Nance leaned against the door-jamb. Every fibre of her body longed to crumple down, to let go, to relax in defeat, but she would not have it so. Instead she looked at these two, so greatly dependent upon her, and faced the issue squarely. “It’s the cornfield,” she said with difficulty, “it’s gone.” “What?” “Gone? Gone—how?” “Gone—destroyed—wiped off the earth—trampled out by cattle,” she said dully, “every blade—every stalk—root, stem and branch!” “My Lord A’mighty!” gasped Mrs. Allison, and the words were not blasphemy. “Cattle Kate!” cried Bud. “Oh, damn her soul to hell!” “Oh, Bud—don’t, don’t!” said Nance, her lips beginning to quiver, “‘He who—who is guilty of damn—and damnation—shall be in danger—danger of hell fire.’” But the boy’s blue eyes were blazing and he did not even hear her. He jerked his sagging shoulder up, for a moment, in line with its mate and shut his hands into straining fists. “Gimme a gun——” he rasped, “Pappy’s gun——” But the mother spoke. “No guns, Bud—I’ve seen feud—in Missouri. There’s land an’ sunlight in other places beside Nameless. With life we can——” The boy shook his head with a slow, savage motion. “Not for us,” he said, “I’d die first.” Nance straightened by the door. She lifted her head and looked at his grim young face. Some of its grimness came subtly into her own. “Right,” she said, “so would I. We belong to Nameless River—where our Pappy left us—and here we’ll stay. Only—I pray God to keep me from—from——” she wet her lips again, “from what is stirring inside me.” “He will,” said Bud. “But I’m not so particular. We own this land—and we’ll fight for our own.” “Amen,” said Nance, “we will. We’ve still got the hogs to sell. Mammy—let’s have breakfast. I’m going down to Cordova—it’s right McKane should know.” CHAPTER XII “GET—OUT—OF—THAT—DOOR!” That was a bitter ride to Nance. The day was sweet with the scents and sounds of summer. Birds called from the thickets, high up the pine tops, stirred by a little wind, sang their everlasting diapason, while she could hear far back the voice of Nameless, growing fainter as she left it. At another time she would have missed nothing of all this, would have gloried in it, drunk with the wine of nature. Now a shadow hung over all the fair expanse of slope and mountain range, an oppression heavy, almost, as the hand of death sat on her heart. She rode slowly, letting Buckskin take his own time and way, her hands folded listlessly on her pommel, her faded brown riding skirt swinging at her ankles. She had discarded her disfiguring bonnet for a wide felt hat of Bud’s and her bright hair shone under it like dull gold. She was scarcely thinking. She had given way to feeling—to feeling the acid of defeat eating at her vitals, the hand of an intangible force pressing upon her.