“I’d call you somethin’ stronger’n that,” declared Setter, with sarcasm. “Why didn’t you tell me the terms of that deal? I’d have blocked it. Sewell McAdam! That pasty-faced potato-head on a whip-handle!... Blaine, even if you could have arranged this marriage I’d have blocked it.”

  “You would?” blurted out Blaine.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “The hell you say!” Here the old independence of a hard pioneer of the West spoke, dry, crisp, somehow menacing, with just a hint of curiosity. It thrilled Ina more deeply than any word or deed she remembered of her father’s.

  “No need to argue about that now,” added Setter, smooth and conciliatory again. “The McAdam deal is off. Probably we’re well rid of that shrewd old hombre.”

  “Reckon so, ‘specially as he’s thick with Amos Ide’s banker.

  I had a devil of a time persuadin’ Amos to throw in with us.”

  “Don’t worry, Hart. That’s done. Ide is in with us, up to his neck, deeper than he knows.... Hello! there are the cowboys ridin’ in from Mule Deer Lake. I sent them over. Hey, boys?”

  A lean rider detached himself from his companions riding up the road and trotted over to Setter and Blaine.

  “Nobody at home at Mule Deer Lake,” he announced. “Reckon the drought drove them out. No water. Place all burned brown. Few cattle an’ deer dead from drinkin’ mud.”

  “That’s strange,” muttered Setter. “Moved out.... But, of course, those homesteaders couldn’t live there without water. Blaine, I’ll bet you can find Sims at Hammell to-morrow.”

  “Wal, I’ll ask for him,” replied Blaine, turning on his heel. When he entered the office Ina was sitting at the other end of the room, apparently reading. He was surprised to find her there.

  “Dad, you sent for me,” she said.

  “Wal, so I did. I forgot.”

  He looked harassed and worn; he ran a horny hand through his grizzled hair as if to revive vague thoughts.

  “Ina, I’m out of favour with you an’ ma,” he began, not appealingly, but merely making a statement. “In your case I want to make Clear that I thought you’d sure care for Sewell McAdam. Kate’s case with her city beau might be some to blame. I couldn’t bide what I took for your disobeyin’ me, an’ I got mad. Now I want to know if you really meant you’d run off from me an’ be a waitress in a hotel.”

  “Dad, I certainly meant it. But I could surely get a better job than that.”

  “Wal, you needn’t think about it again. I’m sort of ashamed, an’ I don’t take kind to your mother’s late opinion of me. After all, I’m workin’ an’ storin’ up for my family, not for myself.”

  “Yes, I know, Dad. But mother and I and Dali — Marvie, too — would like kindness and love now, rather than any material proof of them in the future.”

  “Ahuh. Reckon I’ve had a heap on my mind lately,” he replied, not quite comprehending. He had received a shock, but it would take a great deal more to clarify his obtuse mind, if that were ever possible. “An’ from the hunches I’m gettin’ it looks like I’d have more. But your old dad ain’t done for yet, even if his favourite daughter did lick him.”

  Ina kissed his brown cheek and laid a hand on his broad shoulder.

  “You will be glad some day that I had the independence to stand by my rights.... Dad, I think sudden wealth has placed you in a position where you make new decisions. They’re strange to you. And some of them are beginning to get you into trouble.”

  “Lordy! you hit it. Half the time lately these deals stump me. Reckon I don’t mean cattle an’ land. I know them. But the papers, figgers, mortgages, an’ interest — they get me buffaloed. If it wasn’t for Setter I’d be worse than stumped.”

  “Dad, have you talked over all your deals with a good lawyer?” asked Ina, earnestly.

  “Not one of them. What do I want to pay lawyer’s fees for? Setter is lawyer enough.”

  “But Dad — how do you know he is honest?”

  Her father straightened up with a jerk. “What? Honest? I never thought anythin’ else. Setter’s a mighty big man. He could buy an’ sell me ten times over... Child, where did you get a queer idea that he might be — ?”

  A crunching of the gravel outside and a jingling of spurs interrupted Blaine’s questions. Setter stepped into the doorway. When he saw Ina his wine-dark eyes leaped and his mobile face lighted with a smile that made him rather handsome. His gladness at sight of her was unmistakably sincere.

