a long account to settle with
Blake French and Garland--yes, and with the whole bunch of those
Frenches and Braden as well--and now I am going to clean it up."

"But if I forgive--"

"Forgive!" he interrupted bitterly. "It doesn't matter to me what you
forgive. You are a woman. But I am a man and you are my wife, and I can
see the marks of Blake French's fingers on your flesh. As surely as God
lives I will kill him, or he will kill me. About Garland I don't
know--yet."

His will was set, hardened; his mood black, deadly. Immediately he set
about his simple preparations. He knew that Blake and Garland would not
wait his coming. In all probability they would break for the hills,
where he must be prepared to follow them. He had found Chief, who had
come home of his own accord, waiting by the gate. A pack pony would
hamper his movements. He shoved his food in a sack, rolled a single
blanket in a tarp, got out a heavy sweater and changed his boots for
shoe-packs. Then he held out his arms to Faith. She clung to him.

"Don't go!" she pleaded. "If anything should happen--now--"

"I must go," he said. "If I didn't I should be less than a man. Nothing
will happen--to me. To-morrow--or it's to-day now, I guess--go to the
ranch and stay there till I get back."

He kissed her gently and put her from him. She followed him to the door
and saw him mount. He waved his hand and vanished in the blackness of
the night.

Faith returned to the living-room and sank into a chair. She was shaken,
bone-tired, sick at heart. A lifetime seemed to have passed since she
and Angus had sat there the night before, indulging in make-believe
playing at tragedy. Now tragedy had invaded their lives. It was like an
evil dream.

How long she sat there she never knew. Nor did she know how she became
aware that she was not alone. She turned her head to see a figure
standing behind her. Her shaken nerves forced a cry from her lips.

It was the old Indian, Paul Sam. There was a rifle under his arm, and
around his middle was a belt from which in a beaded scabbard hung a
long, broad-bladed knife. He was hatless, and his long, gray hair hung
in two braids in front of his shoulders.

"All right," he said. "You not be scared. Where him Angus?"

"He isn't here."

The old Indian's eyes roved around the room, resting on the signs of
disorder. "Iktah mamook?" he queried.

"I don't understand."

"What you mamook? What you do?" He threw up his head, his