“You take liberties, Miss Allison. Are you not—speaking in jest—a little—ah—afraid to speak so broadly?” Nance laughed bitterly, shifting on her feet in their worn boots. “Afraid? No—not of you—nor of your hired rustlers—nor of Cattle Kate, there, with her paint and her tempers. I’m not afraid of anything but the wrath of God.” At that Arnold laughed outright. “You have something yet to learn, I see. Very well, since you do not care to think I will outline briefly your situation. You know, of course, that you are at present in the power of Sky Line Ranch. Reasoning backward you will come to the conclusion that there is a primal cause for this. Reasoning forward you will know that there is something which you can do for Sky Line, which it wants of you.” “Of course,” said Nance, “the whole country knows that—my flats on the river.” Arnold frowned. He did not like that answer. “And how, may I ask, does the country know this?” “It knows what has happened to me for several years now—and it judges the faces of your riders and their boss.” “If you please, we’ll leave Miss Cathrew out of this,” said Arnold crisply. “Yes?” asked Nance. “She’s been the backbone of my troubles—under you, no doubt—and it isn’t likely I’ll leave her out. If you have anything to say to me I’d advise you to say it and get it over before Nameless comes hunting me.” “All Nameless may come hunting you, Miss Allison,” returned the man, “but it will not find you. Now put your wits in order. Sky Line wants those flats on the river—and means to have them. We don’t do things by halves. What we undertake we finish. The time has come for decisive action. You have had many—ah—hints to vacate and have foolishly disregarded them. That is like a woman. A man would have gone long ago.” “Not any man,” interrupted Nance, “my Pappy didn’t.” “No?” said Arnold cruelly. “Is he here?” Quick tears misted the girl’s eyes, but the slowly throbbing anger burned them out. “Yes,” she said promptly, “and always will be—at the foot of our mountain—and in Bud and me. He has not yet been conquered.” Arnold dropped his dead cigarette into a tall brass receptacle, rose and stepped into the other room. He picked something from the desk there and came back. “We come to cases,” he said sharply. “I have here a properly made out deed, conveying to Miss Cathrew for the consideration of one dollar, the quarter-section of land herein described, lying along Nameless River, owned by the widow of John Allison, deceased, who took up said land under the homestead act. This paper needs only the name of John Allison’s widow and two witnesses to make it a legal transfer of property. I am a notary. We can supply the witnesses—the highly important and necessary signature of John Allison’s widow you will obligingly furnish—at a price.”