  “Evenin’, Ina, was wonderin’ when I’d see you,” he said, approaching her. “Your dad told me how you chased that false-face with its little moustache back to Klamath. I’m tellin’ you I’d have chased him myself pretty soon.”

  “Oh, I guess dad did the chasing,” replied Ina, nervously.

  “Now, some older chaps, like me, can have a chance,” he said, and taking hold of her arms above her elbows he gave her a gentle pull. He appeared smiling, suave, yet there was unveiled boldness in eyes and manner.

  Ina did not move nor look up at Setter. She watched her father while she stood there in Setter’s grasp. What she saw confirmed a suspicion born of that very moment. Setter had a hold on her father, who was realising this, and that it involved his daughter.

  Then Ina slipped not gently out of Setter’s grasp and left the room. Soberly she bent her steps toward camp. What had only seemed vexatious and offensive had developed into a plot. In the first flush of this possibility she felt trapped, helpless. Her father was no match for Less Setter. How deeply he must have become involved! Setter’s air was that of a master of a situation, a conquest over which he exulted. Then Ina’s temper fired away her dread and into her mind flashed her mother’s advice.

  “A strapping big cowboy who would fight for me!” murmured Ina, half aloud. “Oh, it sounds beautiful! I’d find one. But how can I — when — when I love Ben Ide.”

  Here Ina halted in her tracks, aghast. Suddenly she began to tremble. Her heart had ambushed her and in a moment of poignant uncertainty had betrayed her with the truth. A simple, natural confession, spoken aloud, suddenly grew to astounding proportions. Ben Ide! Love! — Ever since her childhood! The truth burst imperiously upon Ina, overwhelming her. Friendship, loyalty had been guises to deceive herself. She hurried on, suddenly afraid of being seen, of the sunlight, of herself. She ran, at first fleetly, to the grove, under the juniper trees, and then almost blindly into her tent, where she locked herself in, and leaned back against the door, hands clutched to her surging breast. Her terrible predicament dawned upon her. It was agony — that piercing, staggering surrender to love. “Ben! Ben!” she whispered, wildly. “My God — it’s my life!”

  Not for many hours, indeed not until late the next day, did Ina recover from the storm of emotion that had overwhelmed her, and then it seemed she was herself again intensified and magnified beyond understanding. Out of the spiritual chaos emerged a woman infinitely surer of herself, one who scorned weakening before the problems of yesterday.

  From that crucial time every hour seemed full, dreamy, prophetic, yet they passed swiftly. She kept busy and active as much as the limited opportunities permitted. She helped her mother, sewed, read, studied, played with Dall, rode horseback with Marvie, but there were often intervals in which she idled, dreamed, waited for something that she knew was going to happen. Dread had departed. She had no more fear of Setter and made no effort to avoid him, a circumstance he manifestly grasped. It puzzled him. Whatever his mental attributes he was not thick-headed and egotistical like McAdam. Ina’s changed attitude, however, did not affect him, as it was plain he was indifferent to the state of her mind and heart. Ina saw that he had no conception of the spirit of a woman. He was merely baser, bold, brutal. He did not want love or respect. She was no more than a horse to be possessed and beaten.

  In a clever and unobtrusive way Ina managed to dip into her father’s affairs. After all, he could be approached. It was Setter who resented Ina’s interest and suggestion. But with regard to this situation he was between the devil and the deep sea, because he revelled in Ina’s visits to the ranch and office.

  Late in the afternoon of the day Setter had again ridden to Forlorn River, Ina was startled by clattering hoofs outside her tent, and then Marvie’s yell. Hurriedly she ran out.

  Marvie was slipping off a wet and heaving pony. The lad’s face, hot, red, radiant, electrified Ina, and before she could utter a word he burst out.

  “Oh, gee! — I’m out of breath,” he panted. “Rode fast — to get here first.... Dad yelled like mad — as I come by. He’ll kill me. I run off — you know.... Was at Ben Ide’s — when Setter got there.... Ina, what happened will tickle you — half to death. But don’t make me — tell now. You want to be over at the ranch — when Setter rides in. Hop my pony — an’ ride over.”

