small and straight before her
warden, looking squarely into his eyes.

"You needn't," she said, "put any locks on valuables here--not on my
account. The crookedest crook in the world wouldn't steal from _her_."

"I am glad you recognize a true woman," he said earnestly.

"Thank you for bringing me here. I feel it's the turning point in my
life."

"Then," he said earnestly, "I feel I have done something worth while. You
shall not leave here until--you see I am speaking plainly--you have
overcome all desire to steal."

"Not a severe penalty, O Sheriff Man!" she thought as she replied meekly:
"To-night I feel as if I could never do anything wrong; but you know the
strongest of us have our lapses."

"I know that too well," he said gravely, "but--you'll try?"

"I'll try. Good-night, Mr. Walters."

In the doorway she paused and looked back. He was gazing meditatively into
the flames of the open fire. She shook a little defiant fist at him and
made a childish grimace, both of which actions were witnessed by Kingdon
as he entered the room.

"Do you know," he confided later to his wife, with a chuckle of
reminiscence, "as fine a fellow as Kurt is, I sometimes feel like shaking
a fist at him myself."

CHAPTER IV

As on the day previous, Pen awoke at an early hour. She lay quiet for a
moment, sensing to the full the deliciousness of being cosily submerged in
soft, warm coverings that protected her from the crisp, keen hill-winds
that were sweeping into her room.

"The air smells as if it came right off the snow," she thought, as she
drew on some fur-bound slippers and wrapped herself in a Navajo blanket
that was on the footrail of her bed. Then she crossed the room, climbed up
on the big seat under the casement window and looked out.

It was not the thrilling beauty of the covey of pink-lined dawn-clouds
that made her eyes grow round, big and bright; that brought a faint flush
to her cheeks; a quick intake of breath. It was something much more
mundane that held her attention--the superb spectacle of Kurt Walters,
mounted. The lean, brown horseman sat on his saddle as easily as though it
were a cushion in a rocking chair. He was talking to three or four
cattlemen and apparently paying no attention to his cavorting steed except
that occasionally and casually his firm hands brought the plunging animal
to earth.

"He's to the saddle born," thought the girl admiringly. "He ought to stay
on a horse. If I'd see