Rob refused flatly to let Harry start that evening for Soldier, where the warrant summoned her to appear before the justice of the peace, and the "cow-punchers" finally agreed to sleep at the ranch. After they had taken their saddle blankets out to the haystack for the night, Harry described to Rob and Garnett exactly what had happened to bring about the shooting. It was hard to tell. The more she explained to those two boys sitting silently on the opposite side of the table the more complete did her disgrace seem to her. At the end Rob laughed a little and said:

"Looks like it wouldn't be safe to leave any firearms round after this."

Even Garnett, Harry realized with a sore heart, had nothing to say except a growl about, "Better men have hung than them cheap skates that call theirselves sportsmen. Sportsmen! I'd shoot a few pinheads like them some day myself, and it wouldn't be no accidental shootin', neither."

By Rob's advice Harry gave as brief an account of the affair as possible to the justice of the peace; she emphasized the fact that she had brought two of Ludlum's deserted calves inside to feed, and that, because Ludlum kept no cowboys to look after the herds in their vicinity, there was always a bunch of cattle trailing round the fence, trying to get in.

All that, unfortunately, failed to impress the justice. He eyed the girl with mild, expressionless eyes, sentenced her to pay for the cow, and, with curt humor, advised her next time to "Look before she shot and then not shoot."

Rob, of course, had to pay her fine and costs. He did it without a word, but Harry knew only too well that every one of those forty dollars meant just so much less money for hay when winter came. Garnett left them and returned to the reserve. For the first time since they had known him, Harry felt relieved to have him go. It was hard enough to face the long ride in her brother's company, so desperately did she want to be alone in her depression. Beneath Rob's talk of the other things, she could feel his disappointment in her.

When they reached Robinson's, Rob's voice broke in on these dreary musings. "If you don't mind stopping, I believe I'll go in and see Robinson about that herd law. Old man Saltus says he thinks that we can put it through."

Harry assented wearily. "I'd be glad of a rest."

"Of course!" Rob looked at her quickly. "I ought to have known you were dog-tired. Why not stay overnight?" he urged. "You've had two mighty hard days and need a good rest. I can get along all right."

Mrs. Robinson welcomed them with unfailing hospitality. Almost without their knowing how it was done, their horses had been led away to water, and they themselves were seated on the shady back porch. Mrs. Robinson took it as entirely a matter of course that they should stay to supper.

"You must of went by right smart early this morning." Her voice soared from the kitchen above the clatter of dishes and the surflike hiss of frying pans, while she tacked back and forth from stove to table. "Pa sent Denny over to git Rob to come help with the hayin'; he reckoned he'd begin to cut to-day 'stead of waitin'. And say! Isita has got the spotted fever. You know you said she was poorly yestiddy. How do I know? Becus Denny went on up there huntin' Rob; thought he might of druv Joe's hogs home or some such. Come along in, everybody. She's all set."

Isita sick! For the moment at least that news diverted Harry's thoughts from her own troubles. "Have they had the doctor, do you know?" she asked.

"None of us ain't seen him, if they have."

Harry felt pretty sure that the Bianes had not sent for any assistance. If it had not been for the ride to Soldier, she would probably have gone up to see how Isita was and have insisted on having the doctor at once. The spotted fever was short and sharp, sometimes a matter of hours only.

Like most buoyant people, Harry's spirits went correspondingly low when she was depressed, and now, morbidly self-conscious over one blunder, she felt herself largely to blame for Isita's neglected condition.

"I declare," Mrs. Robinson said suddenly, "you ain't eatin' a thing, girlie. You'd oughten't to of took that long ride this hot weather; and after workin' so hard yestiddy and all. You're clean drilled down. That's right, go along out on the porch and I'll bring your tea to you. It's hot enough in here to fry fat out of an iceberg."

Stammering an excuse, Harry pushed away from the table, furious with herself for the tears that had suddenly blinded her. In another moment, she felt, she would have disgraced herself by sobbing aloud. Mrs. Robinson's sympathy was the one thing that her aching heart could not resist.

