Pete rode hard and saw nothing but the wan aspect of his sister, and the giggling jeer of Jenny, clad in scarlet and bright shame. The good brown earth with the lordly bull-pines scattered on rising hills was very fair to look upon. On the higher levels of the terraces were pools of shining lakes: some shone with shores of alkali and some were pure sweet water. Pete, riding a doomed man however he wrought, drank no pure water with his heart. He sucked bitter water from the bitterest lakes, poor fool, going to do his duty, as his Indian blood said, and as much white blood would have said as well. The sun, unclouded as it was, shone without the fierceness of the later summer. The grass, though it was browned, had still sap within it. Pete rode half-drunken, with fire within him. And then at last he topped the rise that hid Ned's shack. He saw a woman by the shack, and with his eyes discerned even from afar that she wore white linen on her head. But he could not hear her sing. And yet poor Mary sang: it seemed that out of her sorrow there had grown so great a joy that song would come from her wounded healing heart. Pete rode down the trail. So in fine weather among the hills a storm may break. So may a cyclone, a tornado, approach a city. So may fire burst out at quiet, sleepy midnight. In one moment there was horror in the happy and repentant and praying home where Ned and Mary had come together once again. "Oh, Mary," said Pete. He came riding fast. She looked up, did not know him, and looked again, and knew him. She called to Ned, who came out at the sound of galloping. "It's Pete," she cried, but Ned stood there stupidly. In his great repentance and his new found peace he could not believe in bitter enmity, in war or in revenge. There is a power of strange madness in the Indian blood, diluted though it be. Under the maddening influence of liquor the nature of the Indian flowers in dreadful passions, forgetful of new circumstances, oblivious of punishment and of law. None knew this better than Ned Quin, and yet he stood there foolishly, with a doubtful smile upon his face, a smile almost of greeting. He was even ready to forgive Pete for what he had done. He felt his heart was changed, and without a touch of religion or creed this was a natural and sweet conversion. But Mary tugged at his arm, for she knew.