"Tchah!"

 

The echo of that fierce expletive remained. It rang through heart and brain. Its sting was hot. It seared its way through the life channels and blasted all hope.

 

Was there ever such contempt, such scorn, such repulsion, concentrated in one single ejaculation! It told the woman everything. It told of a failure so complete that hope became an emotion driven forever from her heart. It told her that the usury of life was beyond all belief. It told her that the interest demanded for every pledged moment was without pity, or mercy, or justice. Now she knew how she had pawned, and, oh God, the interest which was being torn from her!

 

Her gaze remained upon the angle of the barn around which her husband had vanished. She was waiting for him to reappear. She was waiting to see if he would ride off in spite of her warning. But she was unaware of the thought prompting her. All she knew, all she felt, was the contempt, the scorn, the distrust he had hurled at her.

 

The western sky had faded to a pallid yellow. The distance was losing itself in the rising purple shadows. Already the dark patches of woodlands were assuming that ghostly vagueness which belongs to twilight. The ranch was wrapped in a deep repose. A sense of rest had fallen upon the great valley. All life seemed satisfied with its long day's effort and desired only the peace of night.

 

But the quiet suddenly gave way before a fresh clatter of movement. Hoofs once more beat on the sun-baked soil. Two figures grew out of the twilight from behind the barn, and the woman knew that her warning had gone for naught. She watched them until they were swallowed up by the growing dusk. The last dim outline blurred itself into the pasture. Then she stirred.

 

A deep sigh was heavily breathed. Then, in a moment, the paralysis fell from her. The dullness of her eyes gave place to a sheen of excitement, and her perfect cheeks assumed a faint, hectic flush.

 

For one brief moment she glanced back into the house. Then she glanced down at her own clothing. She was still clad in the riding suit which had become her daily wear. The survey seemed to satisfy her, for she left the veranda at a run, and made her way toward the barn.

 

Perhaps five minutes later she, too, became lost in the growing twilight, and her horse's hoofs awoke anew the echoes of the place. But her way did not lie in the track of the others. Her horse was racing headlong in the direction of Nan's home.

 

Bud and Nan were just finishing their supper when Elvine broke in upon them. She came with a rush and a clatter which brought Nan out on to the veranda in hurry of anxious inquiry. Bud was behind her, but his movements lacked her impulse.

 

Elvine was out of the saddle. She stood on the veranda, a figure of wild-eyed appeal.

 

"Jeff! Oh, he's gone. Nan, they'll--they'll kill him! I know it. I'm certain. And I warned him. I warned him. But--oh!"

 

She covered her face with her hands. It was a movement inspired by the memory of his scorn.

 

Nan's responsive heart was caught by the other's emotion. But above it leaped a fear which she was powerless to deny. Jeff? Jeff in danger? She flung out an arm. Her small hand gripped the other with a force that was incredible.

 

"What d'you mean?" she cried, almost fiercely. "Don't stand there like a fool. Who is going to harm Jeff?"

 

The sharp authority, so prompt, so unexpected, dragged the distraught woman into some command of herself. She raised her head. Her eyes were hot with unshed tears. They looked into Nan's, so urgent, yet so full of a steadfast sanity.

 

"It's Sikkem," she cried, steadying herself. "He's sent in to say he's badly shot up. He says he's located the rustlers' camp and must hand Jeff the news before--while he has time. Jeff's gone out there, and--Sikkem's one of the gang and escaped from Orrville four years ago."

 

"How d'you know?" It was Bud's heavy voice put the question. It was full of stern command.

 

"I've seen him. I know him, and--he knows me. He--he wrote this and sent it me."

 

Elvine thrust the crumpled note at Bud. Her gesture was almost desperate.

 

"When did he send it?" Again came Bud's command.

 

"Days ago."

 

"An' Jeff--didn't know till--now?"

 

"I was afraid to tell him--then."

 

Bud and Nan read the note by the parlor lamplight. A bitter imprecation broke from the man's lips.

 

"Guess I don't get it--yet," he said.

 

But Nan was quicker.

 

"He's gone to Spruce Crossing--to Sikkem?" she cried, her eyes hot as they dwelt on the shaking woman before her. "Don't wait talking. It don't matter the right of things. You, Daddy, get our horses fixed and round up a bunch of boys from the bunkroom. Jeff's in danger, an' it's up to us. Maybe Evie'll tell me while you go."

 

Something of the great Bud's feelings was displayed in the celerity of his movements. He was gone before Nan had finished speaking.

 

The two women were left facing each other.

 

Seconds passed without a word. The gentle Nan no longer looked out of the brown eyes. They were hot, resentful. Nor would any one have recognized in the anxious-eyed woman before her the beautiful creature who had first stirred Jeffrey Masters out of his years of celibate thought.

 

Without a word Nan turned back to the parlor. When she reappeared she was buckling a revolver belt about her slim waist. The two heavy holsters it supported were almost incongruous on so slight a figure.

 

Elvine watched her. The girl's deliberation was in deep contrast to her own emotions. Then, too, the sympathy which had fled from Nan's brown eyes left them full ............