's funeral?" He flung the question at
her like a hammer.

"Were you told I did?" Kate asked.

"Rode to the graveyard with him, didn't you?"

Kate saw there was no use softening her words: "Father," she said
instantly and firmly, "the night I came out from town in the storm I
got lost. I got on the wrong side of the creek. My horse gave out; I
was dead with the cold."

Her father flung his cigar into the fire: "What's that got to do with
it?" he broke in harshly.

"Just wait a moment."

"I don't want any long-winded story."

"I won't tell any."

"I won't listen to you," he shouted. "Answer my question."

Her eyes kindled: "You may call it whatever you like, but you will
listen to my answer in the way I make it. When I'd given up hope of
saving my life, and my horse was drifting, he fell into a dugout. And
in the dugout were two men--Abe Hawk and Jim Laramie. They thought
there was a party of men with me. They seized me. They got ready to
fight. I was at their mercy."

"What dugout?" demanded Doubleday. His husky tone seemed to indicate
he was cooling a little; the question took her off her guard.

"At the old mine bridge."

A flash of cunning lighted her father's eyes. The curtain fell
instantly, but not before Kate had seen. "When they questioned me,"
she hurried on, "I told them what had happened. They believed me.
They rode with me back to the creek. We swam our horses across. Mine
couldn't make the bank. Abe Hawk pulled me out and Laramie saved my
horse. But the bank caved in with Hawk when he pulled me out of the
creek and the next thing I heard, he was dead. I didn't go to his
funeral except to ride to the cemetery in the procession. Father,
could I do any less?" she demanded, wrought up.

Barb's harsh, red features never looked less uncompromising: "D' you
expect me to believe that stuff?" he asked, regarding her coldly. She
only eyed him as he eyed her: "D' you expect anybody to believe it?" he
continued, to drive in his contempt.

Kate turned white. When she spoke, her words were measured: "Oh, no,"
she said quietly. "I don't expect you any more to believe anything I
say. Those other men would believe me when they had me at their
mercy--when they might have choked or shot me or thrown me into the
Falling Wall canyon--they only believed me. But my own father--he
couldn't believe me----"

Neither appeal nor reproach moved her father; his mind was fixed. Van
Horn had b