y a shrewder schemer than she,
when self-entangled in the devious plottings of this life.

On the other hand there sat Frances across the table--they were
breakfasting alone, Mrs. Landcraft being a strict militarist, and
always serving the colonel's coffee with her own hand--throwing up a
framework of speculation on her own account. Perhaps if she should go
to the ranch she might be in some manner instrumental in bringing this
needless warfare to a pacific end. Intervention at the right time, in
the proper quarter, might accomplish more than strife and bloodshed
could bring out of that one-sided war.

No matter for the justice of the homesteaders' cause, and the
sincerity of their leader, neither of which she doubted or questioned,
the weight of numbers and resources would be on the side of the
cattlemen. It could result only in the homesteaders being driven from
their insecure holdings after the sacrifice of many lives. If she
could see Macdonald, and appeal to him to put down this foolish, even
though well-intended strife, something might result.

It was an inconsequential turmoil, it seemed to her, there in that
sequestered land, for a man like Alan Macdonald to squander his life
upon. If he stood against the forces which Chadron had gone to summon,
he would be slain, and the abundant promise of his life wasted like
water on the sand.

"I'll go with you, Nola," she said, rising from the table in quick
decision.

CHAPTER XII

"THE RUSTLERS!"

"I've stood up for that man, and I've stood by him," said Banjo
Gibson, "but when a man shoots a friend of my friend he ain't no
friend of mine. I'm done with him; I won't never set a boot-heel
inside of his door ag'in."

Banjo was in Mrs. Chadron's south sitting-room, with its friendly
fireplace and homely things, including Mrs. Chadron and her apparently
interminable sock. Only now it was a gray sock, designed not for the
mighty foot of Saul, but for Chance Dalton, lying on his back in the
bunkhouse in a fever growing out of the handling that he had gone
through at Macdonald's place.

Banjo had arrived at the ranch the previous evening. He was sitting
now with his fiddle on his knee, having gone through the repertory
most favored by his hostess, with the exception of "Silver Threads."
That was an afternoon melody, Banjo maintained, and one would have
strained his friendship and shaken his respect if he had insisted upon
the musician putting bow to it in the