Lawrence Arnold, trapped and conscious of the fact, wet his thin lips and glanced desperately around. He saw only stern faces, cold and angry eyes. But Cattle Kate Cathrew was made of different stuff. She flung up her clenched fists and shook them at the clear skies where the rose of dawn was spreading. “You ——!” she swore, “I always hated your narrow eyes and that mouth of yours! So _you_ are the prospector, Smith, who has been so inquisitive at Cordova! It was you who shot Big Basford in the hand!” Fair nodded. “To see fair play,” he said. “And it is you who’ve done all this! Oh, damn your soul to hell!” She dropped her hands, caught the rein hanging on Bluefire’s neck, struck her heels to his flanks and quick as thought whirled him away toward the cut. The group between her and the entrance fell floundering apart before the stallion’s charge. With a dozen leaps she almost reached the wall. “You can’t get away with this, Brand Fair!” she screamed, “I’m a match for you!” and jerked at her rifle in its loops. In her rage she was inept, so that the weapon caught, hindering her purpose for a moment. But that purpose was clear to several in the intense group of watchers—to Rod Stone—to Fair himself—and to one other. Nance Allison, standing in her trampled spot, knew that the moment she had dreaded for so long was come. Knew that danger threatened at last some one whom she loved—the stark danger of death—and as if something broke within her, the “stirrings” crystalized. Without taking her eyes from the frantic woman on the big blue horse, she began to feel with her foot for something in the grass—something long and dark and cold, but which seemed to her now more precious and to be desired than anything upon the earth—namely, Sud Provine’s rifle. It seemed, all suddenly, as if the feel of a gun in her hands had been with her from birth, as if she had leaped the years between and was a daughter of the feudal mountaineers who had marked her Pappy’s line. Gone was all the stern restraint, the earnest supplication to be kept from spilling blood. The hatred which had smouldered in her leaped to its fulfillment. For herself and hers she had borne all things—lost hope and poverty, and the deadening weariness of gigantic labors. She had believed in the hand of God that had been her shield and buckler, had been patient in adversity, meek in her dogged courage. Now, as Kate Cathrew clawed for a weapon to kill Brand Fair sitting on his horse at the cave’s mouth, she was become a killer herself, joying in the fact. Her foot touched the rifle. She bent and took it up. As Cattle Kate straightened in her saddle, Nance dropped stiffly to her knee and raised the gun. Her blue eyes caught the sights and drew down steadily upon the woman’s heart. Just so had those forgotten Allisons drawn down upon their enemies in the Kentucky hills. Her finger touched the trigger.