When Nance Allison mounted Buckskin at Kate Cathrew’s door a terrible weight hung at her heart, yet a current of strength seemed flowing in her veins.

“‘The Lord is the strength of my life,’” she thought valiantly, “‘of whom shall I be afraid?’”

The courage of the familiar words had been with her through many bitter trials—it did not fail her now.

But she was not conscious that she no longer called upon her Maker for help to bear, to be patient under persecution, or that she ran a hand along the muscle of her right arm testing its quality.

Rather there was intensified in her that slow itch of wrath which had swept away humility.

So she rode in silence with Provine’s lascivious eyes upon her from behind, and Big Basford glowering in self-centered inattention ahead.

The way led close along the foot of Rainbow Cliff among the weathered debris which sifted always down the rock face, and presently she was amazed to see the wall itself seem to slice in between Basford and herself, and in another second she was riding into a very narrow defile in the living stone with Provine close upon her horse’s heels. There was just room for horse and rider in the echoing aisle and none to spare. It was dimly lighted by what seemed a crack in the earth’s surface high up among the clouds. The girl looked up in wonder.

This, she knew, was the secret of Rainbow Cliff and Mystery Ridge. Despite her danger she noted the passage with keen interest. The way was short for in a few minutes the rock-walled cut turned sharply to the right and ended abruptly.

Before her startled vision lay spread out a little paradise, round as a cup, green with tender grass, dotted with oak and poplar trees beside its countless springs—and grazing contentedly on its peculiarly rank forage was a band of cattle, each one of which bore on its left the “B. K.” of Bossick’s brand!

But stranger than all this was the straight high wall of tinted stone which completely encircled the spot, with no opening other than the one through which she and her guard had entered.

This, then, was Rainbow’s Pot of which Arnold had spoken.

In utter astonishment she drew Buckskin up and looked at the “secret spot” of Sky Line Ranch.

It was fair to the eye, the ear and the nostril, for the sunlight fell warm upon its farther side, the songs of a myriad birds made music in the trees and the still air was drenched with the scent of some nameless flower.

It was not until she had taken it all in with a slowly comprehensive glance that she became conscious of something strange in its formation, namely—the tendency of the green-clad floor to slope from all sides smoothly down to the center where there seemed to be a cave with an overhanging edge.

This slanting hole was dark in the midst of the green with the late light upon it, like the sinister entrance to some underground cavern.

“Well,” said Provine amusedly, “how do you like it?”

The girl did not reply, but sat still with her hands crossed on her saddle horn.

The snaky eyes under the black brows lost their drowsy pleasantry.

“I wouldn’t advise you, purty,” he said, “to come the high-and-mighty with me. A little kindness, now, would go a long way towards an understandin’. Get off that horse.”

Without a word Nance obeyed.

A little cold touch was at her inmost heart, but that tight, tense feeling of strength was still with her. She measured Provine’s shoulders with her eyes as he unsaddled the animals and turned them out to graze. She looked at his long arms, his lean and sinewy back.

“I’ve handled my plow all spring,” she said to herself sagely, “I pitched hay all day and was not too tired at night. I can lift a grain sack easy. I’ll sell out hard if I have to—for Mammy and Brand and Bud and Sonny.”

And when Provine turned and come toward her, smiling, he was met by blue eyes that were hard as shining stone, a mouth like a line of battle and hands clutched hard on folded arms.

“Oh, ho,” he said, “we’re goin’ to butt our head agin a wall, ain’t we? Cut it, kid, an’ kiss me—you might as well now as later. An’ besides, I don’t like a mouth all mashed up from discipline.”

“The hand of God,” said the big girl stiffly, “is before my face. His host is round about me. I’d advise you to let me alone.”

The man threw back his head and laughed.

“I don’t see no host,” he said, “an’ I ain’t superstitious,” and with a leap he swung one long arm around her neck.

“Help me, Lord!” said Nance aloud, and bowing her young body she pulled her forehead down his breast and slipped free.