Rob had an instinctive idea that under the pressure of kindly solicitude, Harry would relate the whole affair to their neighbor; and he knew that if she did she would get pungent advice and wholesome consolation from that sagacious friend. He rode home after supper, satisfied that Harry would be herself in another twenty-four hours.

It turned out as he hoped. Mrs. Robinson had divined that something more than fatigue had affected the girl. As she was showing Harry to her room she put her hand on the girl's shoulder and said gently, "Yestiddy was just one lick too much for you, wa'n't it, child?"

"It wasn't that. Oh, it wasn't!" Harry began: and then, dropping her face on her hands, she sobbed miserably.

But oh, the relief of having it out! Of telling some one who could and would say exactly what she thought of it all—why Harry's firing a rifle merely in warning had been so reprehensible. That was exactly what Mrs. Robinson did tell her.

"It took the Almighty consid'able time to make dirt enough out of these lava buttes to grow crops on, and you'll learn, if you live in this country, that you've got to have some of the Almighty's patience to wear down these here varmints that call themselves men into the dust ordinary humans are made of. I know how you feel about your sage hens gettin' shot out. Didn't I ride clear to Shoshone once behind a wagonload of them 'sportsmen,' a gun in my fist ready to drop the first guy that lifted his eyebrow? I did.

"They'd cut our fence and druv in onto the wheat and was wadin' round in it like it was wash water. They laughed at me when I ordered 'em out—that is, until they seen I had the drop on 'em. I run 'em all into court in Shoshone and seen 'em pay their fines good and proper. Wasn't that all right, you'll say? Looks so. But them four men has spent their lives, you may say, gettin' even with us. Nothin' you could catch 'em in, just sneaky things; like stealin' our range, cuttin' our fences, runnin' off our stock with theirs in the round-up, scatterin' dope with the salt where our stock would get it. I wisht I had two bits right now for every dollar they lost us. I tell you, you never get nowhere in this country tryin' to bust up a lava butte with a sulphur match."

"But surely we should do something to protect the birds—and ourselves!" Harry protested. "I think it's our duty to fight the poachers. Indeed, I do!"

The old spirit rang in her voice, shone in her eyes, still dim from crying. The comers of Mrs. Robinson's mouth twitched in fellow feeling. She saw that Harry had come to the place every one comes to in the splendid morning ride of youth; the place where the fight is waging between right and wrong, and into which every one in his turn wants to plunge with a shout and a hailstorm of blows.

"You can't never save the birds with bullets," she said, "not if you was to plug every game hog in the land full of lead."

"But what are we to do?" cried Harry. "They laugh at mere words."

"There's one they won't laugh at more than twice: law."

"Law! Isn't there a law against trespassing now, and against shooting out of season?"

"That's right; but once all the folks stand together and show they mean to have sure-enough law, there'll be an end to poachin' and game hogs and all the rest of the pizen-mean lawlessness that makes the rancher's life a burden."

"Just as the herd law would rid us of the big stockmen," added Harry. "With their herds gone off these hills, there would be plenty of feed for all our cattle."

"That's what! It's got to come same's the spring break-up. It'll be some satisfaction to know we give her the first shove, too."

As Mrs. Robinson in her droll way made everything clear to the girl, Harry felt her soul being smoothed out like a piece of crumpled paper. When Mrs. Robinson said good night, she reached out impulsively, put her arms round her and exclaimed, "You're so good to me!"

Her mind was still tranquil when she rode home the next day. It made her feel that, in spite of Ludlum's methods she was going to come out ahead in the end.

Unfortunately, her confidence received a setback the moment she reached home. Rob was just unsaddling and looked as if he had been up all night.

"What's happened?" she inquired quickly. "Aren't you going over to help Robinson?"

"I've got to get things straightened out here first. I don't know what happened last night but something scared the critters up in the hills. They sure were stampeded—such a bellowing and pounding of hoofs when they went down the lane and through the fence you never heard. There wasn't any use getting up. Nothing short of a rifle bullet in each one of their crazy heads would have stopped them. Somebody else must have thought as I did, though, for I heard a shot."

"But Rob! What would any one start shooting up a herd at night for? Could it have been hunters camping up above?"

"More likely somebody with orders to get our critters on the run, and they made a mess of it and scared the other fellow's."

