cattle thieves operating in the country where
his ranch lay. He lost calves. One day he caught a brand blotter at
work. The fellow refused to surrender. There was a fight, and my father
killed him."

"Oh!" cried the girl softly in fascinated horror.

"Such things had to be in those days. Any man that was a man had
sometimes to fight or else go to the wall."

"I can see that. I wasn't blaming your father. Only ... it must have
been horrible to have to do."

"The fellow thieves of the man swore vengeance. One night they caught
the chief--that's what I used to call my father--caught him alone in a
gambling hell in the cow town where the stockmen came to buy provisions.
My father had gone there by appointment to meet a man--lured to his
death by a forged note. He knew he had probably come to the end of the
passage as soon as he had stepped into the place. His one chance was to
turn and run. He wouldn't do that."

"I love him for it," the girl cried impetuously.

"The story goes that he looked them over contemptuously, the whole half
dozen of them, and laughed in a slow irritating way that must have got
under their hides."

Moya, looking at the son, could believe easily this story of the father.
"Go on," she nodded tensely.

"The quarrel came, as of course it would. Just before the guns flashed a
stranger rose from a corner and told the rustlers they would have to
count him in the scrap, that he wouldn't stand for a six to one row."

"Wasn't that fine? I suppose he was a friend of your father he had
helped some time."

"No. He had never seen him before. But he happened to be a man."

The eyes of the girl were shining. For the moment she was almost
beautiful. A flame seemed to run over her dusky face, the glow of her
generous heart finding expression externally. It was a part of her charm
that her delight in life bubbled out in little spasms of laughter, in
impetuous movements wholly unpremeditated.

"I'm glad there are such men," she cried softly.

"The story of that fight is a classic to-day in the hills. When it ended
two of the rustlers were dead, two badly wounded, and the others
galloping away for their lives. The chief and his unknown friend were
lying on the floor shot to pieces."

"But they lived--surely they didn't die?"

"Yes, they lived and became close friends. A few years later they were
partners. Both of them are dead now. Sam Lundy--that was the name of my
father's rescuer--left two childre