lefooter as
the great El Rey led out of town.

Then Buck Courtrey, flushed and unsmiling, sent his coldly narrowed
eyes over the crowded room, man by man. Laughter came, a trifle
cracked and forced, cards slapped on the tables, chairs creaked as the
players drew up again, the dancers swung into step as the fiddle took
up its interrupted strain.

Only Lola, over by the door, looked for a pregnant moment at
Courtrey's face, and shut her lips in a hard, straight line.

Then, lastly, the cold eyes of the king came down to rest upon the
weazened figure of the snow-packer busily engaged in rolling up his
sacks for departure. If the strange old creature knew and felt their
promise, he gave no sign as he trundled himself outdoors on his bandy
legs.

"Skunks," said Old Pete, as he fumbled with his straps about the
patient burros, "are plumb pizen t' pure flesh."

CHAPTER II

THE HORSES OF THE FINGER MARKS

At Last's Holding a change had taken place. The sun of spring still
shone as brightly, the work of the place went on as usual. The riders
went at dawn and came at dusk, their herds lowing across the rolling
green spaces, the days were as busy as they had ever been, but it
seemed as if Last's waited for something that would never happen, for
some one who would never come. Conford, quiet, forceful, businesslike,
carried on the work without a ripple. To a casual eye all things were
as they had been. But to the keen eyes in the tanned faces of Last's
riders the change was appallingly apparent. They saw it creep day by
day into their lives, felt it in the very atmosphere, and it was grim
and promising.

Old Anita felt it and watched with dim and wistful eyes. Pretty young
Paula from the Pomo Indian settlement far to the north of the Valley
under the Rockface felt it and was more silent, cat-like of step than
ever. Jose, always full of laughter at his outside work, was sobered.

For this change was not material, but spiritual, and it had to do with
Tharon, who was now the mistress of Last's.

She no longer sang her wordless songs, no longer played for hours on
the little old melodeon by the western door. Something had gone from
the brightness of her face, a shadow had come instead. She was just as
swift and gentle in her care for all the things of every day, as
efficient and painstaking, but she did not laugh, and the tiny lines
that had characterized her father's blue eyes, began to show
distinctly about her o