Kenset of the foothills was very busy. Between study of his maps and the endless riding of their claimed areas he was out from dawn till dark. He found, indeed, that none but he, of late years, had ridden those sloping forest covered skirts. Some one, sometime, must have done so, else the maps themselves would not have been, but what marks they must have left were either gone through the erosion of the elements or been wantonly destroyed. He fancied the former had been the case, for he saw no signs of destruction, and the very curiosity of the denizens of the Valley precluded familiarity with forest work. So he laid out for himself the labour of a dozen men and went at it with a vim that kept him at high tension. Therefore he had little time to think of Tharon Last and the strange life in Lost Valley. Only when he rode between given points, unintent on the land around, did he give up to his speculations. At such times his mind invariably went back to that first day at Baston's steps and he saw her again as he had seen her then, tense, stooping, her elbows bent above the guns at her hips, coming backward along the porch, feeling for the steps with her foot. Always he saw the ashen whiteness of her cheeks beneath her blowing hair. Always he frowned at the memory and always he felt a thrill go down his nerves. What was she, anyway, this wild, sweet creature of the wilderness who held herself aloof from his friendship, and said that she was "sworn?" Kenset, sane, quiet, peace loving, shook himself mentally and tried not to think of her. But day after day he came down along the edges of the scattered woods where the cattle grazed--on the forest lands--and looked over to where the Holding lay like a greener spot on the green stretches. He thought of her, living in this feudal hold, mistress of her riders, her cattle, and her wonderful racing horses of the Finger Marks, sweet, fair, wholesome--with the six-guns at her slender hips! If only he, Kenset, could take those weapons from her clinging hands, could wipe out of her young heart the calm intent to kill! It was preposterous! It was awful! Bred to another life, another law, another type of woman, he could not reconcile this girl of Lost Valley with anything he knew. He went over in his mind again and again the serene calmness of her in his cabin that day of the race with Courtrey, and shook his head in puzzlement. But why should he trouble himself about her at all? He had come here in his Government's service to reclaim its forest, to look after its interest. Why should he bother with the moral code of Lost Valley? But reason as he might, the face of Tharon Last came back to haunt him, waking or asleep. He knew that it troubled him and was, in a way, ashamed. So he worked hard at his tasks, relocated boundaries, marked them with a peculiar blaze in convenient trees which looked something like this: and set up monuments with odd and undecipherable hieroglyphics upon them.