miliar address only that day,
moved by the tenderness of the old tale he had told her, perhaps;
drawn nearer to him by the discovery of a gentle sentiment in him
which she had not known before. He heard it with a warm uplifting of
the heart, all without reason, he knew, for it was the range way to be
familiar on a shorter acquaintance than theirs.

"I'm going to give them back to him," he said. "I've been carrying
them around ever since he left them in the hope he'd get ashamed of
himself and come for them."

Joan started at the sound of galloping hoofs, which rose suddenly out
of complete silence as the riders mounted the crest behind them.

"I guess he's coming for them now," she said.

There were two riders coming down the slope toward them at a pace
altogether reckless. Mackenzie saw at a glance that neither of them
was Hector Hall, but one a woman, her loose garments flapping as she
rode.

"It's Swan Carlson and his wife!" he said, unable to cover his
amazement at the sight.

"What do you suppose they're doing over here?" Joan drew a little
nearer as she spoke, her horse shifting to keep by her side.

"No telling. Look how that woman rides!"

There was enough in her wild bearing to excite admiration and wonder,
even in one who had not seen her under conditions which promised
little of such development. She came on at Swan's side, leaning
forward a little, as light and sure in the saddle as any cowboy on the
range. They bore down toward the sheep-wagon as if they had no
intention of halting, jerking their horses up in Indian fashion a few
feet from where Mackenzie and Joan stood. The animals slid on stiff
legs, hoofs plowing the soft ground, raising a cloud of dust which
dimmed the riders momentarily.

Neither of the abrupt visitors spoke. They sat silently staring, not a
rod between them and the two on foot, the woman as unfriendly of face
as the man. And Swan Carlson had not improved in this feature since
Mackenzie parted from him in violence a few weeks before. His red hair
was shorter now, his drooping mustache longer, the points of it
reaching two inches below his chin. He was gaunt of cheek, hollow of
eyes, like a man who had gone hungry or suffered a sorrow that ate
away his heart.

His wife had improved somewhat in outward appearance. Her face had
filled, the pathetic uncertainty had gone from her eyes. She was not
uncomely as she sat astride her good bay horse, her divided skirt of
corduroy wi