“Hush!” said Fair holding her to him fiercely, “for the love of Heaven, don’t talk so, child! And get that thought out of your head. Whatever happens, keep your hands clean from that crowd of ruffians—and always remember that Brand Fair loved you. If we fail and the Sky Line people stay in the country, I beg you, Nance, to leave Nameless River. Take your mother and Bud—and—and Sonny—and go away to a more civilized spot. You can make another start. There’s a little money in a New York bank for the boy—the papers in the package will explain—and I know you love him——” But Nance laid her face on his breast and fell to weeping, so that Fair anathematized himself for his grave words. “It seems,” she said, sobbing, “that we have reached the bottom—of all things—hope—and—and strength—and happiness. And my grasp on God is failing—He has turned His face from me—I am lost to the light of His countenance—because of the hatred in me. I have stood firm through tribulation but now—when I think of you—I feel my strength desert me.” “Buck up,” scoffed the man playfully, “we’ll all come through with colors flying and see this nest of vipers caged. Then think of life on Nameless, Nance—safe and happy, with our fields and our herds and peace in all the land. I shouldn’t have suggested anything else. Come—be my brave girl again, my good fighter.” Obedient to his words, Nance straightened and tried to smile in the starlight. “That’s it,” he said, “you’re resilient as willow wood—ready with a come-back. You’ll never leave the line, Sweetheart, never in this world!” It was late in the night when Fair rode away. He went south, going back to look again on the quiet face of Sheriff Selwood, then on to the Deep Heart fringes to meet Bossick and Jermyn. As for Nance Allison, she was seized with a great restlessness that made inaction unbearable. “I think I’ll ride the lower slopes of Mystery, Mammy,” she said next morning, “and look for that black shoat that’s missing. I can’t afford to lose it.” The mother looked at her with worried eyes. “You take your Pappy’s gun,” she said at last. “I feel to tell you so. Th’ time has come.” But the girl shook her head. “I don’t care,” she said, “I can’t trust myself of late.” She kissed Sonny, ran a hand over Bud’s bronze hair, and went out to the stable where she saddled Buckskin and rode away. Dirk, sitting gravely on the door-stone, begged to go with her, but she forbade him. So she passed the bleak ruin of her cornfield, crossed the river, low in its summer ebb, and struck up among the buck-brush and manzanita that clothes the lower slopes. It was a sweet blue day with the summer haze on slant and level, cool with the little winds that were ever drawing up between the hills, silent with the eternal hush of the far places. All the wilderness smiled, the heavens, blue and flecked with sailing clouds, were soft as infants’ eyes.