Something had happened to Nance Allison. For the first time in her healthy young life sleep refused to visit her. Even her terrible grief at the death of her father had given way to sleep at last and she had forgotten her tragedy for a blessed time.

But on the night following her interview with the strange man of the caÑon she was wide awake till dawn.

She was not uncomfortable. She did not think she was ill. But an odd inner warmth surged all through her, a pleasant fire ran in her veins. She lay in her bed with her hands beneath her head and thought over and over each phase of the day she had spent with Sonny, each incident that had led up to the appearance of Brand Fair. Then, with a peculiar delight, she went over his every word, every movement. She remembered the look of his brown hand on the black horse’s bit, the tilt of his hat, the way the chin-strap lay along his lean, dark cheek. She recalled the direct glance of his eyes, the slow smile that creased his lips’ corners.

He was like no other man she had ever seen.

There was a sweetness in the tones of his deep voice, a sense of restfulness and strength about him. He seemed to fit in with her dreams of the best things to be had in life—like lace curtains and the rag carpet which was slowly growing in her Mammy’s hands.

His name, too—Brand Fair. She liked the sound of it.

And it was Sonny’s name. Suddenly she sat bolt upright, staring at the darkness. Fair—Sonny Fair! Could it be that Brand was Sonny’s father? For some inexplicable reason a cold hand seemed to clutch her heart, a feeling of disaster to encompass her.

“Now why” she asked herself slowly, “should that make any difference? Wouldn’t he be just as nice—just as pleasant to talk to?”

She sat a long time holding her two braids in her hands, twirling the ends around her fingers, thinking.

Why was she so pleased with this stranger, she wondered?

She had seen many men in her life—there were the cowboys from the Upper Country whom she saw at Cordova, nearly every time she went there, there was McKane, and Sheriff Price Selwood.

She liked the sheriff. He was a kindly man under his stern exterior, she knew. His eyes were direct, like Fair’s somewhat, and he had the same seeming of quiet strength. He had been at the cabin quite a few times after her father’s death, asking all sorts of questions about his manner of life, his experience in the hills, and so forth. Yes—Fair was a little like the sheriff, only more so—oh, very much more so—quiet, steady, one whose word you would take without question.

He was different, that was all—different.

He had not always lived in the hills, that was certain. She lay down once more and tried to sleep, but her eyes would not obey her will. They came open each time she closed them to see this man standing at the jut of stone, his hand on the black’s bit—at the pool by the cave below where he bade her good-bye—still there when she looked back from far down the caÑon.

She heard Old John, the big plymouth-rock rooster, crow for midnight from his perch in the rafters of the stable—and again at false dawn a little while before daylight.

“Well, I’d like to know what ails me,” she thought to herself as she got up with the first grey shafts above Mystery Ridge, “I never stayed awake all night in my life before.”

It was indicative of the great good health and strength there was in her that she felt no ill effects from the unusual experience. She brushed her hair and pinned it neatly around her head in a shining coronet, put on a clean denim dress from the clothes-press in the corner, laced up the heavy shoes she had to wear about her man’s work, and went softly out to light the kitchen fire, to draw a fresh pail of water and to stand lost in rapt adoration of the pageant of coming day. She washed her face and hands in the basin and came blooming from the cold water, content with her lot, happy to be alive—and to know that Brand and Sonny Fair were in Blue Stone CaÑon, and that they called themselves her friends.

She had never had a special friend before—not since those far-back little-girl days in Missouri.

“Mammy,” she said at breakfast, “I never slept a wink last night. I kept thinking about Sonny and Brand all the time—wondering why they’re hiding, and what relation they are, and why they live so hard and poor like. It seems dreadful, don’t it?”

“Seems funny, if you ask me,” said Bud shortly, “maybe this Brand feller knows something of all this rustling that’s been going on up and down Nameless.”

Nance laid down her knife and fork and looked at him.

“Of all things, Bud!” she said, “it’s not like you to cast the first stone. And you’ve never seen this man’s face, or you wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, I’m not so sure of it,” returned the boy, “I hate to see you take up so with a stranger.”

“I trust your feelin’ for him, Nance,” said Mrs. Allison, “somehow there’s somethin’ in a woman’s heart when she looks into a man’s eyes, most times, which sets th’ stamp on him for good or bad. Seems like it’s seventh sense which th’ Almighty gives us woman-kind for a safeguard. I trust it.”

“I guess I do, too, Mammy,” said Nance, “leastways I felt to trust Brand Fair the first minute I laid eyes on him. He’s different.”

Mrs. Allison said no more, but she was thinking back over the long years to that camp-meeting time when she had meant to “frail” the stranger, young John Allison, and how his smiling eyes had coaxed her angry heart to peace—a peace which stayed with her always, through hardship and poverty, through many Western moves, and which softened now the sorrow of his absence. John Allison had seemed to her “different” also.

