her hands were down at her sides and
clenched, her chin was lifted a little. The whole attitude was
soldierlike.

"They are two of a kind," said Terry within herself. "They are men.
They are Packards. I am proud and--and afraid--and-- Oh, dear God!
Dear God! Bring him back to me!"

She could hear Steve giving his brief orders crisply. Other figures
loomed about him, coming out of the night and the shadows. There was
young Yellow Barbee and Bandy Oliver; there was the Number Ten cowboy
whom she knew only as "Spotty"; in a moment these and two or three
other men were with Steve. Six or seven; possibly eight of them all
told. And Barbee had said that there were about a dozen men with old
man Packard.

"This is my fight, boys," Steve was saying. "Mine and my
grandfather's. I want you fellows to keep out of it unless the boys
with old man Packard mix in. If they do----"

"We're with you," said Yellow Barbee. "Huh, boys?"

And a little nervously and hurriedly they answered--

"Yes."

"Then," concluded Steve, "keep your eyes open. Hang back, now."

She saw him lean forward in the saddle, noted how the horse leaped
under him, took anxious stock of the manner in which he carried his
rifle. Then suddenly there came back into Terry's cheeks the good hot
blood, into her eyes the sparkle and shine, into her heart something
akin to the sheer joy of battle. Had she a horse she would not have
hung back for want of a rifle, but would have ridden after him, with
him. As it was she cried out ringingly:

"God go with you, Steve Packard! I'm proud of you!"

She might not ride with him; at least she would not crouch and cringe
and hide her eyes. She would watch him as he rode, watch him as he
fought, watch him to the end even though he slipped from the saddle.

So she made her way hastily to a point of vantage, running the brief
distance lying between the slight knoll on which she stood and the
eastern edge of the valley where the rugged peaks rose abruptly. She
scrambled up the first bit of slope, her heart beating wildly,
expecting each second to hear the snap and crackle of rifle-fire. She
turned and looked back; the floor of the valley was too uneven for her
to have a sweeping view.

She began climbing again. Great boulders rose in her path; somehow she
got on them and over them. Broken slabs of granite strewed the way;
she made of them steps on which to mount higher and higher. Still no
sound of a