oing it, and the physical act had
its fascination. Her ears, attuned to all the sounds of the lonely
forest, caught them and arranged them according to her knowledge of
woodcraft.

A long hour passed by. The sun had slanted to a point halfway between
the zenith and the horizon. Suddenly a thought confronted Ellen Jorth:
"He's not comin'," she whispered. The instant that idea presented
itself she felt a blank sense of loss, a vague regret--something that
must have been disappointment. Unprepared for this, she was held by
surprise for a moment, and then she was stunned. Her spirit, swift and
rebellious, had no time to rise in her defense. She was a lonely,
guilty, miserable girl, too weak for pride to uphold, too fluctuating
to know her real self. She stretched there, burying her face in the
pine needles, digging her fingers into them, wanting nothing so much as
that they might hide her. The moment was incomprehensible to Ellen,
and utterly intolerable. The sharp pine needles, piercing her wrists
and cheeks, and her hot heaving breast, seemed to give her exquisite
relief.

The shrill snort of a horse sounded near at hand. With a shock Ellen's
body stiffened. Then she quivered a little and her feelings underwent
swift change. Cautiously and noiselessly she raised herself upon her
elbows and peeped through the opening in the brush. She saw a man
tying a horse to a bush somewhat back from the Rim. Drawing a rifle
from its saddle sheath he threw it in the hollow of his arm and walked
to the edge of the precipice. He gazed away across the Basin and
appeared lost in contemplation or thought. Then he turned to look back
into the forest, as if he expected some one.

Ellen recognized the lithe figure, the dark face so like an Indian's.
It was Isbel. He had come. Somehow his coming seemed wonderful and
terrible. Ellen shook as she leaned on her elbows. Jean Isbel, true
to his word, in spite of her scorn, had come back to see her. The fact
seemed monstrous. He was an enemy of her father. Long had range rumor
been bandied from lip to lip--old Gass Isbel had sent for his Indian
son to fight the Jorths. Jean Isbel--son of a Texan--unerring
shot--peerless tracker--a bad and dangerous man! Then there flashed
over Ellen a burning thought--if it were true, if he was an enemy of
her father's, if a fight between Jorth and Isbel was inevitable, she
ought to kill this Jean Isbel right there in his tracks as he bol