news for
him, when he's away in the big woods. And I'm not going to let you send
him off down to any old prison of a legislature, where he'll be spoiled
for his friends up here. And he doesn't want to go. And he'll be here,
Mr. Duke, to see that you don't trade him off into your politics."

She delivered her little speech resolutely, and gave him back his
blistering gaze without winking.

"Oh, my God, if you were--were only Ivus Niles, or Beelzebub himself
sitting there on that horse," Thornton gasped. "You--you--" he turned
away from her maddening smile and stamped about on the turf. The hounds
still played around him, persistent in their attentions. He kicked at
them.

"It suits me to be just Clare Kavanagh, Mr. Duke--and I'm not afraid of
you!"

"Kyle--ho there, Kyle!" The big boss came out of the "ram pasture,"
wiping food fragments from his beard. "Get a rifle and shoot these
dogs. Clean 'em out! Take two men and ride this Irish imp across the
river where she belongs."

Kyle balked. His face showed it.

Presson had never seen his old friend in such a fury. He menaced the
girl with his fists as though about to forget that she was a woman. But
she did not retreat. The picture was that of the kitten and the mastiff.
Her sparkling eyes followed him. The scarlet of an anger as ready as his
own leaped to the soft curves of her cheeks.

"You've got my orders, Kyle. I stand behind them."

Without taking her eyes off Thornton, the girl reached behind her and
jerked a revolver from its holster.

"You shoot my dogs, Kyle, and I'll shoot you." In her tones there was
none of the hysteria that usually spices feminine threats. She was
angry, but her voice was grimly level. She had the poise of one who had
learned to depend on her own resolute spirit. But she displayed
something more than that. It was recklessness that was bravado. In the
eyes of the State chairman, friend of Thornton, and accustomed to a
milder form of femininity, it was impudence. Yet her beauty made its
appeal to him. The old man lunged toward her, but the politician seized
his arm.

"Thelismer," he protested, "you are going too far. I don't know the
girl, or what the main trouble is, but you're acting like a
ten-year-old."

Thelismer Thornton knew it, and the knowledge added to his helpless
rage. He pulled himself out of Presson's grasp.

He began to revile the girl in language that made Presson set his little
eyes open and purse his round mo