tus, at the stables, raised a shout and broke for the store on the
run.

"Hyer's Miss Phyl done come home."

At his call light-stepping dusty men poured from the building like seeds
from a squeezed orange. There was a rush for the girl. She was lifted
from her saddle and carried in triumph to the porch. Jim Sanderson came
running from the cellar in the rear and buried her in his arms.

She broke down and began to cry a little. "Oh, Dad--Dad, I'm so glad to
be home."

The old Confederate veteran was close to tears himself.

"Honey, I jes' got back from town. Phil, he done wrong not letting me
know. I come pretty nigh giving that boy the bud. Wait till I meet up
with Buck Weaver. It's him or me for suah this time."

"No, Dad, no! You must let me explain. I've been quite safe, and it's
all over now. Everything is all right."

"Is it?" Sanderson laughed harshly.

"The sheriff telephoned him to keep me, but you see he brought me home."

"Brought you home?" The sheepman's black eyes lifted quickly and met
those of his enemy.

"So you're there, Buck Weaver. I reckon you and I will settle accounts."

Phil and Tom Dixon had quietly circled round so as to cut off Weaver's
retreat in case he attempted one.

"He's got the rustler with him," Tom Dixon cried quickly.

"Goddlemighty, so he has. We'll make a clean sweep," the Southerner
cried, his eyes blazing.

"Then you'll destroy the man who was ready to give his life for mine,"
his daughter said quietly.

"What's that? How's that, Phyllie?"

"It's a long story. I want you to hear it all. But not here."

Her voice fell. A sudden memory had come to her of one thing at least
that she could not tell even to him--the story of that moment when she
had lain in the arms of the nester with his heart beating against her
breast.

The old man caught her by the shoulder, holding her at arm's length,
while the deep eyes under his shaggy, grizzled brows pierced her.

"What have you got to tell me, gyurl? Out with it!"

But on the heels of his imperative demand came reassurance. A tide of
color poured into her face, but her eyes met his quietly. They let him
understand, more certainly than words, that all was well with his ewe
lamb. Putting her gently to one side, he strode toward his enemy.

"What are you doing here, Buck Weaver?"

The cattleman swept the circle of lowering faces, and laughed
contemptuously. "A man might think I wasn't welcome if he didn't know
better.