on of the place. Then he spoke to
Streak, and the big brown horse descended the slope of the hill, struck
the level, and cantered slowly toward the ranch buildings near the
river.

Sanderson urged the brown horse toward the largest building of the
group, and as he rode he straightened in the saddle, rearranged his
neckerchief and brushed some of the dust from his clothing--for at this
minute his thoughts went to the girl--whom he now knew he had come to
see.

Sanderson no longer tried to delude himself. A strange reluctance
oppressed him, and a mighty embarrassment seized him; his face grew
crimson beneath the coat of tan upon it, and his lungs swelled with a
dread eagerness that had gripped him.

"I reckon I'm a damn fool!" he told himself as he forced Streak onward;
"I'm comin' here, not knowin' why, but still a-comin'." He grinned,
mirthlessly, but went forward.

Heading toward the ranchhouse, he passed a huge building--the stable.
Swinging wide around one of its corners, he was about to ride onward
toward the ranchhouse, when out of the corners of his eyes he saw some
men and horses grouped in front of the stable.

He pulled Streak up with a jerk, swung the animal's head around and
faced the group. There were five horses, saddled and bridled, standing
in front of the stable. Sanderson's eyes noted that in one swift
glance. But it was upon a man that Sanderson's gaze centered as Streak
came to a halt.

The man dominated. There were other men standing in front of the
stable--and two women. But the man upon whom Sanderson's gaze rested
was the compelling figure.

He was big--rugged, muscular, massive. He saw Sanderson at about the
instant Sanderson saw him, and he faced the latter, his chin thrusting,
his lips pouting, his eyes gleaming with cold belligerence. He wore a
gray woolen shirt, open at the throat, revealing a strong, wide chest.

He was a tawny giant, exuding a force and virility and a compelling
magnetism that gripped one instantly. It affected Sanderson; the sight
of the man caused Sanderson's eyes to glow with reluctant admiration.

And yet Sanderson disliked the man; he know instantly that this was
Alva Dale, concerning whom the Drifter had spoken; and the glow died
out of Sanderson's eyes and was replaced by the steady gleam of
premeditated and deliberate hostility.

For an instant there was no word spoken; the glances of the two men
met, crossed, and neither man's eyes wavered.