It made her heart beat in slow, heavy strokes, too deeply charged for swiftness. It made her lips dry as fast as she could wet them, set a feeling of paralysis along the muscles of her arms. She was in a trance of expectation, as exquisite as the fullest realisation. She had been so ever since the departure at early dawn of Provine with a led horse—none other than Bluefire whose proud back no one but this man ever crossed, except herself. For three hours she had sat in the rustic rocker like a graven image, her hands spread on the broad arms, her immaculate black head seemingly at rest against the back. And not a soul at Sky Line would have disturbed her. From a distant corral where he tinkered at some trivial task Big Basford watched her with wild red eyes. At these times the man was a savage who would have killed Arnold joyfully had the thing been possible. Minnie Pine, busy at the kitchen window, watched him. “The Black Devil is in hell, Josefa,” she said guardedly, “he knows the master’s coming—and that the Boss will lie in his arms.” “He pays for his sins,” said Josefa calmly, “which is more than the others do.” “Rod,” returned the half-breed, “has no sins.” “He-ugh! He-ugh!” laughed the old woman, “so says the young fool because she loves him.” “I know what I know,” said Minnie, “the Blue Eyes has a clean heart. One sin, maybe, yes—or two, maybe—but he sits sometimes with his head in his hands, and he mourns—like our people for death. _He_ says it _is_ for death—death of a man’s honor killed by mistake. _I_ know, for I’ve sat with him then—and he has put his face in my neck.” There was a high beauty about the simple words and the ancient dame looked at the girl with understanding. For a moment the cynicism was absent. “You speak truth,” she said softly, “the man is a stranger to these others. Also he is of a white heart. He should have been a Pomo chief in the old days.” Noon came and passed and Kate Cathrew did not eat. She watched the sun drop over toward the west, the pine shadows turn on the slopes. And then, far down, she caught the sound of hoofs and rose straight up from her chair, one hand on her thundering heart. The action was her only concession to the fierce emotion which was eating her. When Sud Provine came out of the pines below with Bluefire and his rider in convoy she was seated again in the broad-armed rocker, to all intents as calm as moonlight on snow. Lawrence Arnold dismounted stiffly and handed the rein to Provine, then raised his eyes and looked at her. Over his white-skinned, aquiline features there passed a smile of the closest understanding. He knew the volcano covered in and shut from sight under this woman’s cool exterior—this woman who was his woman. Cattle Kate rose languidly and came to meet him and her brilliant eyes returned the understanding to the _nth_ degree—they were full of passion, of promise. “Man,” she said under her breath, as their hands met, “Oh, man! It’s been so long!”