That was a bitter ride to .
 
The day was sweet with the and sounds of summer. Birds called from the , high up the pine tops, stirred by a little wind, sang their diapason, while she could hear far back the voice of Nameless, growing fainter as she left it.
 
At another time she would have missed nothing of all this, would have gloried in it, drunk with the wine of nature. Now a shadow hung over all the fair expanse of slope and mountain range, an oppression heavy, almost, as the hand of death sat on her heart.
 
She rode slowly, letting Buckskin take his own time and way, her hands folded listlessly on her pommel, her faded brown riding skirt swinging at her ankles. She had discarded her disfiguring for a wide felt hat of Bud’s and her bright hair shone under it like dull gold. She was scarcely thinking. She had given way to feeling—to feeling the acid of defeat eating at her vitals, the hand of an intangible force pressing upon her.
 
And she had to face McKane and tell him she could not pay her debt. That seemed the worst of all. She could go without their necessities—her Mammy’s shoes and Bud’s new underwear—and as for the luxuries she had planned, like the blue dress and the carpet—why, she would cease thinking about them at once, though the giving up of the carpet did come hard, she owned to that. But to fail in her promise to pay—ah, that was to her spirit! However, it couldn’t kill them, she reasoned, no matter how bitter might be their . There was always another day, another year, for work and hope, and there were still the . They would bring, at least, enough for the winter’s food supply of flour and sugar, salt and tea.
 
She could not turn them in on the debt—the trader must see that.
 
Cordova lay sleeping under a late noon-day sun when she rode into the end of the struggling street. A few horses were tied to the rack in front of the store and a half-dozen men lounged on the porch. Nance went hot and cold at sight of them.
 
She had hoped all the way down that McKane would be alone, for no conversation inside the store could fail to be audible on the porch. It would be hard enough to talk to him without an interested audience.
 
She felt terribly alien, as if these people were against her, and yet she could not discern among the loungers anyone from Sky Line.
 
As she drew near she did see with a grateful thrill that Sheriff Price Selwood sat back against the door-jamb, his feet on the rung of his chair. At sight of him a bit of the left her, a faint confidence took its place. She remembered his eyes that could harden and narrow so quickly, his way of understanding things and people.
 
She dismounted and tied Buckskin under a tree and went forward. As she mounted the steps the sheriff looked up, rose and raised his hat.
 
Nance smiled at him more gratefully than she knew.
 
Then she stepped inside the door—and came face to face with Kate Cathrew who was just coming out. McKane was behind her carrying a small sack which held her mail and some few purchases.
 
The two women stopped instantly, their eyes upon each other.
 
It was the first time they had met thus .
 
At sight of this woman whose unproved, hidden workings had meant so much to her, Nance Allison’s face went slowly white.
 
She stood still in the door, straight and quiet, and looked at her in silence.
 
At the prolonged of her Cattle Kate flung up her head and smiled, a conscious, action.
 
“If you don’t want all the door, young woman,” she said, “please.”
 
She made a move to pass, but Nance suddenly put out a hand.
 
There was an dignity in the motion, a sort of last-stand authority.
 
“I do,” said the girl, “want it all. I have something to tell McKane, and you may as well hear it.”
 
The imperious face of Kate Cathrew flushed darkly with the rising tide of her temper.
 
“Get—out—of—that—door,” she said distinctly, but for once she was not obeyed.
 
The big girl on the threshold looked over her head at the trader. There was a little white line pinched in at the base of Nance’s , her blue eyes were colder and narrower than any one had ever seen them in her life.
 
“McKane,” she said clearly, so that the hushed listeners behind her caught every , “you know what a fight I’ve made to hold my own on Nameless since my father died—or was killed. You know how close to the wind I’ve sailed to eat, for you’ve sold me what we’ve had. And I’ve always managed to keep even, haven’t I?”
 
“Yes,” said the trader uneasily.
 
“Up till six months ago when I had to go in debt for a new harness or do no work in my fields this spring, I told you when I bought it, didn’t I, why I had to buy it?”
 
“Yes,” he said again.
 
“It was because someone went into my barn one night and cut the old harness into ribbons. That put me in debt to you for the first time.”
 
She stopped and wet her lips. There was the sound of someone rising on the porch and Price Selwood moved in behind her.
 
She felt him there and a thrill went through her, as if he had put a hand on her shoulder.
 
“I told you when I bought it that I’d pay you when my corn was ripe—that, if it went well, I’d have far and away more than enough. Well, it went well—so well that I knew yesterday I’d come out ahead and be able to meet that debt and live beside. This morning that field of corn was gone— out—cut to pieces like my harness—pounded into the dirt by a band of cattle that had been driven—driven, you understand—over every foot of it. There was a wide gap cut in the fence at the upper end. That’s all—but I can’t pay my debt to you.”
 
She stopped and a sharp silence fell. Outside the store in the shade the stallion Bluefire screamed and stamped.
 
Kate Cathrew took a quick step forward.
 
“What for did you tell this drivel before me?” she said. “What’s it to me?”
 
“Nothing, I know,” said Nance; “maybe a laugh—maybe a hope. My big flats on the river’d feed a pretty bunch of cattle through. And Homesteaders have been driven out of the cattle country before now.”
 
“You hussy!” cried Cattle Kate, and, bending back she flung up the hand which held the braided quirt. The snapped viciously, but Nance Allison was quicker than the whip. Her own arm flashed up and she caught the wrist in the grip of a hand which had held a all spring.
 
Like a lever her arm came down and forced Kate’s hand straight down to her knee, so that the flaming black eyes were within a few inches of her face.
 
“Woman,” said Nance clearly, “I’m living up to my lights the best I can. I’m holding myself hard to walk in the straight road. The hand of God is before my face and you can’t hurt me—not . Now you—get—out—of—that—door.”
 
And turning she moved Selwood with her as she swung the other, whirling like a Dervish, clear to the middle of the porch.<............