The black hair was piled high on her head, its smooth backward sweep crinkled by the tight curl that would not be brushed out. There was fragrance about her, and the dress she wore was of dark blue flowered silk, its clever draping setting off her form to its best advantage, which needed no advantage. Silk stockings smoothed themselves lovingly over her slender ankles, and soft kid slippers, all vanity of cut and make and sparkling buckle, clothed her feet in beauty. She was either a fool or very brave, for she was the living spirit of seduction. But the sombre eyes she turned up from her work to scan the rider who came to her, his hat in his hands, were all business, impersonal. “Well?” she said impatiently. The man was young, scarce more than a boy, of a devil-may-care type, and he looked at her fearlessly. “Here’s something for you, Boss,” he said grinning, as he handed her a soiled bit of paper. It was thin, yellowed with age, and it seemed to have been roughly handled. The mistress of Sky Line spread it out before her on the top of the dark wood desk. “The Lord is the strength of my life,” she read, “of whom shall I be afraid? Though an host shall encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.” It was unsigned and the characters, while hurriedly scrawled, were made by bold strokes, as if a strong heart had, indeed, inspired them, a strong hand penned them. With a full-mouthed oath Kate Cathrew crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and flung it in the waste-basket against the wall. “How did you get that?” she demanded. “On the point of the knife you sent th’ girl,” he answered soberly, “an’ right near the middle of my stomach.” For a considerable space of time the woman sat regarding him. “I sent you to help in the breaking of morale,” she said coldly, “not to bring me back defiance. Next time I’ll send a more trustworthy man.” She nodded dismissal, and the youth went quickly, his face burning. At the far end of the veranda he almost ran into Big Basford, whose huge, gorilla-like shape was made more sinister and repellant by the perceptible limp. Basford was always somewhere near, if possible, when men talked with Kate Cathrew. His great strength and stature, his small eyes, black and rimmed with red, his unkempt head and flaring black beard, everything about him suggested a savagery and power with which few men cared to trifle. He scanned the boy’s flushed face with swift appraising. “I take it,” he said grinning, “that the boss wasn’t pleased with you?” “Take it or leave it,” said the other with foolhardy daring, “is it any of your business?” With a smothered roar Big Basford leaped for him, surprisingly nimble on his lamed foot, surprisingly light. He caught him by the throat and bore him backward across the veranda’s edge, so that both bodies fell heavily on the boards of the floor. “You’ll find what’s my business, damn you,” gritted Big Basford; “you——!”