came riding out of the Fort Shakie
road, their horses in that tireless, swinging gallop which the animals
of that rare atmosphere can maintain for hours. As he rode, Chadron
swung his quirt in unison with the horse's undulations, from side to
side across its neck, like a baton. He sat as stiff and solid in his
saddle as a carved image. Nola came on neck and neck with him, on the
side of the road nearer Macdonald.

Macdonald was carrying a rifle in addition to his side arms, and he
was a dusty grim figure to come upon suddenly afoot in the high road.
Chadron pulled in his horse and brought it to a stiff-legged stop when
he saw Macdonald, who had stepped to the roadside to let them pass.
The old cattleman's high-crowned sombrero was pinched to a peak; the
wind of his galloping gait had pressed its broad brim back from his
tough old weathered face. His white mustache and little dab of pointed
beard seemed whiter against the darkness of passion which mounted to
his scowling eyes.

"What in the hell're you up to now?" he demanded, without regard for
his companion, who was accustomed, well enough, to his explosions and
expletives.

Macdonald gravely lifted his hand to his hat, his eyes meeting Nola's
for an instant, Chadron's challenge unanswered. Nola's face flared at
this respectful salutation as if she had been insulted. She jerked her
horse back a little, as if she feared that violence would follow the
invasion of her caste by this fallen and branded man, her pliant waist
weaving in graceful balance with every movement of her beast.

Macdonald lowered his eyes from her blazingly indignant face. Her
horse was slewed across the narrow road, and he considered between
waiting for them to ride on and striking into the shoulder-high sage
which grew thick at the roadside there. He thought that she was very
pretty in her fairness of hair and skin, and the lake-clear blueness
of her eyes. She was riding astride, as all the women in that country
rode, dressed in wide pantaloonish corduroys, with twinkling little
silver spurs on her heels.

"What're you prowlin' down here around my place for?" Chadron asked,
spurring his horse as he spoke, checking its forward leap with rigid
arm, which made a commotion of hoofs and a cloud of dust.

"This is a public highway, and I deny your right to question my
motives in it," Macdonald returned, calmly.

"Sneakin' around to see if you can lay hands on a horse, I suppose,"
Chadron said,