And here the hand of destiny reached down—or was it the hand of God?—and ordered the puppets playing out their little tragedy in the heart of Rainbow Cliff. As Kate Cathrew flung up her gun the furious rage that fired her stiffened body in the saddle, shot her bolt upright, standing in her stirrups. Perhaps some unaccustomed pressure of her posture angered him—perhaps the excitement of the moment loosed something wild in his hybrid heart—perhaps it was something else. The bearded man from the Upper Country said afterwards it was. At any rate, with the woman’s spectacular and dramatic action, Bluefire, the stallion, who hated her but obeyed her, gave one scream and rose with her. It was a magnificent leap, high spread-eagling, with the flowing silver cloud of his mane tossing in the rosy light. From the peak of its arc the woman, good rider though she was, but taken by surprise, fell loose from her stirrups, cascading in a flare of booted feet straight down his hips and tail. At the same moment two shots rang out—her own and Nance’s both gone wild with Bluefire’s interference. Still on his hind feet, the stallion whirled, turning once more toward the cut in the wall, and came down—his shod forefeet full upon her breast. He leaped over her body and was gone, his empty saddle shining with its vanity of silver. A silence of death fell for a moment in the peaceful Pot. Then two men moved. McKane, the trader who leaped from his horse and knelt by Kate Cathrew, and Big Basford who flung up his arms and shook his clawing fingers toward the western wall. “You killed her!” he shrieked, “You yellow devil—you’ve killed Kate Cathrew! And I’ll kill you!” He kicked his horse viciously and shot forward. Bud Allison, the boy whom none had noticed, raised his Pappy’s gun and fired. Big Basford toppled to the left and slid out of his saddle with an audible grunt. He rolled over, shook his good fist toward the serene skies, and was still. Slowly the group drew in to look at Cattle Kate lying so quietly after the storm. McKane was holding her hand between his own and murmuring foolish, endearing words. Lawrence Arnold pushed him aside with an oath. * * * * * But Brand Fair turned his eyes for the first time toward that farther wall. For a moment he did not recognize the creature which knelt there, the smoking rifle across its knee, its face covered with both hands. Then something familiar in the drooping shoulders, the ragged veil of shining hair, struck home to him. Without a word he went forward and dismounted. Incredulously he stooped and took the hands away. Wide eyed he looked at her. “Nance!” he cried in horror, “Nance—Nance—Nance! God Almighty! What’s this?” “I am forsaken of my God,” said the girl piteously, “I had to kill her—or she’d have killed you!” “You didn’t,” said Fair sharply, “the stallion killed her. Your shot went wild.”