“Sure, daddy,” she answered, cheerily. “And I’ll see that you don’t forget. As for Jesse Black, he wouldn’t dare with the Three Bars on his trail. Well, if you must have a light, you must,” rising and stretching her firm-fleshed young arms far over her head. “You can’t forget you were born in civilization, can you, daddy? I am sure I could be your man in the dark, if you’d let me, and I always turn your nightshirt right side out before hanging it on your bedpost, and your sheet and spread are turned down, and water right at hand. You funny, funny little father, who can’t go to bed in the dark.” She was rummaging around a shelf in search of matches. “Now, I have forgotten long since that I wasn’t born on the plains. It wouldn’t hurt me if I had misplaced my nightdress. I’ve done it,” with a gay little laugh. He must be cheered up at all costs, this buffeted and disappointed but fine-minded, high-strung, and lovable father of hers. “And I haven’t taken my hair down nights since—oh, since months ago, till—oh, well—so you see it’s easy enough for me to go to bed in the dark.” Her hand touched the match box at last. A light flared out. “Shut the door quick, dad,” she said, lighting the lamp on the table. “The skeeters’ll eat us alive.” Williston stepped to the door. Just a moment he stood there in the doorway, the light streaming out into the night, tall, thoughtful, no weakling in spite of many failures and many mistakes. A fair mark he made, outlined against the brightly lighted room. It was quiet. Not even a coyote shrilled. And while he stood there looking up at the calm stars, a sudden sharp report rang out and the sacred peace of God, written in the serenity of still summer nights, was desecrated. Hissing and ominous, the bullet sang past Williston’s head, perilously near, and lodged in the opposite wall. At that moment, the light was blown out. A great presence of mind had come to Mary in the time of imminent danger. “Good, my dear!” cried Williston, in low tones. Quick as a flash, the door was slammed shut and bolted just as a second shot fell foul of it. “Oh, my father!” cried Mary, groping her way to his side. “Hush, my dear! They missed me clean. Don’t lose your nerve, Mary. They won’t find it so easy after all.” There had been no third shot. A profound silence followed the second report. There was no sound of horse or man. Whence, then, the shots? One man, maybe, creeping up like some foul beast of prey to strike in the dark. Was he still lurking near, abiding another opportunity? It took but a moment for Williston to have the rifles cocked and ready. Mary took her own from him with a hand that trembled ever so slightly. “What will you do, father?” she asked, holding her rifle lovingly and thanking God in a swift, unformed thought for every rattlesnake or other noxious creature whose life she had put out while doing her man’s work of riding the range,—work which had given her not only a man’s courage but a man’s skill as well.