"But there's no one round us that we know of; except Ludlum."

"Did I say there was? All I do say is that I'm going to find out who stampeded our critters and scattered 'em all over the county. Every one of them went out last night. Some of 'em came back this morning, and I rounded up a lot in the hills over east; but there's three or four steers clean gone."

He threw the saddle over the peg and led the tired pony off to water.

For half a minute Harry stared after him, overcome. The chaos of the last two days seemed about to boil up once more and engulf her. No! That it should not. She stiffened resolutely. It was the very time when she needed every bit of calmness that she could muster. Pulling Hike round, she trotted after Rob.

"See here, Bobby," she began briskly, "you must get back to help with Robinson's haying, and I'm going out to hunt those steers. Yes, I am now," as he began objecting. "There's nothing to be done here that can't wait, and I shall thoroughly enjoy getting our critters out of Ludlum's clutches before he's had a chance to ship them to the stockyards."

"Oh, he wouldn't do that! He wouldn't risk getting into trouble. What he can do is to keep them moving until there's not much chance of our finding them again. If we lose our stock we can't pay his loan and he takes your land. That's what he's after. A water hole and green meadow like this is a gold mine to a man with so much stock. Ludlum's strictly 'honest,' but business is business with him, and he's waiting for the chance to close down on us."

"He'll never get the chance, never!" cried Harry.

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed if you think telling him so will stop him. If you don't want to lose your land, you'd better have the cash handy when our friend comes round this fall to see how things are getting on."

Harry made no answer. She knew that Rob was right. Power, not arguments about right and wrong, was what Ludlum respected. What she must do was to see to it that they lost not another head of stock and that the herd got all the grazing that belonged to it. Then she could sell at a better price and renew the loan without having to sacrifice her entire herd.

"I'll start out this very afternoon," she said once more as Rob was leaving for Robinson's, "and get the census, as you may say, of every critter hereabouts. I'm going over first to see how Isita is; and by the way, Bobby, if any one is going to town while you're over yonder, have them bring back some oranges for Isita, and also telephone in to the doctor. If they haven't sent for him, tell him to come over, anyhow. I'll pay him myself, if they won't."

Rob promised without comment. How like Harry it was to offer to pay the doctor, and quite ignore the fact that she had not a cent in the bank. It amused him, even while he was glad that she could so quickly rise from her depression.

Harry herself realized what she had done only when she was on her way to the Bianes'. "What must Bobby think of me?" she exclaimed. "I forgot, of course, that I hadn't a cent. Never mind. I will pay, as soon as I sell my beef critters. O me! It begins to look as if I'd have to sell them all to pay the four hundred and twenty-two dollars, interest and capital, I'll owe on the stock in December, besides what I'll have to have for hay for them. Well, I've 'til December first to raise the money, and that's nearly four months yet."

All along the two miles of road to the Biane cabin she was on the watch for grazing cattle, hoping to see their curly white-face and red-polled steers among them. All the good feed had been eaten off close by, however, and what stock she did see was up in the narrow draws where there was still a little green. Evidently she was to have plenty of work rounding up those steers. Why, no! She pulled up short. That looked like some of them now.

She had just turned the ridge in the lava beyond which lay Biane's, when she saw below her, feeding on the fine grass round the edge of a pothole, Biane's sorry-looking bunch, and with them a big, curly white-face and two red—polls, theirs of course. She rode over to look at the brand, but as she approached, the cattle moved round to the other side of the water. Harry paused and looked across. She wanted to ride through, but the water was black and sinister. Out in the lava, it was not safe to go where you could not see your footing. She had better wait until she was coming home and then drive the steers with her.

No one, as usual, was visible round the house, but the front window was open and a blanket was fastened up to keep out the light. Isita must be in that room. Harry knocked lightly, then listened. Some one inside was talking. She knocked again and, when no one answered, opened the door and entered.

At first the sudden change from the blaze of sunshine outside to the darkness of the room obscured everything. The voice she had heard was still hurrying on in a low monotone. She turned toward it and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the half light, saw a cot bed and on it, murmuring in the delirium of fever, Isita.