Next moment she had struck him in the mouth with all her might and followed through like any man.

Provine roared and swore and came for her again, head down and small eyes blazing.

“Now,” he said, “I’ll have to hand you discipline, you damned hell-cat!”

So the night that was so full of portent dropped down upon the country of the Deep Heart hills and Destiny rode the winds.

Sky Line Ranch was stirring early, even before the first grey light had touched the east.

There was much afoot. Bossick’s steers were going down the Pipe that day—and perhaps Sud Provine and Nance Allison would go with them, bound for the Big Bend country in Texas whence the man had hailed.

“I think she’ll sign this morning,” said Arnold easily as he sat down to Josefa’s steaming breakfast by lamplight, “and keep her mouth shut, too.”

In the shielding clump of pines Bossick waited for Fair’s signal somewhere inside the cliff.

Not so far down the great slope of Mystery Rod Stone was climbing up with the Cordova men behind him and Minnie Pine like his shadow at his side.

And deep in the heart of the earth Brand Fair was slowly forging upward toward that coup of justice for which he had labored so long and patiently.

There was excitement in him and exultation and a certain grim joy, for he knew the man he wanted was at Sky Line Ranch and that he was about to lay upon him and Kate Cathrew the stern hand of the law.

Not least of the actors in the coming play, set to function on the stage of Rainbow’s Pot, was Bud Allison urging his exhausted horse slowly up toward Sky Line.

False dawn had come and passed. The short darkness following was shot now with pale light above the distant rim.

There was a cold breeze blowing when Arnold and Kate Cathrew rode along the rock face to the Flange. They spoke in low tones to Big Basford standing like an image and slipped into the wall. They rode in silence down the defile, dark as Erebus and full of wind, and came out into the amphitheatre where the pale light was breaking.

The trees stood like tall gnomes, humped and darkly draped.

Here and there on the sloping floor the cattle lay in quiet groups, while a little way apart Buckskin and Silvertip browsed industriously.

At first they saw no sign of anything human in all the shadowy place. Arnold’s keen eyes swept the Pot from side to side, while Cattle Kate’s went slowly round the wall.

“That’s funny,” said the man, “Provine——”

“Look,” said Kate, “over toward the left—against the cliff.”

The light in the east struck first at the western face of the precipice, so that an object standing back against the perpendicular surface got its full benefit.

Arnold bent forward in his saddle and looked long at this object.

It was very still, a point of prominence in the shadows, and its very immobility gave it a certain grimness.

Then he touched his horse and rode forward.

“Good Lord!” he said as he pulled rein a distance from it, “Good Lord!”

For the object was Nance Allison—or what had been Nance Allison some few hours back.

Now it was a tragic wreck of a woman whose garments hung in fantastic shreds upon her body, whose white skin shone through in many places and whose great eyes gleamed from her ghastly face with awful light. One long gold braid of hair hung from her head in a dangling loop. The other was loose to its roots and swept in a ragged flag to her hip. Long wisps of it shone here and there upon the trampled grass around.

And over her from head to foot was blood—blood in clots and streaks and splotches, while from a small gash on her temple a red stream slowly dripped.

The man was awed for once in his relentless life.

“Heaven!” he said, “what have you done? Where’s Provine?”

“Dead, I hope,” said Nance Allison dully.

Arnold struck his horse and dashed away, riding here and there as if he must know the ghastly finish quickly.

For a while it seemed that the man was gone entirely.

Then suddenly his horse shied from something moving in the deep grass by a spring and Arnold dismounted.

He had found Provine—Sud Provine rolling in agony, his face in the mud. With no gentle hand he grasped his shoulder and pulled him up.

“What’s all this?” he rasped. “What’s the matter with you?”

For answer Provine took his hands from the left side of his face and looked up at his master.

Arnold dropped him back with an oath, which Provine echoed.

“Gone!” he cried hoarsely, “gouged—slick an’ clean! An’ she tried to get ’em both—damn her hussy’s soul!”

