ys on the round-up know
that. And why? Because I learnt the business from Peter--and Peter
taught me to shoot quick and straight. Those three years taught me a
deal, and I take it those things didn't happen for nothing," with a
moody introspective gaze. "Those years taught me how to look after
myself--and my uncle. Say, Bill, what I'm telling you may sicken you
some. I can't help that. Peter was my brother and blood's thicker than
water. I wasn't going to let him be hunted down by a lot of bloodthirsty
coyotes who were no better than he. I wasn't going to let my mother's
flesh feed the crows from the end of a lariat. I helped Peter to steer
clear of the law--lynch at that--and if he fell at last, a victim to
the sucking muck of the muskeg, it was God's judgment and not
man's--that's good enough for me. I'd do it all again, I guess, if--if
Peter were alive."

"Peter had some shooting on the account against him," said Bill, without
raising his eyes from the contemplation of his cigarette. The girl
smiled. The smile hovered for a moment round her mouth and eyes, and
then passed, leaving her sweet, dark face bathed in the shadow of
regret. She understood the drift of his remark but in no way resented
it.

"No, Bill, I steered clear of that. I'd have shot to save Peter, but it
never came to that. Whatever shooting Peter did was done on his--lonely.
I jibbed at a frolic that meant--shooting. Peter never let me dirty my
hands to that extent. Guess I just helped him and kept him posted. If
I'd had law, they'd have called me accessory after the fact."

"Lord" Bill pondered. His lazy eyes were half-closed. He looked
indifferent but his thoughts were flowing fast. This girl's story had
given a fillup to a wild plan which had almost unconsciously found place
in his active brain. Now he raised his eyes to her face and was
astonished at the setness of its expression. She reminded him of those
women in history whose deeds had, at various periods, shaken the
foundations of empires. There was a deep, smouldering fire in her eyes,
for which only the native blood in her veins could account. Her
beautiful face was clouded beneath a somber shadow which is so often
accredited as a presage of tragedy. Surely her expression was one of a
great, passionate nature, of a soul capable of a wondrous love, or a
wondrous--hate. She had seated herself upon the ground with the careless
abandon of one used to such a resting-place. Her trim riding-boot