And she had to face McKane and tell him she could not pay her debt. That seemed the worst of all. She could go without their necessities—her Mammy’s shoes and Bud’s new underwear—and as for the luxuries she had planned, like the blue dress and the carpet—why, she would cease thinking about them at once, though the giving up of the carpet did come hard, she frankly owned to that. But to fail in her promise to pay—ah, that was gall to her spirit! However, it couldn’t _kill_ them, she reasoned, no matter how bitter might be their humiliation. There was always another day, another year, for work and hope, and there were still the hogs. They would bring, at least, enough for the winter’s food supply of flour and sugar, salt and tea. She could not turn them in on the debt—the trader must see that. Cordova lay sleeping under a late noon-day sun when she rode into the end of the struggling street. A few horses were tied to the hitch rack in front of the store and a half-dozen men lounged on the porch. Nance went hot and cold at sight of them. She had hoped all the way down that McKane would be alone, for no conversation inside the store could fail to be audible on the porch. It would be hard enough to talk to him without an interested audience. She felt terribly alien, as if these people were allied against her, and yet she could not discern among the loungers anyone from Sky Line. As she drew near she did see with a grateful thrill that Sheriff Price Selwood sat tilted back against the door-jamb, his feet on the rung of his chair. At sight of him a bit of the distress left her, a faint confidence took its place. She remembered his kindly eyes that could harden and narrow so quickly, his way of understanding things and people. She dismounted and tied Buckskin under a tree and went forward. As she mounted the steps the sheriff looked up, rose and raised his hat. Nance smiled at him more gratefully than she knew. Then she stepped inside the door—and came face to face with Kate Cathrew who was just coming out. McKane was behind her carrying a small sack which held her mail and some few purchases. The two women stopped instantly, their eyes upon each other. It was the first time they had met thus pointedly. At sight of this woman whose unproved, hidden workings had meant so much to her, Nance Allison’s face went slowly white. She stood still in the door, straight and quiet, and looked at her in silence. At the prolonged intensity of her scrutiny Cattle Kate flung up her head and smiled, a conscious, insolent action. “If you don’t want all the door, young woman,” she said, “please.” She made a move to pass, but Nance suddenly put out a hand. There was an abrupt dignity in the motion, a sort of last-stand authority. “I do,” said the girl, “want it all. I have something to tell McKane, and you may as well hear it.” The imperious face of Kate Cathrew flushed darkly with the rising tide of her temper.