Arnold rode slowly back to where that grotesque caricature of a woman still stood by the wall. She seemed immovable as the rock itself, part and parcel of the waiting world and the grey shadows.

“You young hellion!” he gritted through his teeth, “you have blinded my best man!”

“Have so,” said Nance, still in that dull voice, “yes—I have so.” She nodded her dishevelled head.

“Oh, what’s the use to fool with her!” cried Kate Cathrew furiously, “I’m done!”

With a flare of her unbridled temper she snatched her gun from its saddle-loops and flung it up.

As her finger curled on the trigger Arnold plunged his horse against Bluefire.

“No!” he cried as the report rang out clear and sharp in the thin air of dawn. The bullet struck with a vicious “phwit” ten feet above its mark, and a little rain of rock dust fell on Nance’s hair.

From all the sides of Rainbow’s Pot that shot came back in echoes, a roaring fusillade—and Bossick, waiting in his clump of pines, straightened in his saddle. He picked up his hanging rein and spoke in a low Voice.

“Ready, men?” he asked, “then let’s go.”

Cattle Kate had fired her own signal of fate and her enemies heard it.

Brand Fair heard it in the strange dark passage far down in the heart of Mystery Ridge. Rod Stone, climbing the stiff slopes, heard it, and so did the boy on the staggering horse a little farther over toward Sky Line. He altered his course a bit toward the west.

“What do you mean?” said Arnold sharply, “would you kill her before she signs the paper? Or after—and have the finger of the law point at the new owner of the flats? Use your wits.”

“I have,” said Kate sullenly, “and have gotten nowhere. And she has defied me.”

“She has defied us all,” replied Arnold with reluctant admiration, “she has been charmed, it seems.”

“Kill her—and the old woman will take the boy and go,” said Kate, “she’s the stubborn element. I warn you now—she must never go out of this place alive. She knows us now.”

“Unless she goes down the Pipe with this morning’s drive—the boys should soon be here to start.”

“She will come back.”

“Not if I send Basford to take her over the Line.”

“Enough!” said Kate, “I’m uneasy about the whole thing—the brushed-out tracks at the mouth of the Pipe——”

“A trifle. And the boys will soon be here. Hark—they’re coming now.”

There was a sound in the rock face, a shout and the rumble of horses’ feet hurrping.

The man and the woman looked that way—to behold Big Basford come boiling from the narrow opening with a string of men behind him. The grey light had given place to the rose of sunrise, and the riders who came so swiftly out of the wall were plainly visible.

“Hell’s fire!” whispered Cattle Kate Cathrew.

Like a Nemesis, Bossick and the ranchers behind him pushed Big Basford down the sloping floor of Rainbow’s Pot.

“A plant!” screamed the latter, “we’re caught! We’re caught!”

A hundred feet away Bossick stopped.

His angry eyes flashed over Arnold and the woman beside him, then scanned the green basin where the peaceful cattle lay.

“It would seem, Miss Cathrew,” he said, “that you are—caught. Caught with the goods at last. Yonder are my missing steers if I can read my own brand. It looks like the B Bar K to me.”

Kate Cathrew wet her lips and her hand moved restlessly on the rifle’s butt. She did not speak, but her black eyes burned like coals in her chalk-white face.

Bossick threw back his coat. A star shone faintly in the light.

“You can thank Sheriff Selwood’s tireless work for this,” he said, “and so can we. The whole country’s deputized. Your work is known. You may as well give up without a fuss for we——”

He stopped, for an odd sound had become apparent—a deep, echoing sound, as of many waters beating on a hollow shore.

It seemed to come from the center of the amphitheatre where the cave mouth yawned.

For a second the whole group was silent.

Then Kate Cathrew flung round to stare with wide orbs at the mouth of the Pipe. Her world was falling about her and she was appalled.

The roar of waters became the rumble of hoofs and up from the bowels of the earth came Brand Fair and his men.

He blinked in the new light and then his dark eyes went unerringly to the face of the woman—this woman whom he had sought for two full years.