For some subconscious reason Nance stayed away from the caÑon for several days. She busied herself with odd jobs about the place. She mended the wire fence around the big flat where the wild hay was waving thick, its green floor flowing with sheets of silver where the light winds swept, and gave the harness a thorough oiling.

As she sat in the barn door running the straps back and forth through her hands she cast smiling eyes out at her field of corn.

“It’s going to be a big crop, Bud,” she said, “there’ll be three ears on every stalk and they’re mighty strong. We’ll pull the suckers next week and cultivate it again in ten days more—and you just watch it grow and wave its green banners.”

“It’s already waving them,” said Bud working beside her, “it sure looks fine.”

There was the pride of possession in the two young faces, the quiet joy of satisfaction in simple work well done and its reward.

“I hope,” said the girl dreamily, “I hope, Bud, that there’ll be enough left over after we pay McKane to get the carpet woven. Mammy’s got nearly enough balls already, and we can take it in to Bement in the early fall and go back after it about two weeks later.”

Bud’s eyes sparkled.

“Gee! But that would be good,” he said wistfully, “a regular holiday. I’d like to see a town again.”

“One trip I’d go with you and the next we’d make Mammy go. It’d set her up, give her something to think about all winter,” planned Nance, “she don’t get out like we do.”

So they looked ahead to the meagre joys of their poor life and were happy.

Two days later Nance again rode Buckskin to the caÑon, and this time she went in the afternoon.

The eager gladness of the child, the vociferous welcome of the Collie, gave her a feeling of guilt that she had stayed away so long, and she made glowing holiday with her cookies, her songs and her laughter, so that the hours flew on magic wings—and Brand came home before they were even beginning to look for him.

He came upon them silently, as he had done before, and Nance sprang up in confusion.

“How do you always get here so quietly?” she asked, “I never heard a sound.”

“Look at Diamond,” he replied smilingly, “we always follow the water. A stream leaves no tell-tale tracks. Even Sonny can swim like a fish.”

Nance sobered quickly.

A disturbing thought of Bud’s remark about rustlers came into her mind—and she thought of those ninety steers of Bossick’s driven into Nameless and whisked out of the country. Of course ninety head of cattle couldn’t go down the big river indefinitely—but she didn’t like the suggestion.

“No,” she said, “it don’t. That’s what the rustlers seem to think.”

She looked him square in the eyes, and was satisfied.

There was no consciousness in those smiling depths, not the faintest flicker of a shadow. Whatever mystery might attach to him, this man felt nothing personal in her speech.

And so she sat down again with Sonny in her lap and Brand sat down opposite, and they fell to talking there in the whispering silence, while the late sun gilded the high blade of the rimrock and the cool shadows deepened in the gorge. It was strange fairy-land to Nance, and all the inner country of her spirit shone and sparkled under a fire of stars. She had never felt so before—never known the half-tremulous excitement which filled her now.

When this man spoke she listened avidly, her blue eyes on his face. He seemed the visible embodiment of all she had missed in life, the cities, the open seas, the distant lands and the pleasures. As he sat before her in his worn garments which might have denoted a poverty as great as hers, he seemed rich beyond compare, a potentate of the world. He smoked small brown cigarettes which he made from a little old leather pouch and rolled with the dexterity of long usage, and he buried each stub carefully in the sand.

He was a marvellous person, indeed, and Nance regarded him in a sort of awe.

“I’ve been in to Cordova a time or two,” he said casually, “and have met the sheriff and several others. To them I’m a prospector. There seems to be a lot of unrest in the country.”

“It’s the rustlers,” said Nance, “a lot of cattle have disappeared, and some folks blame the sheriff. I don’t. I think he does all he can. It’s a great mystery. We lost some ourselves. I’ve ridden myself down looking for them, and so has my brother, Bud, and we’ve never found a hoof-mark.”

“Strange. Isn’t there any one you might suspect in these hills?”

“I’ve heard that Sheriff Selwood is watching Kate Cathrew, but the others laugh at him.”

Fair’s eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch.

“Cathrew?” he said. “Who’s she?”

“The woman who owns Sky Line Ranch,” returned Nance grimly, “and my enemy.”

“What? Your enemy? How’s that?”

“Simple as two and two. She’s a cattle queen—they call her Cattle Kate Cathrew—and she runs her stock on the slopes of Mystery. She’s rich—lives in a wonderful house up under the edge of Rainbow Cliff, and rides a beautiful horse. Her saddle alone is worth my team and harness—my new harness that I had to buy to take the place of the one that somebody cut to pieces in the night. She wants our land—our great fine flats on Nameless that’d feed her cattle through. She’s always wanted it. She tried to scare my father off, and since he was found dead at the foot of Rainbow she’s tried to scare us off—Bud and Mammy and I. But we don’t scare,” she finished bitterly, “not worth a cent.”

