the murder? Come out to
Last's, even to find a clew? Not you! There's only one sheriff in this
Valley--one bit o' law that will avenge his death--an' that's _me_!
Now, you two fine gentlemen--I'm goin'. There's my hand! I throw th'
cards on th' table! Shoot me in the back if you've got th' nerve. Come
out in th' open an' fight! _But you better be quick about it!_"

With that she backed slowly along the porch, keeping them in view.

"Get away behind me," she called. There was a path opened instantly,
the sound of shuffling feet. Along the porch she went, step by step,
stopping every moment or so to keep close hold on her advantage, every
nerve strained, every one of her faculties at the top of its power.

She felt for the step with her foot, went down, backed through the
crowd, brought them all in the range of the guns which she flashed out
now and held upon them.

She was ashy pale, a flaming, vibrant thing. Not a man there but knew
she was more dangerous at the moment than cool Jim Last had ever been,
for she radiated hatred of her father's killer in every bitter
glance. She had none for whom to be cautious. She was the last of her
blood. She was efficient, and she knew it.

Courtrey knew it, and felt the sweat start on his skin.

Service knew it, and hated her for it.

As the girl backed clear there came into her vision a strange
figure--the straight, trim figure of a man who stood stiffly at
attention, where her imperious words had caught him.

He wore a uniform of semi-military style, leather leggings, a flannel
shirt of butternut and a smart, tan, broad-brimmed hat.

He, too, came in the range of the travelling guns and waited their
pleasure.

Tharon reached El Rey. She stuck her right-hand weapon in its holster,
loosed the rein, flung it over the stallion's head, stepped around his
shoulder and mounted deftly and swiftly from the wrong side. It was a
pretty trick of horsemanship and showed up her adroitness. As El Rey
rose on his hind feet, whirling, that unwavering muzzle whirled also,
to keep in line. The king struck into his gait and his rider, facing
backward, swung away down the narrow street. Until she was well out of
range the tension held.

Then Steptoe Service struck a fist into a palm and began to swear in
a fury, but Courtrey laughed, one of his rare, short bursts of mirth
that were more bodeful than oaths.

He turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come.

The stranger in the