Going swiftly to the bed Harry bent over the unconscious girl. "What do you want, Isita, dear?" she asked gently, then drew back in dismay.

The small face, usually so clear and pale, was swollen out of recognition and disfigured under a veil of crimson flecks; the lips were parched and brown. At the sound of Harry's voice the sick girl moved nervously, was silent an instant, then began to mutter afresh in broken, hurried words.

"Isita, dear! You poor little thing!" Harry exclaimed. "What is it, Isita?"

Perhaps the repetition of her name or the sound of the familiar voice broke through the sick girl's stupor, for she shivered, opened her eyes, reached out an imploring hand and stammered weakly, "Don't kill him! Don't! I can't—Don't let him! She—she—" The words died away into an unintelligible whisper.

One of Harry's arms was round Isita; her cool hand was on the hot forehead, when suddenly there was the sound of a harsh voice at the entrance of the room.

"Say, there! What's doin'?"

It was Mrs. Biane. Almost running she came from the kitchen. "Oh! It's you, Miss Holliday! I couldn't think. Put her down. Quick! It's the spotted fever."

Almost roughly the woman pushed between the bed and Harry.

"I know. That's why I came," Harry explained. "But what is she saying? What does it all mean? What is she afraid of?"

"Nothing." Mrs. Biane faced Harry defiantly. "The fever's got her. Biane killed one of her lambs the other night. She was comin' down with the fever then, I guess, for it's laid on her mind ever since."

Mrs. Biane was evidently agitated. Leaning over the bed, she smoothed the tossed sheets and straightened the pillow. "You had better come outside," she said to Harry. "Hearin' you talk upsets her. Anyhow, it ain't safe. Like's not you might catch it."

"It's not contagious. The danger is all to the one who has it. What does the doctor say?"

"The doctor? We ain't had him. We don't need him. What can he do?"

"A great deal. He might tell you what Isita should have to eat. Perhaps then you needn't kill her lambs."

"Why not kill them?" The woman turned almost violently. "We ain't a thing to eat else. You kin see the truck patch is dead dry. There ain't no grain to feed the chickens, no hay for the stock. We might's well quit this God-forsaken desert. A man can't make nothin' here; the frost or the drought'll catch him every time."

In the hoarse, whispered outburst there was a strangled sob that sent a thrill down Harry's spine. As she stared into those sunken eyes in which shone suddenly the flame of unendurable miseries, she felt that this strange woman needed pity more than blame.

"Listen, Mrs. Biane," she said with gentle determination; "you must have the doctor. I've already sent for him. It shan't cost you a cent. I had to do it for Isita. People sometimes die of spotted fever, and I couldn't—I'm too fond of her—she's terribly sick. Just listen."

For the voice had suddenly risen to a cry: "Not that one, Joe! Not that one! No—no!"

"She hears you. She's frightened. You'd best go on." Mrs. Biane turned hurriedly to the bed. "Wake up, Isita," she said and laid her hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Oh, don't do that! You don't want her to die, do you?" Harry exclaimed, hardly knowing what she said.

"She might almost as well—better, too, I guess."

The words came in a despairing sob as Mrs. Biane threw her apron over her face and sank on her knees beside the bed.

"Don't cry!" Harry begged, with her own eyes full of tears. "Isita's going to get well. Don't you worry."

The burden of her own inability to help lay sore on Harry's heart as she rode home. Poverty and sickness and the shadow of famine beyond! She would save Isita, anyhow! Whatever happened, while she herself had bread, the other girl should have half of it.

To her relief the doctor's automobile passed just after she had turned in at the home gate. Knowing that her friend was in his care she could take up her housework and the chores with real interest. Not until the cows began coming in to be milked did she remember the white-face steer.

"What a stupid I am!" she said to herself with sinking heart. "How can I tell Rob and what will he think—that I'm no good, I guess. I can't leave the milking and go, and afterwards it'll be too late. I'll go the first thing in the morning."

But she rode nearly all the next day without getting a glimpse of the steers. Nor, when she stopped to inquire for Isita, could Mrs. Biane give her any information about them. No strange animals had come in with theirs at milking time.