had
vitalized her whole being, had made her beautiful as a wild rose. For the
moment at least she was lyrically happy.

This ardor still possessed June when she went into the dining-room to
make the set-ups for supper. She sang snatches of "Dixie" and "My Old
Kentucky Home" as she moved about her work. She hummed the chorus of
"Juanita." From that she drifted to the old spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet
Chariot."

A man was washing his hands in the tin basin provided outside for guests
of the hotel. Through the window came to him the lilt of the fresh young
voice.

"Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin' fo' to carry me home."

The look of sullen, baffled rage on the man's dark face did not lighten.
He had been beaten again. His revenge had been snatched from him almost
at the moment of triumph. If that mad dog had not come round the corner
just when it did, he would have evened the score between him and Dillon.
June had seen the whole thing. She had been a partner in the red-headed
boy's ovation. Houck ground his teeth in futile anger.

Presently he slouched into the dining-room.

Mollie saw him and walked across the room to June. "I'll wait on him if
you don't want to."

The waitress shook her head. "No, I don't want him to think I'm afraid of
him. I'm not, either. I'll wait on him."

June took Houck's order and presently served it.

His opaque eyes watched her in the way she remembered of old. They were
still bold and possessive, still curtained windows through which she
glimpsed volcanic passion.

"You can tell that squirt Dillon I ain't through with him yet, not by a
jugful," he growled.

"If you have anything to tell Bob Dillon, say it to _him_," June
answered, looking at him with fearless, level eyes of scorn.

"An' I ain't through with you, I'd have you know."

June finished putting his order on the table. "But I'm through with you,
Jake Houck," she said, very quietly.

"Don't think it. Don't you think it for a minute," he snarled. "I'm
gonna--"

He stopped, sputtering with fury. June had turned and walked into the
kitchen. He rose, evidently intending to follow her.

Mollie Larson barred the way, a grim, square figure with the air of a
brigadier-general.

"Sit down, Jake Houck," she ordered. "Or get out. I don't care which. But
don't you think I'll set by an' let you pester that girl. If you had a
lick o' sense you'd know it ain't safe."

There was nothing soft about Houck. He was a hard an