It was dark of the moon and Sheriff Price Selwood sat on his horse a little distance from McKane’s store at Cordova, his hat pulled over his brows, his hands on his saddle horn.
Inside the lighted store four tables were going.
A bunch of cattlemen from the Upper Country were in and most of the Cathrew men were down from Sky Line.
The nine or ten bona-fide citizens of Cordova were present also, and McKane was in high fettle. The few houses of the town were dark for it was fairly late. All these things the sheriff in the quarter hour he sat patiently watching.
When he was satisfied that all the families were represented inside, that the dogs of the place were settled to inaction, and that no one was likely to leave the store for several hours at least, he did a thing.
He tied his horse to a tree near where it stood and went forward quietly on foot, stopping at the rack where the Cathrew horses stood in a row. They were good stock. Cattle Kate would have nothing else at Sky Line.
Selwood took plenty of time, patting a shoulder here, stroking a nose there, and finally stepped in between a big brown and the rangy grey gelding which Sud Provine always rode. He fondled the animal for a few moments, then ran his hand down the left foreleg and picked up the . It was shod, saddle-horse fashion. He placed the foot between his knees, very much after the manner of a blacksmith, and taking a small coarse file from his coat pocket, proceeded to file a small in the shoe.
Then he put the file away, gave the grey a last friendly slap, got his own horse and rode away.
He intended to have a good night’s sleep.
Several days later Kate Cathrew came down to Cordova and held a short private conversation with McKane.
“McKane,” she said, “who gives you the heaviest trade in this man’s country?”
“You do,” said McKane , “far and away.”
“Do you value it?”
“Does a duck swim?”
“Then give me a moment’s attention,” said Kate Cathrew, “and keep what I say under your hat.”
“I’m like the well that old saw tells of—the stone sinks and is never seen again. in the heart of a friend, you know.”
“Thanks. Now listen.”
When the woman rode away a half hour later, carrying another of those letters from New York which the trader had come to hate ever since Selwood’s suggestion concerning the writer, his eyes had a very strange expression. It was a mixture of several expressions, rather—astonishment, of personal gratification, and a vague, incongruous regret. If he had been a better man that last faint seeming of sorrow might have denoted the loss of an ideal, the death of something fine.
But he looked after Cattle Kate with a fire of passion that was slowly growing with every interview.
Life at the homestead on Nameless took on a new color with the of Sonny Fair. Mrs. Allison, an of universal motherhood, looked over the , well-mended of the family and laid out such articles as she judged could be spared.
These she began expertly to make over into little garments.
“When did Brand buy you these pants, Sonny?” she inquired, but the child shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“H’m. Must be pretty poor,” she opined, but Bud in .
“Pretty durn stingy, I’d say,” he remarked.
“Hold , Bud,” counseled , “when a man travels for two years he don’t have much time to make money. We’re poor, too, but that don’t spell anything.”
Bud held his tongue, but it was plain he was not convinced.
“What makes him so contrary, I wonder?” said the girl later.
“He’s jealous,” said Mrs. Allison calmly, “because you champion th’ stranger. It’s natural.”
The field of corn was beautiful.
Its blades were broad and satiny, covering the brown earth from view, and the waving green floor came well up along the horses’ legs as Nance rode down the rows on the shackly cultivator.
For three days she had been at it, a of love. She had many dreams as she watched the light wimpling on the silky banners, vague, pleasant dreams that had to do with her cancelled debt at the store, with the trip to Bement about the carpet, and with the new blue dress she hoped to get with the surplus.
Bud must have some new things, too, and her Mammy needed shoes the worst way.
All these things the growing field promised her, whispering under the little wind, and she was happy deep in her innocent heart.
She wondered if she dared ask Brand to let her take Sonny on that trip to Bement, then instantly she should not.
There might be someone from Nameless in the town, and Brand was particularly on his staying out of sight.
She never ceased to wonder about that.
What could be his reason?
What could there be in the Deep Heart country to whom a little child could make a difference?
But it was none of her business, she concluded, and could wait the light of the future. Maybe Brand would some day tell her all about it.
So she worked and planned for two days more. At their end she drove the cultivator to the stable and stood stretching her tired shoulder muscles while Bud unharnessed the team.
She looked back at the field with smiling eyes.
“Can only get in it about once more,” she said, “it’s growing so fast.”
“Pretty,” Bud said, “pretty as you, almost. Do you know you’re pretty, Sis?”
“Hush!” she laughed. “You’ll make me vain. Pretty is as pretty does, you know.”
“Well, the Lord knows you do enough,” returned the boy bitterly, “if I was only half a man——”
“Bud!” cried Nance quickly, “you’re the most sure-enough he-man I know. You’ve got the patience and the courage of ten common men. If it hadn’t been for your steady backing I’d never be on Nameless now. I’d have quit long back.”
“Like the dickens you would!” said Bud, but a grin replaced the shadow of bitterness on his face.
Supper that night was particularly pleasant.
There were new potatoes and green peas from the garden down by the river, and a plate of the never failing cookies of which Sonny could not get enough.
“He’s hollow to his toes,” said Mrs. Allison, “I can’t never seem to get him full.”
“The little shaver’s starved,” said Bud.
“Not starved, but he ain’t had regular food—not righ............