might, even remotely, expect to
hear, he stood and listened intently before he stooped and disappeared
for the night between the flaps of the tent.

He turned often between the blankets of his hard bed, disturbed by
uneasy dreams quite unlike the deep oblivion of his usual sleep.

"Oh, Mister, where are you?"

The sheepherder stirred uneasily.

"Please--please, Mister, won't you speak?"

The plaintive pleading cry was tremulous and faint like the voice of a
disembodied spirit floating somewhere in the air. This time he sat up
with a start.

"It's only me--Katie Prentice, from the Roadhouse. Don't be scart."

The wail was closer. There was no mistake. Then the dog barked. The man
threw back the blanket and sprang to his feet. It took only a moment to
get into his clothes and step out into a night that had turned pitch
dark.

"Where are you?" he called.

"Oh, Mister!?" The shrill cry held gladness and relief.

Then she came out of the blackness, the ends of a white nubia and a
little shoulder cape snapping in the wind, her breath coming short in a
sound that was a mixture of exhaustion and sobs.

"I was afraid I couldn't find you till daylight. I heard a bell, but I
didn't know where to go, it's such a dark night. I ran all the way,
nearly, till I played out."

"What's the row?" he asked gently.

She slipped both arms through one of his and hugged it convulsively,
while in a kind of hysteria she begged:

"Don't send me back, Mister! I won't go! I'll kill myself first. Take me
with you--please, please let me go with you!"

"Tell me what it's all about."

She did not answer, and he urged:

"Go on. Don't be afraid. You can tell me anything."

She replied in a strained voice:

"Pete Mullendore, he--"

A gust of wind blew the shoulder cape back and he saw her bare arm with
the sleeve of her dress hanging by a shred.

"--he did this?"

"Yes. He--insulted--me--I--can't--tell--you--what--he--said."

"And then?"

"I scratched him and bit him. I fought him all over the place. He was
chokin' me. I got to a quirt and struck him on the head--with the
handle. It was loaded. He dropped like he was dead. I ran to my room and
clum out the window--"

"Your mother--"

"She--laughed."

"God!" He stooped and picked up the little bundle she had dropped at her
feet. "Come along, Partner. You are going into the sheep business with
'Mormon Joe.'"

CHAPTER II

AN HISTORIC OCCASION

The experienced