  Ina was not dressed for riding, but she did not let that interfere. As she mounted, Marvie added, “I’m hopin’ Dad’ll be so upset he’ll forget about me. If he isn’t — you—”

  Ina, galloping away, did not catch the conclusion of Marvie’s speech, but she guessed at it She was tremendously excited and curious and thrilled. Marvie had said she would be tickled half to death. What had happened to Setter? To Ben Ide? Ina did not like to urge the tired pony, and when, looking down the road beyond the ranch, she espied Setter and three cowboys coming, she restrained her hurry. She found her father and some of his men out in front of the cabin, evidently much interested in Setter’s return.

  “Where’s that young rascal, Marvie?” he demanded, irately “I think he fled to mother for protection,” replied Ina, demurely.

  “Ahuh! Wal, that won’t save him. I’ll lick him good.”

  “What for, Dad?” asked Ina, sharing the smiles of the men.

  “He rode by hyar yellin’ like an Injun, an’ wouldn’t stop for me,” replied her father.

  “What was he yelling?” inquired Ina.

  “Reckon somethin’ about Setter. I didn’t ketch it. Never seen the lad like that before. He’s growin’ up an’ gettin’ wild. I’ll have to use a halter on him.”

  “Dad, wait till you see what has happened. Marvie was terribly excited. I think there has been a fight at Forlorn River.”

  “Fight?... Wal, wal!” he ejaculated, and his rugged face changed. “I told Setter to be careful.”

  One of the men pointed down the road toward the group entering the ranch gate.

  “Boss, looks like Bill Sneed was holdin’ Setter on his hoss.”

  Blaine, muttering under his breath, started to stride across the open to intercept the horsemen, who were heading toward the second cabin. Ina’s keen eye caught Setter’s impatient gesture, clearly significant of the fact that he preferred not to be met just then. But Blaine strode on, with his men close behind. Ina did not intend to miss anything and she followed. The result was that Setter and the three cowboys with him were intercepted in front of the cabin.

  “What’n hell happened to you?” shouted Blaine, astounded, as he strode forward.

  Setter wore no coat. His white shirt was torn half off, soaking wet with sweat, discoloured by blood and dust. Ina would not have recognised him. His face was a spectacle to behold. A great black, puffy lump hid one of his eyes. The other glared with sullen fury. His mouth was swollen and bleeding Raising a dirty shaking hand, Setter began to speak huskily: “Ide an’ his cronies beat me.”

  “Wha-at?” demanded Blaine, hotly, and his grizzled mane bristled.

  “They took my gun an’ set on me,” said Setter as he painfully dismounted. Evidently he was pretty severely crippled.

  “Them damn hoss-wranglers, Wal, by heavens, we can’t overlook this,” ejaculated Blaine, divided between rage and amaze. “Looks like a job for Strobel.... But, say, did my cowboys stand around to see you beat by three men?”

  One of the cowboys started up as if he had been struck. Ina recognised the clean-cut, red-faced Bill Sneed, who was Marvie’s particular chum. This young man flung out a gauntleted hand in fiery gesture of repudiation. His blue eyes flashed fire. The look of him sent Ina’s blood racing.

  “Aw, Setter, tell it straight,” he said, stingingly.

  “You shut up or I’ll fire you,” shouted Setter.

  “Fire, hell!” retorted Sneed, with passionate disgust. “You couldn’t fire me. I quit. An’ I’m goin’ to tell this straight.”

  “So you’re in with Ben Ide, hey? Well, I’ll tend to all of you later,” rasped Setter, shaking from weakness and fury. His bloody face expressed a hideous malignancy. Then he surged away to enter his cabin and bang the door.

  “Bill, he’s my pardner, but he’s not firin’ my hands,” spoke up Blaine, gazing up at the angry cowboy.

  “All the same, I quit, Mr. Blaine. I wouldn’t be caught dead workin’ for anyone who can stand for Setter.”

  “All right, Bill. Reckon I was independent once myself. I’m waitin’ to hear what you said was the straight of this mess.”

  “Setter offered us boys a hundred dollars apiece to let him make you-all think Ben an’ his pards had pounded him up three to one. But it didn’t happen that way. Ben did it alone. He slugged Setter, an’ it shore was good to see.”

  “Wal, what about?”

