from Sonora to the
Sweetgrass Hills! And on that occasion he had found the fugitive he
sought, yet he had ridden back to Sonora alone. He had never forgotten
the face of the young Mexican woman who had pleaded with him to let her
lover go. Her eyes were big and velvet black. Her mouth was the mouth
of a Madonna.

Waring had told her that it was useless to plead. He remembered how her
eyes had grown dull and sullen at his word. He told her that he was
simply doing his duty. She had turned on him like a panther, her little
knife glittering in the dusk as she drove it at his breast. The Mexican
lover had jerked free and was running toward the foothills. Waring
recalled his first surprise at the wiry strength of her wrist as he had
twisted the knife from her. If the Mexican lover had not turned and shot
at him--The black figure of the Mexican had dropped just where the road
entered the foothills. The light had almost gone. The vague bulk of the
Sierras wavered. Outlines vanished, leaving a sense of something
gigantic, invisible, that slumbered in the night. The stars were big and
softly brilliant as he had ridden north.

The old wound in his shoulder ached. The Mexican had made a good
shot--for a Mexican.

Out on the Arizona mesa, against the half disk of gold, was the black
silhouette of a horseman. Waring stepped to the doorway. Ramon was
seated just outside the door, smoking a cigarette. The southern stars
were almost visible. Each star seemed to have found its place, and yet
no star could be seen.

"It is Lorry," said Ramon. "He has ridden far."

Waring smiled. Fifty miles had not been considered a big day's ride in
his time. _In his time!_ But his day was past. The goddess he had
followed had left him older than his years, crippled, unable to ride
more than a few hours at a time; had left him fettered to the monotony
of the far mesa levels and the changeless hills. Was this his
punishment, or simply a black trick of fate, that the tang of life had
evaporated, leaving a stagnant pool wherein he gazed to meet the blurred
reflection of a face weary with waiting for--what end?

Unused to physical inactivity, Waring had grown somber of mind these
latter days. Despite the promise of more comfortable years, he had never
felt more lonely. With the coming of Lorry the old order would change.
Young blood, new life would have its way.

The sound of pattering hoofs grew louder. Waring heard the old familiar,
"Hi! Yippy! Y