“Good morning, Katherine Fair,” he said.

Far over by the rock face Nance Allison leaned forward, in her bloody rags and raised a hand slowly to her throat.

The dullness in her clouded brain struggled with her natural keenness for mastery and lost.

Up from the abysmal depths of physical exhaustion which encompassed her came that spirit which had not yet been conquered.

“You!” screamed Cattle Kate, “You! You! It was you who did the trick—not that fool Selwood! I might have guessed!”

Fair sat still and looked at her and at the man beside her whose face was a study.

“Sure you might have guessed,” he said. “When you and your paramour there robbed the Consolidated and wound the coils of guilt around Jack Fair—you might have guessed that his brother would follow you to the ends of the earth to get you. And he’s got you—got you dead to rights.”

He, too, showed a deputy’s star.

“Jack Fair died in prison—of shame and of a broken heart. For three years I worked in New York to get the goods on you, Arnold, and never could—definitely. Then I hired a better man who could—and did. I have a precious package in a safe place with enough proof in it to have sent you over long ago—but I wanted you both—together—a grand finale. It has been a long trail—long—for me—and for Sonny, the child whom you abandoned, Kate, five years ago.”

The woman gasped and raised a clinched fist to let it fall in impotent rage. Fair went on.

“I’ve lived for months in Blue Stone CaÑon. It was I who found where the willows blow out from the wall. It was Sheriff Selwood who took his life in his hand to help your men drive Bossick’s steers into Rainbow Cliff. It was all of us together, as you see us here, who put two and two together and determined to get you—and to get you good—you and all your outfit of rustlers—all of whom owe something to Lawrence Arnold yonder. We’ve picketed the mouth of your passage into Blue Stone and would have caught you there—or rather at Marston, where I have had arrangements made for some time. We’ve been holding off for Selwood’s word—he’s worked too faithfully all these years to lose the credit now.”

Not once had Fair taken his eyes from Kate Cathrew’s face, else he might have seen the tragic figure by the wall at the right, the grotesque woman whose blood-stained features worked with hysterical laughter.

“Brother!” whispered Nance Allison to herself, “it was his brother—not—not—himself! Oh. Lord, I—thank Thee!”

Neither did he see the newcomers streaming through the cut into the basin—the men from Cordova under Rod Stone.

Minnie Pine’s black eyes went flashing round the Pot to light instantly upon the figure of the girl.

“Poor Eagle Eyes!” she said to Stone, “she has walked in hell!”

There was one other actor in the small drama whom no one noticed—Bud Allison, on foot now, since Big Dan stood at the base of the last rise, completely done—Bud Allison dragging his lame foot wearily, his Pappy’s old gun on his shoulder.

The boy stood between the last riders and the wall, looking at them all with puzzled eyes. Brand Fair continued:

“While we are about this we’ll finish it completely. I want the men of Nameless and the Upper Country to know just what sort of criminals they have been dealing with—to know that Lawrence Arnold there is a clever New York lawyer who defends guilty men and frees them—by buying juries. That he is getting rich by selling through agents and aids the cattle which you, Kate, steal here, drive into the river, up to the cliff, down this wonderful underground passage into Blue Stone CaÑon and out across the desert to Marston for the shipping. It has been an amazing system in a more amazing setting. The mystery of the steers that left no tracks is solved by the fact that every time you stole a big herd you drove them up the night before you drove your own brand down—therefore, they left no trace. Also, I want to say here and now before these witnesses, that all the money you brought with you into the Deep Heart hills belonged to poor Jack Fair, the father of your child—the man you betrayed into prison through the devilish legal trap laid by Lawrence Arnold—and that is why I’ve followed you. Sonny Fair has a right to his father’s property—and I intend to see that he gets it. Have you anything to say?”

Lawrence Arnold, trapped and conscious of the fact, wet his thin lips and glanced desperately around. He saw only stern faces, cold and angry eyes.

But Cattle Kate Cathrew was made of different stuff. She flung up her clenched fists and shook them at the clear skies where the rose of dawn was spreading.

