er of Sergeant Fones. The private
remarked once on this point "Sarpints alive! the heels of the one and
the law of the other is the love of them. They'll weather together like
the Divil and Death."

The Sergeant was brooding; that was not like him. He was hesitating;
that was less like him. He turned his broncho round as if to cross the
Big Divide and to go back to Windsor's store; but he changed his mind
again, and rode on toward David Humphrey's ranch. He sat as if he had
been born in the saddle. His was a face for the artist, strong and
clear, and having a dominant expression of force. The eyes were deepset
and watchful. A kind of disdain might be traced in the curve of the
short upper lip, to which the moustache was clipped close--a good fit,
like his coat. The disdain was more marked this morning.

The first part of his ride had been seen by Young Aleck, the second part
by Mab Humphrey. Her first thought on seeing him was one of apprehension
for Young Aleck and those of Young Aleck's name. She knew that people
spoke of her lover as a ne'er-do-weel; and that they associated his
name freely with that of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She had a dread of
Pierre, and, only the night before, she had determined to make one last
great effort to save Aleck, and if he would not be saved--strange that,
thinking it all over again, as she watched the figure on horseback
coming nearer, her mind should swerve to what she had heard of Sergeant
Fones's expected promotion. Then she fell to wondering if anyone had
ever given him a real Christmas present; if he had any friends at all;
if life meant anything more to him than carrying the law of the land
across his saddle. Again he suddenly came to her in a new thought,
free from apprehension, and as the champion of her cause to defeat the
half-breed and his gang, and save Aleck from present danger or future
perils.

She was such a woman as prairies nurture; in spirit broad and
thoughtful and full of energy; not so deep as the mountain woman, not so
imaginative, but with more persistency, more daring. Youth to her was
a warmth, a glory. She hated excess and lawlessness, but she could
understand it. She felt sometimes as if she must go far away into the
unpeopled spaces, and shriek out her soul to the stars from the fulness
of too much life. She supposed men had feelings of that kind too, but
that they fell to playing cards and drinking instead of crying to the
stars. Still, she preferre