to the edge of the porch, gathered the dog Nig into her arms,
and buried her face in his unkempt shoulder. Rocking back and forth in a
paroxysm of impotent passion, she spoke to the dog:

"I can't kill him now, Nig, he's goin' to marry _her_! Oh Nig, Nig, what
am I goin' to do now?" And then she looked up scornfully, her eyes
flashing. "She won't let Rex be a friend of hers, because he's killed two
men that God had ought to have killed a long while ago! But she'll marry
Masten--who ain't fit to be Rex's dog. She won't, Nig! Why--?"

She got up and started for the door. But nearing it, she sank upon the
threshold, crying and moaning, while Nig, perplexed at this conduct on
the part of his mistress, stood off a little and barked loudly at her.

CHAPTER XX

THE BUBBLE--DREAMS

Loping his pony through the golden haze of the afternoon, Randerson came
over the plains toward the Flying W ranchhouse, tingling with
anticipation. The still small voice to which he had listened in the days
before Ruth's coming had not lied to him; Fate, or whatever power ruled
the destinies of lovers, had made her for him. Man's interference might
delay the time of possession, his thoughts were of Masten for a brief
instant, and his lips straightened, but in the end there could be no
other outcome.

But though he was as certain of her as he was that the sun would continue
to rule the days, he kept his confidence from betraying his thoughts, and
when at last he rode slowly down along the corral fence, past the
bunkhouse and the other buildings, to the edge of the porch, sitting
quietly in the saddle and looking down at Ruth, who was sitting in a
rocker, sewing, his face was grave and his manner that of unconscious
reverence.

Ruth had been on the porch for more than an hour. And as on the day when
he had come riding in in obedience to her orders to teach her the
mysteries of the six-shooter, she watched him today--with anticipation,
but with anticipation of a different sort, in which was mingled a little
regret, but burdened largely with an eagerness to show him, unmistakably,
that he was not the sort of man that she could look upon seriously. And
so when she saw him ride up to the porch and bring his pony to a halt,
she laid her sewing in her lap, folded her hands over it, and watched him
with outward calmness, though with a vague sorrow gripping her. For in
spite of what he