“You ——!” she swore, “I always hated your narrow eyes and that mouth of yours! So you are the prospector, Smith, who has been so inquisitive at Cordova! It was you who shot Big Basford in the hand!”

Fair nodded.

“To see fair play,” he said.

“And it is you who’ve done all this! Oh, damn your soul to hell!”

She dropped her hands, caught the rein hanging on Bluefire’s neck, struck her heels to his flanks and quick as thought whirled him away toward the cut. The group between her and the entrance fell floundering apart before the stallion’s charge.

With a dozen leaps she almost reached the wall.

“You can’t get away with this, Brand Fair!” she screamed, “I’m a match for you!” and jerked at her rifle in its loops.

In her rage she was inept, so that the weapon caught, hindering her purpose for a moment.

But that purpose was clear to several in the intense group of watchers—to Rod Stone—to Fair himself—and to one other.

Nance Allison, standing in her trampled spot, knew that the moment she had dreaded for so long was come. Knew that danger threatened at last some one whom she loved—the stark danger of death—and as if something broke within her, the “stirrings” crystalized. Without taking her eyes from the frantic woman on the big blue horse, she began to feel with her foot for something in the grass—something long and dark and cold, but which seemed to her now more precious and to be desired than anything upon the earth—namely, Sud Provine’s rifle.

It seemed, all suddenly, as if the feel of a gun in her hands had been with her from birth, as if she had leaped the years between and was a daughter of the feudal mountaineers who had marked her Pappy’s line.

Gone was all the stern restraint, the earnest supplication to be kept from spilling blood. The hatred which had smouldered in her leaped to its fulfillment.

For herself and hers she had borne all things—lost hope and poverty, and the deadening weariness of gigantic labors.

She had believed in the hand of God that had been her shield and buckler, had been patient in adversity, meek in her dogged courage.

Now, as Kate Cathrew clawed for a weapon to kill Brand Fair sitting on his horse at the cave’s mouth, she was become a killer herself, joying in the fact.

Her foot touched the rifle.

She bent and took it up.

As Cattle Kate straightened in her saddle, Nance dropped stiffly to her knee and raised the gun.

Her blue eyes caught the sights and drew down steadily upon the woman’s heart.

Just so had those forgotten Allisons drawn down upon their enemies in the Kentucky hills.

Her finger touched the trigger.

And here the hand of destiny reached down—or was it the hand of God?—and ordered the puppets playing out their little tragedy in the heart of Rainbow Cliff.

As Kate Cathrew flung up her gun the furious rage that fired her stiffened body in the saddle, shot her bolt upright, standing in her stirrups.

Perhaps some unaccustomed pressure of her posture angered him—perhaps the excitement of the moment loosed something wild in his hybrid heart—perhaps it was something else.

The bearded man from the Upper Country said afterwards it was.

At any rate, with the woman’s spectacular and dramatic action, Bluefire, the stallion, who hated her but obeyed her, gave one scream and rose with her.

It was a magnificent leap, high spread-eagling, with the flowing silver cloud of his mane tossing in the rosy light.

From the peak of its arc the woman, good rider though she was, but taken by surprise, fell loose from her stirrups, cascading in a flare of booted feet straight down his hips and tail.

At the same moment two shots rang out—her own and Nance’s both gone wild with Bluefire’s interference.

Still on his hind feet, the stallion whirled, turning once more toward the cut in the wall, and came down—his shod forefeet full upon her breast. He leaped over her body and was gone, his empty saddle shining with its vanity of silver.

A silence of death fell for a moment in the peaceful Pot.

Then two men moved.

McKane, the trader who leaped from his horse and knelt by Kate Cathrew, and Big Basford who flung up his arms and shook his clawing fingers toward the western wall.

“You killed her!” he shrieked, “You yellow devil—you’ve killed Kate Cathrew! And I’ll kill you!”

He kicked his horse viciously and shot forward.

