"We went to Meander this morning thinking we'd catch father there before he left. We wanted to tell him about Mr. Macdonald, and get him to drop this feud. If we could have seen him I know he'd have done what we asked, for he's got the noblest heart in the world!" Whatever Frances felt on the noble nature of Saul Chadron she held unexpressed. She did not feel that it fell to her duty to tell Nola whose hand had struck Macdonald down, although she believed that the cattleman's daughter deserved whatever pain and humiliation the revelation might bring. For it was as plain as if Nola had confessed it in words that she had much more than a friendly feeling of gratitude for the foeman of her family. Her heart was as unstable as mercury, it seemed. Frances despised her for her fickleness, scorned her for the mean face of friendship over the treachery of her soul. Not that she regretted Major King. Nola was free to take him and make the most of him. But she was not to come in as a wedge to rive her from this man. Let her pay her debt of gratitude in something else than love. Living or dead, Alan Macdonald was not for Nola Chadron. Her penance and her tears, her meanings and sobs and her broken heart, even that, if it should come, could not pay for the humiliation and the pain which that house had brought upon him. "When did it happen?" asked Nola, the gust of her weeping past. "This morning, early." "Who did it--how did it happen? You got away from Chance--you said it wasn't Chance." "We got away from that gang yesterday; this happened this morning, miles from that place." "Who was it? Why don't you tell me, Frances?" They were standing at Macdonald's side. A little spurt of flame among the ends of wood in the chimney threw a sudden illumination over them, and played like water over a stone upon Macdonald's face, then sank again, as if it had been plunged in ashes. Frances remained silent, her vindictiveness, her hardness of heart, against this vacillating girl dying away as the flame had died. It was not her desire to hurt her with that story of treachery and cowardice which must leave its stain upon her name for many a year. "The name of the man who shot him is a curse and a blight on this land, a mockery of every holy human thought. I'll not speak it." Nola stared at her, horror speaking from her eyes. "He must be a monster!" "He is the lowest of the accursed--a coward!" Frances said. Nola shuddered, standing silently by the couch a little while. Then: "But I want to help you, Frances, if you'll let me." "There's nothing that you can do. I'm waiting for Mrs. Mathews and the doctor from the agency." "You can go up and rest until they come, Frances, you look so tired and pale. I'll watch by him--you can tell me what to do, and I'll call you when they come." "No; I'll stay until--I'll stay here." "Oh, please go, Frances; you're nearly dead on your feet."