  Sneed settled back in his saddle, with less belligerent air. Evidently it relieved him to see he was going to be heard.

  “We got to Forlorn River along about noon,” began Sneed. “Ben Ide was home with his Indian, an’ he asked us to eat hospitable as anybody could be. Told us his pard was over at the lava beds, where they’d ketched a bunch of wild hosses. He an’ Modoc had been drivin’ some of them to Forlorn River every day. After havin’ grub we went out to look over the hosses. They shore was a purty lot. Ben must be a wonder with wild hosses. Setter had a fit over them. He got excited. An’ presently he up an’ said: ‘My pardner Blaine aims to buy you out, along with Sims an’ his neighbours, an’ you can throw them hosses in the bargain.’ Ben looked sort of queer an’ spoke up quietlike that he wouldn’t sell. An’ as for Sims an’ his neighbours — they couldn’t sell because Ben had bought them out long ago.”

  Sneed halted here long enongh to laugh outright.

  “Why, Mr. Blaine, it was funny the way Setter went up in the air. He just hopped, he was so mad. An’ when Ben had refused again cold an’ curt, Setter yelled: ‘You’ll sell out or be drove off!’ — Ben wanted to know who’d undertake to do that little job. Setter swor that he could an’ would. Then Ben said as it was a free country, an’ he’d proved up on his own ranch an’ paid for the others, he didn’t see how he could be drove off. Then Setter said, ‘You know damn right well this hoss-wranglin’ of yours is only a bluff — a blind.’”

  Here Sneed paused again, his frank, steely-blue eyes fixed upon Blaine’s intent face, and as if to augment the suspense he shifted a leg over the pommel of his saddle. Ina thrilled at the power she felt he held in the dénouement of his story. He was enjoying the telling.

  “Spit it out,” growled Blaine, clenching his big fist. No doubt he knew before being told.

  “Ben got kinda white,” resumed Sneed, “an’ he stepped close to Setter, an’ he asked, very cuttin’, ‘What do you mean by bluff an’ blind?’... Then Setter said, ‘Ide, you better take Blaine’s offer an’ clear out.’... Ben roared, ‘No, I tell you. An’ I’m callin’ your bluff.’... Setter got black in the face an’ yelled: ‘We’re on to your shady deals!’

  “Ben hit him square in the eye. Oh, what a soak! Setter’d have fallen a mile but for the fence. He throwed his gun. But Ben grabbed it — shoved it up as it went off. If he hadn’t been quick as lightnin’ he’d have been bored. They fought an’ Ben got the gun. I thought he’d kill Setter, but he throwed the gun away. An’ then he gave Setter the damnedest beatin’ I ever seen any man git. It took us an hour to fetch him to an’ we’ve been all afternoon packin’ him back here.... That’s all, sir, an’ the boys will tell you I gave it straight.”

  Old Blaine did not glance at Sneed’s comrades for corroboration of the story.

  “Ahuh!... Wal, Bill, I’ll take it as a favour if you’ll change your mind about quittin’ me,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll sleep on it,” replied Sneed, soberly. Ina dismounted and followed her father into his office. He did not appear upset.

  “Wal, daughter, reckon supper’s not ready, an’ I’ll just have time to lick Marvie.”

  “Oh, Dad, don’t whip the boy. Consider how wildly excited he was. He saw that fight.”

  “Humph! You look pretty wild yourself,” returned her father, shrewdly. “Reckon I shouldn’t have let you stay to hear that yarn. Marvie wanted you to hear it, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did,” confessed Ina.

  “Wal, I’ll lick him for that, too. I’ll lock up now.... Come on, daughter. What’s on your mind, that you stand there sort of queer?”

  “There’s a good deal, Dad, and I must confess it isn’t worry over Marvie,” said Ina. “Haven’t you been made thoughtful?”

  “What about?” he drawled as he locked the door.

  Ina led Marvie’s pony and walked beside her father toward the camp. On her own account Ina wanted much to be alone to dwell on Sneed’s story, to thrill and gloat over Ben Ide’s repudiation of a slur upon his honesty. But likewise she was intensely curious to find out what her father thought.

  “About the way Setter approached Ben Ide,” she replied. “Wal, I don’t see nothin’ there to make me thoughtful.”