than from real injury she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she
turned to Calumet.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. She was breathing more
easily, but her voice still quivered, and the hand over her bosom moved
with a quick, nervous motion.

"I reckon that's my business," returned Calumet. He had made a
mistake, certainly, he knew that. It was apparent that his father had
left the Lazy Y. At least, if he were anywhere about he was not able
to come to investigate the commotion caused by the arrival of his son.
Either he was sick or had disposed of the ranch, possibly, if the
latter were the case, to the girl and the man. In the event of his
father having sold the ranch it was plain that Calumet had no business
here. He was an intruder--more, his attack on the man must convince
both him and the girl that there had been a deeper significance to his
visit. However, the explanation of the presence of the present
occupants of the house did not bother Calumet, and he did not intend to
set them right, for he was enjoying himself. Strife, danger, were
here. Moreover, he had brought them, and he was in his element. His
blood pulsed swiftly through his veins and he felt a strange
exhilaration as he stepped slightly aside and rested a hand on the desk
top, leering at the girl.

She returned his gaze and evidently divined something of what was in
his mind, for her chin lifted a little in defiance. The flickering
light from the candle fell on her hair, brown and wavy, and in a tumble
of graceful disorder, and threw into bold relief the firm lines of her
chin and throat. She was not beautiful, but she certainly merited the
term "pretty," which formed on Calumet's lips as he gazed at her,
though it remained unspoken. He gave her this tribute grudgingly,
conscious of the deep impression she was making upon him. He had never
seen a woman like her--for the reason, perhaps, that he had studiously
avoided the good ones. Mere facial beauty would not have made this
impression on him--it was something deeper, something more substantial
and abiding. And, watching her, he suddenly knew what it was. There
was in her eyes, back of the defiance that was in them now, an
expression that told of sturdy honesty and virtue. These gave to her
features a repose and calm that could not be disturbed, an unconscious
dignity of character that excitement could not efface, and her gaze was
unwavering as her eyes met his in a sharp,