de on its flanks, a man's gray shirt laced over her bosom,
the collar open, showing the fairness of her neck. Her abundant hair
was braided, and wound closely about her head like a cap. Freedom had
made a strange alteration in her. It seemed, indeed, as if Swan
Carlson had breathed into her the breath of his own wild soul, making
her over according to the desire of his heart.

Mackenzie stepped out in invitation for Swan to state the occasion of
his boisterous visit, and stood waiting in silence while the two
strange creatures continued to stare. Swan lifted his hand in a manner
of salutation, no change either of friendship or animosity in his
lean, strong face.

"You got a woman, huh? Well, how'll you trade?"

Swan glanced from his wife to Joan as he spoke. If there was any
recollection in him of the hard usage he had received at Mackenzie's
hands, it did not seem to be bitter.

"Ride on," said Mackenzie.

Mrs. Carlson urged her horse with sudden start close to where Joan
stood, leaned far over her saddle and peered into the girl's face.
Joan, affronted by the savage impertinence, met her eyes defiantly,
not giving an inch before the unexpected charge.

In that pose of defiant challenge Swan Carlson's woman peered into the
face of the girl whose freshness and beauty had drawn the wild banter
from her man's bold lips. Then, a sudden sweep of passion in her face,
she lifted her rawhide quirt and struck Joan a bitter blow across the
shoulder and neck. Mackenzie sprang between them, but Mrs. Carlson,
her defiance passed in that one blow, did not follow it up. Swan
opened wide his great mouth and pealed out his roaring laughter, not a
line of mirth softening in his face, not a gleam of it in his eyes. It
was a sound without a note to express human warmth, or human
satisfaction.

Joan flamed up like a match in oil. She dropped her bridle-reins,
springing back a quick step, turning her eyes about for some weapon by
which she might retaliate. Hector Hall's pistols hung on the end-gate
of the sheep-wagon not more than twenty feet away. It seemed that Joan
covered the distance in a bound, snatched one of the guns and fired.
Her own horse stood between her and the wild range woman, which
perhaps accounted for her miss. Mackenzie was holding her wrist before
she could shoot again.

Swan let out another roar of heartless laughter, and together with his
woman galloped down the hill. Ahead of them the sheep were assembled,