r, to whom the earth should afford no refuge and man no
hiding-place. There was no virtue in Alan Macdonald; his fences had
killed his right to human consideration.

In a moment Mrs. Chadron was grave again. She put out her hand in that
gentle, motherly way and touched Frances' hair, smoothing it from her
forehead, pleased with the irrepressible life of it which sprung it
back after the passage of her palm like water in a vessel's wake.

"I let on to you a little while ago that I wasn't uneasy, honey," she
said, "but I ain't no hand at hidin' the truth. I am uneasy, honey,
and on pins, for I don't trust them rustlers. I'm afraid they'll hear
that Saul's gone, and come sneakin' down here and burn us out before
morning, and do worse, maybe. I don't know why I've got that feelin',
but I have, and it's heavy in me, like raw dough."

"I don't believe they'd do anything like that," Frances told her.

"Oh, you don't know 'em like we do, honey, the low-down thieves! They
ort to be hunted like wolves and shot, wherever they're found."

"Some of them have wives and children, haven't they?" Frances asked,
thinking aloud, as she sat with her chin resting in her hand.

"Oh, I suppose they litter like any other wolves," Mrs. Chadron
returned, unfeelingly.

"_Si a tu ventana llega una paloma_," sang Maggie in the kitchen, the
snapping of the oven door coming in quite harmoniously as she closed
it on the baking peppers. Mrs. Chadron sighed.

"_Tratala con carina que es mi persona_," sounded Maggie, a degree
louder. Mrs. Chadron sat upright, with a new interest in life apart
from her uneasy forebodings about the rustlers. Maggie was in the
dining-room, spreading the cloth. The peppers were coming along.

Somebody burst into the kitchen; uncertain feet came across it; a cry
broke Maggie's song short as she jingled the silver in place on the
cloth. Banjo Gibson stumbled into the room where the low fire twinkled
in the chimney, reeling on his legs, his breath coming in groans.

Maggie was behind him, holding the door open; the light from the big
lamp on the dining-table fell on the musician, who weaved there as if
he might fall. His hat was off, blood was in his eyes and over his
face from a wound at the edge of his hair.

"Nola--Nola!" he gasped.

Mrs. Chadron, already beside him, laid hold of him now and shook him.

"Tell it, you little devil--tell it!" she screamed.

Frances, with gentler hand, drew Banjo from her.

"Wh