"Get away behind me," she called. There was a path opened instantly, the sound of shuffling feet. Along the porch she went, step by step, stopping every moment or so to keep close hold on her advantage, every nerve strained, every one of her faculties at the top of its power. She felt for the step with her foot, went down, backed through the crowd, brought them all in the range of the guns which she flashed out now and held upon them. She was ashy pale, a flaming, vibrant thing. Not a man there but knew she was more dangerous at the moment than cool Jim Last had ever been, for she radiated hatred of her father's killer in every bitter glance. She had none for whom to be cautious. She was the last of her blood. She was efficient, and she knew it. Courtrey knew it, and felt the sweat start on his skin. Service knew it, and hated her for it. As the girl backed clear there came into her vision a strange figure--the straight, trim figure of a man who stood stiffly at attention, where her imperious words had caught him. He wore a uniform of semi-military style, leather leggings, a flannel shirt of butternut and a smart, tan, broad-brimmed hat. He, too, came in the range of the travelling guns and waited their pleasure. Tharon reached El Rey. She stuck her right-hand weapon in its holster, loosed the rein, flung it over the stallion's head, stepped around his shoulder and mounted deftly and swiftly from the wrong side. It was a pretty trick of horsemanship and showed up her adroitness. As El Rey rose on his hind feet, whirling, that unwavering muzzle whirled also, to keep in line. The king struck into his gait and his rider, facing backward, swung away down the narrow street. Until she was well out of range the tension held. Then Steptoe Service struck a fist into a palm and began to swear in a fury, but Courtrey laughed, one of his rare, short bursts of mirth that were more bodeful than oaths. He turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come. The stranger in the uniform walked forward, went up the steps, crossed the porch, and, stooping, picked up the meal-sack which Tharon had dropped. "Will some one kindly tell me who the young lady is and where she lives?" he asked gravely. Baston, unglued from the wall, spoke up with his usual pompous eagerness. "Tharon, from Last's Holdin'," he said. "Thanks," and the man wrapped the sack into a small bundle and tied it with its own string. He stuck it under one arm and taking out a short brown pipe, proceeded to fill and light it. Courtrey, halted a few rods away, eyed him sharply. As he turned, rolling his match to death in his fingers, the sun struck mellowly upon something on his breast, a small, dark copper shield which bore strange heraldry. At the sight Courtrey's eyes sought Service's and held them for a swift, questioning moment. Strangers in Lost Valley were contraband.