Sure enough. Down along the range that rang as some open stretches do, there came the clip-clap of a hurrying horse, only now the hoof beats were regular for a little space, to break, halt, start on, and again ring true in the beautiful syncopation of the born singlefooter. The king was coming home, but, alas! not as he had ever come before, in full flight, proud and powerful. He held his speed and sacrificed his certainty to the man who clung desperately to the saddle horn and swayed in wide arcs, so that he must shift continually to keep under him. Into the dim glow of light at the open door came El Rey at last, great blue-silver stallion, his big eyes shining like phosphorus, his nostrils wide with horror of the pungent crimson wash that painted his right shoulder. He stopped at the door-stone, his duty done. "Dad!" screamed Tharon, shrill as a bugle, for Jim Last, white and dull as a moon in fog, let go his desperate hold on the pommel and slid, deadweight, into the reaching arms that circled him. They carried him into the living room. Before they had him safely on the wide couch where the Indian blankets glowed, Tharon, trembling but efficient, had lighted the hanging lamp above the table. Then she pushed the men aside and knelt beside him. "Dad," she said clearly, "Jim! Jim Last!" But the gaining of his goal had been too much. For a moment the flickering light in him died down to ashes. Tharon, her face as white as his own, waited in a man-like quiet. She held his stiffened hands and her eyes burned upon his features. With a deadly knowledge she was printing them indelibly upon her heart. Presently Jim Last sighed and opened his eyes. They sought hers and he smiled, a tender lighting from within. He fumbled for the buckle of his gun-belt. The girl unclasped it and pulled it free. She noticed that both guns were in their holsters. "Put it on," whispered the master of Last's Holding. Without a question Tharon stood up and buckled the belt about her slender waist. Her father raising himself with difficulty on an elbow, wet his lips. "Tharon, my girl," he said, "show your dad th' backhand flip." Strange play, this, when every second counted, but Last's daughter obeyed him to the letter. She stepped clear by the table, stood at attention a second, and, with a peculiar outward whirl, lightning-quick, of her two wrists, had him covered with the big blue guns. He nodded. "Good as I learned ye," he whispered, "make it better." "I will," promised Tharon swiftly. The man closed his eyes, swayed, recovered as Conford caught him, and brightened again. "Now th' under-sling."