"Then Bard, he asked Drew to let him have one chance at the girl, lettin' her know first what he'd done, but jest trustin' to his power of talk. Which, of course, didn't give him no show. While he was makin' love to the girl she outs with a knife and tries to stick him--nice, pleasant sort she must have been--and Drew, he had to pry the two of 'em apart. "That made the girl look sort of kind on Drew and she swore that sooner or later she'd have the blood of Bard for what he'd done--either have it herself or else send someone after him to the end of the world. She was a wild one, all right. "She was so wild that Drew, after they got married, took her over on the far side of the range and built that old house that's rottin' there now. Bard, he left the range and wasn't never seen again, far as I know." It was clear to Anthony, bitterly clear. His father had had a grim scene in parting with Drew and had placed the continent between them. And in the Eastern states he had met that black-eyed girl, his mother, and loved her because she was so much like the wild daughter of Piotto. The girl Joan in dying had probably extracted from Drew a promise that he would kill Bard, and that promise he had lived to fulfil. "So Joan died?" he queried. "Yep, and was buried under them two trees in front of the house. I don't think she lived long after they was married, but about that nobody knows. They was clear off by themselves and there isn't any one can tell about their life after they was married. All we know is that Drew didn't get over her dyin'. He ain't over it yet, and goes out to the old place every month or so to potter around the grave and keep the grass and the weeds off of it and clean the head-stone." The candle guttered wildly on the floor. It had burnt almost to the wood and now the remnant of the wick stood in a little sprawling pool of grease white at the outer edges. Bard yawned, and patted idly the blanket where it touched on the shape of the revolver beneath. In another moment that candle would gutter out and they would be left in darkness. He said: "That's the best yarn I've heard in a good many days; it's enough to make any one sleepy--so here goes." And he turned deliberately on his side. Nash, his eyes staring with incredulity, sat up slowly among his blankets and his hand stole up toward the noose of the lariat. A light snore reached him, hardly a snore so much as the heavy intake of breath of a very weary, sleeping man; yet the hand of Nash froze on the lariat. "By God," he whispered faintly to himself, "he ain't asleep!" And the candle flared wildly, leaped, and shook out. CHAPTER XXI THE SWIMMING OF THE SAVERACK