Brand Fair leaned forward, and this time his eyes had lost their pleasant smile, and had narrowed to slits. The fingers that held his cigarette were tense.

“Tell me,” he said, “what does this woman look like? I’ve heard of her a little, but I’ve never been able—I’ve never seen her.”

“She’s handsome,” said Nance frankly, “not large, but pretty-made as you find them. She has black hair and black eyes and a mouth as red as a flower, and she is always frowning. She’s a good shot—so good that I’m not much scared when she sends a ball whining over my head as I plow my field.”

“Good God!” shot out Fair, “does she do that?”

Nance nodded.

“She’s done so twice. She’s my enemy, I tell you. And so are all her riders. Strange things have happened to us—bitter things. There was the rope in the trail that threw Bud down the gulch—he’s never walked straight since. There was the fire that took my last year’s hay—and there was the harness. It seems I can’t forgive that harness—it set us back in debt to McKane at the store. Bud—Bud—he’s out of it. There could be no thought of forgiveness in that. If I was a man—just an ordinary man——”

The girl leaned forward with a doubled fist striking the caÑon’s floor.

“If I was a man and knew who stretched that rope—I’m deadly afraid I’d kill him.”

Fair nodded in understanding.

“I fear that in me,” Nance went on earnestly, “that thing which seems to flare and make me hot all over when I think of Bud. I pray against it every night of my life. Mammy says it’s feud in my heart—and I say so, too.”

For a long time the man studied her face.

“Yes,” he said presently, “there’s something in you that would fight—but it would take something terrible to break it loose from leash—some cataclysmic emergency.”

“Danger,” she said quickly, “that’s what’d loose it, danger to some one I love, like Bud or Mammy. I know it, and am afraid.”

“Why afraid?” asked Fair quietly, “if you had to do it, why fear the necessary issue?”

“Because,” she answered solemnly, “the Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

A certain embarrassment seemed to overtake the man for a moment and he dropped his eyes to his cigarette, turning it over and over in his fingers.

“That’s as you look at it, I suppose,” he said, “to every person his limits and inhibitions.”

“But let’s not talk of feuds and killings,” said Nance, laughing brightly as she hugged the child and rubbed his tousled head. “What do you think of our country—Nameless River and the Deep Heart hills?”

“Beautiful. Sonny and I have traveled over many a thousand miles in the last two years, and we have yet to see a place more lovely—or lonely.”

“And can you hear the voices in the caÑon? You have to be still a long time—and then, after a while, they get louder and louder, as if a great concourse of people were talking all at once.”

“You have a strange and weird conception, Miss Allison,” said Fair, “but I know what you mean. We hear them at night, Sonny and I.”

“And that’s what I want to speak about, Mr. Fair,” said Nance hesitatingly, “I’ve thought at nights about Sonny—alone—hearing the voices. Have you thought what it might mean to a child?”

The man smoked awhile in silence.

“Yes,” he said at last, “I have. But it seems unavoidable. I have no place else to leave him.”

“Leave him with me!” she cried, stretching out a hand imploringly, “Oh, leave him with me—please! I’d take such good care of him.”

But Brand Fair shook his head.

“It does not seem advisable, much as I appreciate your offer. I cannot tell you how much I do appreciate it—but—I don’t want any one to know that I have Sonny—that he is in the country at all.”

Nance gazed at him wonderingly.

“I don’t understand it,” she said slowly, “but you know best. Perhaps it is best that I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps,” said Fair; “but I hope you’ll come to see us often—maybe some day you’ll take a ride with us up to the head of Blue Stone. I do quite a bit of exploring around and about. Will you come?”

Nance’s face flushed with frank pleasure. “Why, I’d love it,” she said. “We’ll cut up through Little Blue and I’ll show you Grey Spring and the Circle. Bud and I named them. We found them three years ago.”

“Then we’ll consider ourselves engaged, eh, Sonny?” smiled Fair. “Engaged to Miss Allison for a long day’s ride?”

“And will you bring some more cookies?” asked the boy lifting eager eyes to his adored.

“Honey,” said Nance, kneeling to kiss him good-bye, since she was making ready to leave, “Nance’d bring you anything she’s got or could get. She’ll bring us all a whole big lunch.”

“Old-timer,” said Fair severely, “I’m ashamed of you. We’ll furnish some fish ourselves.”

He held out a hand and the girl laid her own in it.

For a little space they stood so, smiling into each other’s eyes and neither knew that magic was working among the gathering shadows. They seemed to be old friends, as if they had known each other ages back, and the grip of their hands was a kindly thing, familiar.

Then a sudden confusion took the girl and she drew her fingers quickly away.

“I’ll come,” she said, “next week—on Tuesday morning—early.”

“Good,” said Fair, “we’ll be all ready.”