facts. He might hope for escape, but even now he could
not delude himself with the thought that he might win through without a
fight.

While they ate breakfast he told the boy about the mother whom he had
never seen. John Beaudry had always intended to tell Royal the story
of his love for the slender, sweet-lipped girl whose grace and beauty
had flooded his soul. But the reticence of shyness had sealed his
lips. He had cared for her with a reverence too deep for words.

She was the daughter of well-to-do people visiting in the West. The
young cattleman and she had fallen in love almost at sight and had
remained lovers till the day of her death. After one year of happiness
tragedy had stalked their lives. Beaudry, even then the object of the
rustlers' rage, had been intercepted on the way from Battle Butte to
his ranch. His wife, riding to meet him, heard shots and galloped
forward. From the mesa she looked down into a draw and saw her husband
fighting for his life. He was at bay in a bed of boulders, so well
covered by the big rocks that the rustlers could not easily get at him.
His enemies, scattered fanshape across the entrance to the arroyo, were
gradually edging nearer. In a panic of fear she rode wildly to the
nearest ranch, gasped out her appeal for help, and collapsed in a
woeful little huddle. His friends arrived in time to save Beaudry,
damaged only to the extent of a flesh wound in the shoulder, but the
next week the young wife gave premature birth to her child and died
four days later.

In mental and physical equipment the baby was heir to the fears which
had beset the last days of the mother. He was a frail little fellow
and he whimpered at trifles. But the clutch of the tiny pink fingers
held John Beaudry more firmly than a grip of steel. With unflagging
patience he fended bogies from the youngster.

But the day was at hand when he could do this no longer. That was why
he was telling Royal about the mother he had never known. From his
neck he drew a light gold chain, at the end of which was a small square
folding case. In it was a daguerreotype of a golden-haired, smiling
girl who looked out at her son with an effect of shy eagerness.

"Give Roy pretty lady," demanded the boy.

Beaudry shook his head slowly. "I reckon that's 'most the only thing
you can ask your dad for that he won't give you." He continued
unsteadily, looking at the picture in the palm of his hand. "Lady-Bird
I