"You was huntin' over on the old place on the other side of the range?"

"Yes."

"Pretty fair run of game?"

"Rather."

"I think you said something about Logan?"

"Did I? I've been thinking a good deal about him. He gave me the wrong
tip about the way to Eldara. When I get back to the old place--"

"Well?"

The other smiled unpleasantly and made a gesture as if he were snapping
a twig between his hands.

"I'll break him in two."

The eyes of Nash grew wide with astonishment; he was remembering that
same phrase on the lips of the big, grey man, Drew.

He murmured: "That may give you a little trouble. Logan's a peaceable
chap, but he has his record before he got down as low as sheepherdin'."

"I like trouble--now and then."

A pause.

"Odd old shack over there."

"Drew's old house?"

"Yes. There's a grave in front of it."

"And there's quite a yarn inside the grave."

The cowpuncher was aware that the other stirred--not much, but as if he
winced from a drop of cold water; he felt that he was close on the trail
of the real reason why the Easterner wished to see Drew.

"A story about Drew's wife?"

"You read the writing on the headstone, eh?"

"'Joan, she chose this place for rest,'" quoted Bard.

"That was all before my time; it was before the time of any others in
these parts, but a few of the grey-beards know a bit about the story and
I've gathered a little of it from Drew, though he ain't much of a
talker."

"I'd like to hear it."

Sensitively aware of Bard, as a photographic plate is aware of light on
exposures, the cowpuncher went on with the tale.

And Bard, his glance probing among the shadowy rafters of the room,
seemed to be searching there for the secret on whose trail he rode.
Through the interims the rain crashed and volleyed on the roof above
them; the cold spray whipped down on them through the cracks; the wind
shook and rattled the crazy house; and the drawling voice of Nash went
on and on.

CHAPTER XX

JOAN

"Them were the days when this was a man's country, which a man could
climb on his hoss with a gun and a rope and touch heaven and hell in one
day's ridin'. Them good old days ain't no more. I've heard the old man
tell about 'em. Now they've got everybody stamped and branded with law
an' order, herded together like cattle, ticketed, done for. That's the
way the range is now. The marshals have us by the throat. In the old
days a sheriff that outlived his term