Bud Allison, the boy whom none had noticed, raised his Pappy’s gun and fired.

Big Basford toppled to the left and slid out of his saddle with an audible grunt. He rolled over, shook his good fist toward the serene skies, and was still.

Slowly the group drew in to look at Cattle Kate lying so quietly after the storm.

McKane was holding her hand between his own and murmuring foolish, endearing words. Lawrence Arnold pushed him aside with an oath.

But Brand Fair turned his eyes for the first time toward that farther wall. For a moment he did not recognize the creature which knelt there, the smoking rifle across its knee, its face covered with both hands.

Then something familiar in the drooping shoulders, the ragged veil of shining hair, struck home to him.

Without a word he went forward and dismounted.

Incredulously he stooped and took the hands away.

Wide eyed he looked at her.

“Nance!” he cried in horror, “Nance—Nance—Nance! God Almighty! What’s this?”

“I am forsaken of my God,” said the girl piteously, “I had to kill her—or she’d have killed you!”

“You didn’t,” said Fair sharply, “the stallion killed her. Your shot went wild.”

She looked at him dully, uncomprehending, and Fair repeated his words. As she realized their import her lips began to quiver, she rolled down upon the trampled grass with her face to the sod, and wept.

Brand Fair, knowing that this matter was between her soul and its Maker, wisely did not attempt to comfort her.

He sat with his hand on her heaving shoulder and watched the tragic scene.

Bossick and his men surrounded Arnold. Big Basford was dead. And here was Nance Allison in Rainbow’s Pot at dawn, ghastly with blood and weariness.

A thousand questions burned in his brain, but he waited.

From the right Rod Stone was coming forward, followed by the half-breed girl and the rest of the men from Cordova.

Bossick took Stone into custody and called to Bud Allison who came limping forward, his blue eyes glittering with defiance.

Fair stooped and lifting Nance bodily carried her into the heart of the group.

“Men,” he said, “here’s something more to add to our score against Sky Line. Look!”

They looked in astonishment.

“Great Scott!” said Bossick wonderingly, “It’s Miss Allison, ain’t it? What’s she doing here?”

“That’s a question I’ll ask Lawrence Arnold,” said Fair in a voice like a blade, but the bearded man from the Upper Country spoke up promptly.

“I think young Stone and Minnie Pine can answer that, since that is why we’re here. Speak, Stone.”

The rider shook his head.

“Let Minnie,” he said, “she was first to know about it.”

All eyes turned to the Pomo girl, among those of Lawrence Arnold, still holding in his arms the body of Kate Cathrew, and they were cruel as a hawk’s.

“I listened,” said Minnie calmly, “I always listened when there was devil’s talk at Sky Line. I’ve heard much. This time the Sun Woman yonder stood in the Inner Room where they had brought her, and gave back in their teeth the words of the Boss and the Master. They wanted her to sign her mother’s name to a paper which would give to Kate Cathrew the homestead on Nameless——”

“Great Scott!” said Bossick again.

“She wouldn’t,” went on Minnie, “and so they gave her to Sud Provine to keep all night in Rainbow’s Pot, with Big Basford standing guard outside.”

There was the sound of an indrawn breath from Fair.

“We know Provine, Rod Stone and me,” continued the girl, “and so we went to Cordova for help to get her out. We had to wait so long to get away from Sky Line——”

“But they came, men,” cut in the bearded man, “don’t forget that in the final settlement. They dared Arnold and Cattle Kate to save a woman’s honor—and that’s no small thing.”

“Shucks!” said Stone disgustedly, “what would any half-man do?”

Fair stood Nance upon her feet.

She raised her unspeakable head and glanced at the tense faces.

“Where’s this Provine? Tell us, Nance,” said Fair still in that thin, hard voice. He hitched his holster a little farther forward on his thigh.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I tore his face to ribbons—I’d have killed him if I could. He crawled that way.”

She nodded toward the north.

Fair loosed her gently and was turning away, when Bossick caught his arm.

