is killing the Blue Eyes,” she said in patois Spanish to Josefa. “Give me that knife——”

But there was no need of Minnie’s interference.

Kate Cathrew had heard that heavy thunder of falling bodies on boards and she was quicker than her half-breed, for she was up and away from the desk before Big Basford had risen on his knees, and as she rose her left hand swept down the wall, taking from its two pegs the heavy quirt that always hung there.

With the first jab of the boy’s head back on the floor, she was running down the veranda, her arm raised high. With the second she was between Big Basford and the light like a threat of doom.

As he surged forward once more above the blackening face in his throttling fingers, she flung her body back in a stiff arc to get more impetus—and drove the braided lash forward and down like a fury.

It circled Big Basford’s head from the back, the bitter end snapping across his face with indescribable force.

It curled him away from his victim, tumbling back on his heels with his murderous hands covering his cheeks.

For a moment he hung on the veranda’s edge, balanced, then slipped off, lurching on his lame foot. He held his hands over his face for a tense moment. Then he looked up through his fingers, where the blood was beginning to ooze, straight at the woman.

The red-rimmed eyes were savage with rage and hurt, but behind both was a flaming passion which seemed to swell and burgeon with a perverted admiration.

“I’ve told you before, Basford,” said Kate Cathrew, “that I will deal with my men myself. I don’t need your overly zealous aid. Get out of my sight—and stay out till you can heed what I say. Minnie, take this fool away—pump some wind into him. Give him some whiskey.”

She touched the boy contemptuously with the toe of her buckled slipper. He was weakly trying to get up and the Pomo girl unceremoniously finished the effort, lifting him almost bodily in her arms and supporting him through the door into the kitchen. The look she turned over her shoulder at Big Basford was venomous.

The owner of Sky Line walked down the veranda to her living-room door. At its lintel she stopped and stood, drawing the heavy quirt through her fingers, looking back at Big Basford. He had watched her progress and now the hard, bright, sparkling gaze of her dark eyes seemed to force him to movement, so that he picked up his hat, set it on his head and turned away toward the corrals at Rainbow’s foot, swinging with a rolling gait that further made one think of jungle folk.

But the lips in the flaring beard were twitching.

Kate Cathrew went in and hung the quirt on its smooth pegs, then sat down and took up her interrupted work just where she had left it.

“Three hundred head,” she said, “prime on hoof—at thirteen-fifty——” and her pen began to travel evenly across the page before her.