The girl had not moved. Her hands still rested on the guns in their holsters. Now a grim smile curled her mouth, but her eyes did not laugh. "I'm a-goin' t' kill him," she said quietly, still in that clear voice, "but I'll do it accordin' to th' law Jim Last laid down to me all my life--in certainty. I know--but I'll prove. We hain't no assassins, Jim Last an' me. Some day I'll draw--an' my father's killer must beat me to it." Without another word Tharon backed out on the porch, the door swung to at the pull of an unseen hand on the iron strap by the hinge. There was again the rattle and creak, the whirl of hoofs, and in the breathless stillness that lasted for a few seconds, there came to the strained ears in the Golden Cloud the clip-clap of a singlefooter as the great El Rey led out of town. Then Buck Courtrey, flushed and unsmiling, sent his coldly narrowed eyes over the crowded room, man by man. Laughter came, a trifle cracked and forced, cards slapped on the tables, chairs creaked as the players drew up again, the dancers swung into step as the fiddle took up its interrupted strain. Only Lola, over by the door, looked for a pregnant moment at Courtrey's face, and shut her lips in a hard, straight line. Then, lastly, the cold eyes of the king came down to rest upon the weazened figure of the snow-packer busily engaged in rolling up his sacks for departure. If the strange old creature knew and felt their promise, he gave no sign as he trundled himself outdoors on his bandy legs. "Skunks," said Old Pete, as he fumbled with his straps about the patient burros, "are plumb pizen t' pure flesh." CHAPTER II THE HORSES OF THE FINGER MARKS At Last's Holding a change had taken place. The sun of spring still shone as brightly, the work of the place went on as usual. The riders went at dawn and came at dusk, their herds lowing across the rolling green spaces, the days were as busy as they had ever been, but it seemed as if Last's waited for something that would never happen, for some one who would never come. Conford, quiet, forceful, businesslike, carried on the work without a ripple. To a casual eye all things were as they had been. But to the keen eyes in the tanned faces of Last's riders the change was appallingly apparent. They saw it creep day by day into their lives, felt it in the very atmosphere, and it was grim and promising. Old Anita felt it and watched with dim and wistful eyes. Pretty young Paula from the Pomo Indian settlement far to the north of the Valley under the Rockface felt it and was more silent, cat-like of step than ever. Jose, always full of laughter at his outside work, was sobered. For this change was not material, but spiritual, and it had to do with Tharon, who was now the mistress of Last's.