“Hold hard, Smith—Mr. Fair,” he said, “not in your condition. Jermyn—go see what you can find. In the meantime—there’s Big Basford. The boy was quick——”

Here Rod Stone broke in, speaking frankly.

“I’d like to say men, that when young Allison killed Big Basford he got the man who threw his father down Rainbow Cliff and stretched the rope that lamed him. John Allison had found the only outside way to the rim and was looking down into the Pot here, when Basford went to meet him.”

For a long moment there was silence.

“It would seem to me,” said Bossick slowly, “that there has been a deal of justice done here this day—a very great deal of justice. It’s destiny.”

Nance Allison looked up at him with a light in her blue eyes.

“It’s the hand of God, Mr. Bossick,” she said gravely, “no less.”

The rancher nodded.

“Maybe,” he said, as Jermyn and several others who had accompanied him, came back across the basin with Sud Provine among them.

One look at the man was sufficient.

“I guess he’s had all that was coming to him for the present,” said Bossick grimly. “Take him along to the house. We’ll go gather in the rest.”

And so, in the full day, with the risen sun touching all the tapestried slopes of Mystery with gold, Cattle Kate Cathrew went back to her stronghold under the tinted cliff—went in state with a retinue behind her.

She had died as she had lived, spectacularly, and her turbulent soul should have been satisfied.

With her went one man who had loved her after his selfish fashion, another who would have crawled in the dust to kiss her feet, while a third, borne rolling limply on a saddle, followed after more closely than any other.

The young cowboy from the Upper Country absent-mindedly rolled a cigarette.

“She was worth it,” he said softly to the bearded man beside him, “in spite of all!”

“Hell!” said the other, “look yonder! One square foot of his satin hide was worth her whole body! I always thought he’d get her, some time, some way. I’m going to dig up my last dollar an’ buy him from whoever owns him now.”

Bluefire stood against the cliff, watching with interested eyes this strange procession passing.

Another spring was smiling on the Deep Heart hills.

On the broad slopes, the towering slants, the conifers sang their everlasting song, tuned by the little winds from the south.

White clouds sailed the vault above leading their shadows for a little space upon the soft green country.

On the wide brown flats by Nameless the young crops were springing, vigorous and safe, and some few herds browsed peacefully on the rugged range.

In the doorway of the cabin by the river, Nance Fair sat with Sonny in her lap, watching the slope beyond.

“Won’t Brand be coming soon?” the child wanted to know. “The Rainbow Cliff is shining, so it’s getting late.”

“Soon—very soon, honey,” said Nance smilingly, “I heard Dirk bark in the buck-brush yonder a little while ago.”

In the room beyond Mrs. Allison rocked contentedly.

“Nance,” she said, “you know this here carpet always makes me think of the floor of the woods, somehow, with its brown an’ white. It’s so fresh an’ fair an’ soft.”

“That’s why I got that warp,” said Nance happily, “I felt it would—and it does so. Yes, it does so. Run, Sonny—yonder’s Brand and Bud!”

Brand and Bud, riding up from the waters of Nameless in the evening haze, Diamond and Buckskin drawing long breaths of satisfaction at the sight of home.

Nance rose and waited for the lean dark man who swung down and came to her with Sonny on his shoulder. As he stooped to lay his lips to hers he looked long and tenderly into her blue eyes.

“Heart of my heart!” he whispered.

“How’s all, Brand?” called the mother as she spread a cloth on the scoured table preparatory to “feeding her men-folk” as she phrased it.

Brand Fair hung his hat on a nail and turned to the well as Bud came whistling up the path.

“Fine, Mammy,” he called back, “everything at Sky Line’s doing well. Rod and Minnie make things move, and I can trust them. The only thing that jars is old Josefa who never fails to tell me that all half-breeds are fools, and that white men can’t be trusted. And then she bakes an extra pie for Rod and smiles at Minnie proudly. Yes—all’s well. All’s well on Nameless, eh, old-timer?”

And swinging the boy once more to his shoulder, he followed young Bud in across the sill.