along the arroyo, urging a tired horse that he might lose no
unnecessary handful of moments. And as he went she heard him curse
savagely under his breath and knew that he had forgotten her in the
thoughts which had been released by the dull booming of a bell.




CHAPTER III

A MAN'S BOOTS

In the bar at the Casa Blanca, a long, wide room, low-ceilinged and
with cool, sprinkled floor, a score of men had congregated. For the
most part they were silent, content to look at the signs left by the
recent shooting and to have what scraps of explanation were vouchsafed
them. And these were meagre enough. The man who had done the shooting
was sullen and self-contained. The dead man . . . it was the sheepman
from Las Palmas . . . lay in an adjoining card-room, stark under the
blanket which the large hands of Jim Galloway had drawn over him.

When the clatter of hoofs rang out in the street a couple of men went
to the door. Coming back, "It is the sheriff," they said.

Roderick Norton, entering swiftly, his spurs dragging and jangling,
swept the faces in the room with eyes which had in them none of that
human glint of good-will which the girl at the arroyo had glimpsed in
them. Again they were steely, angry, bespeaking both threat and
suspicion.