Something had happened to Nance Allison. For the first time in her healthy young life sleep refused to visit her. Even her terrible grief at the death of her father had given way to sleep at last and she had forgotten her tragedy for a blessed time. But on the night following her interview with the strange man of the cañon she was wide awake till dawn. She was not uncomfortable. She did not think she was ill. But an odd inner warmth surged all through her, a pleasant fire ran in her veins. She lay in her bed with her hands beneath her head and thought over and over each phase of the day she had spent with Sonny, each incident that had led up to the appearance of Brand Fair. Then, with a peculiar delight, she went over his every word, every movement. She remembered the look of his brown hand on the black horse’s bit, the tilt of his hat, the way the chin-strap lay along his lean, dark cheek. She recalled the direct glance of his eyes, the slow smile that creased his lips’ corners. He was like no other man she had ever seen. There was a sweetness in the tones of his deep voice, a sense of restfulness and strength about him. He seemed to fit in with her dreams of the best things to be had in life—like lace curtains and the rag carpet which was slowly growing in her Mammy’s hands. His name, too—Brand Fair. She liked the sound of it. And it was Sonny’s name. Suddenly she sat bolt upright, staring at the darkness. Fair—Sonny Fair! Could it be that Brand was Sonny’s father? For some inexplicable reason a cold hand seemed to clutch her heart, a feeling of disaster to encompass her. “Now why” she asked herself slowly, “should that make any difference? Wouldn’t he be just as nice—just as pleasant to talk to?” She sat a long time holding her two braids in her hands, twirling the ends around her fingers, thinking. Why was she so pleased with this stranger, she wondered? She had seen many men in her life—there were the cowboys from the Upper Country whom she saw at Cordova, nearly every time she went there, there was McKane, and Sheriff Price Selwood. She liked the sheriff. He was a kindly man under his stern exterior, she knew. His eyes were direct, like Fair’s somewhat, and he had the same seeming of quiet strength. He had been at the cabin quite a few times after her father’s death, asking all sorts of questions about his manner of life, his experience in the hills, and so forth. Yes—Fair was a little like the sheriff, only more so—oh, very much more so—quiet, steady, one whose word you would take without question. He was different, that was all—different. He had not always lived in the hills, that was certain. She lay down once more and tried to sleep, but her eyes would not obey her will. They came open each time she closed them to see this man standing at the jut of stone, his hand on the black’s bit—at the pool by the cave below where he bade her good-bye—still there when she looked back from far down the cañon.