She hesitated only for the fraction of a second, then she plunged into
her story with a directness which was always hers.

"This is Bad Man's Hollow--he--he was my half-brother."

So the stories of the gossips were not true. Bill gave a comprehensive
nod, but offered no comment. Her statement appeared to him to need none.
It explained itself; she was speaking of Peter Retief.

"Mother was a widow when she married father--widow with one son. Mother
was a half-breed."

An impressive silence ensued. For a moment a black shadow swept across
the valley. It was a dense flight of geese winging their way back to the
north, as the warm sun melted the snow and furnished them with
well-watered feeding-grounds. The frogs were chirruping loudly down at
the edge of the stream which trickled its way ever southwards. She went
on.

"Mother and Peter settled at Foss River at different times. They never
hit it off. No one knew that there was any relationship between them up
at the camp. Mother lived in her own shack. Peter located himself
elsewhere. Guess it's only five years since I learned these things.
Peter was fifteen years older than I. I take it they made him 'bad' from
the start. Poor Peter!--still, he was my half-brother."

She conveyed a world of explanation in her last sentence. There was a
tender, far-away look in her great, sorrowful eyes as she told her jerky
story. "Lord" Bill allowed himself a side-long glance in her direction,
then he turned his eyes towards the south end of the valley and
something very like a sigh escaped him. She had struck a sympathetic
chord in his heart. He longed to comfort her.

"There's no use in reckoning up Peter's acts. You know 'em as well as I
do, Bill. He was slick--was Peter," she went on, with an inflection of
satisfaction. She was returning to a lighter manner as she contemplated
the cattle-thief's successes. "Cattle, mail-trains, mail-carts--nothing
came amiss to him. In his own line Peter was a Jo-dandy." Her face
flushed as she proceeded. The half-breed blood in her was stirred in all
its passionate strength. "But he'd never have slipped the coyote
sheriffs or the slick red-coats so long as he did without my help. Say,
Bill," leaning forward eagerly and peering into his face with her
beautiful glowing eyes, "for three years I just--just lived! Poor Peter!
Guess I'm reckoned kind of handy 'round a bunch of steers. There aren't
many who can hustle me. You know that. All the bo