h while the messenger was away.
There was really nothing to do but sit patiently and wait. They were
both brave men, very; and they were both not unpracticed fighters; but
they began to wait for the coming of Barry as the prisoner waits for the
day of his execution.

It spoke well for the quality of their nerves that they would not speak
to Kate of the time to come; they sat back like spectators at a play and
watched the maneuvers of the mother to win back Joan.

There was not an idle moment from breakfast to dark. They went out to
gather wildflowers on the western hill from the house; they sat on the
veranda where Kate told Joan stories of the ranch and pointed out the
distant mountains which were its boundaries, and explained that all
between them would one day be her own land; that the men who rode yonder
were doing her work; that the cattle who ranged the hills were marked
with her brand. She said it all in small words so that Joan could
understand, but as far as Buck and Lee could make out, there was never a
flicker of intelligence or interest in the eyes of the child.

It was a hard battle every hour, and after supper Kate sat in a big
chair by the fire with her eyes half closed, admitting defeat, perhaps.
For Joan was curled up on the couch at the farthest, dimmest end of
the room, and with her chin propped in both small hands she stared in
silence through the window and over the darkening hills. Buck and Lee
were there, never speaking, but now and then their eyes sought
each other with a vague hope. For Kate might see that her task was
impossible, send Joan back, and that would free them of the danger.

But where Kate left off, chance took up the battle and turned the
scales. Old Li, the Chinese cook, had not seen Kate for six long years,
and now he celebrated the return by hanging about her on a thousand
pretexts. It was just after he had brought in some delicacy from the
kitchen, leaving the door a little ajar, when a small ball of gray fur
nosed its way through the aperture and came straight for the glare
of the fire on the hearth. It was a small shepherd puppy, and having
observed the faces of the men with bright, unafraid eyes, it went
wobbling on to the very hearth, sniffling. Even at that age it knew
enough to keep away from the bright coals of wood, but how could it know
that the dark, cold-looking andirons had been heated to the danger point
by the fire? It thrust out a tentative nose, touched the ir