Steve Yeager. William MacLeod Raine

      Daisy lifted her shoulders in a careless little shrug. "Oh, her mother! What's she got to do with it? Harrison has hypnotized the kid, I guess. He throws a big chest, and at that he ain't bad-looking. He's one man too, if he is a rotten bad lot."

      The young woman breezed on to another subject in the light, inconsequent fashion she had, and presently deserted Yeager to meet the badinage of an extra sitting at an adjoining table.

      After dinner Steve went to his new quarters to get a cigar he had left on the table. It was one Farrar had given him. He was cherishing it because his financial assets had become reduced to twenty cents and he did not happen to know when pay-day was.

      Yeager climbed the barn stairs humming a range song:—

      "Black Jack Davy came a-riding along,

       Singing a song so gayly,

       He laughed and sang till the merry woods rang

       And he charmed the heart of a lady,

       And he charmed—"

      Abruptly he pulled up in his stride and in his song. Ruth Seymour was in the room putting new sheets and pillow-cases on the bed.

      "I haven't had time before. I didn't think you would be through dinner so soon," she explained in a voice soft and low.

      "That's all right. I only dropped up to get a cigar I left on the table. Don't let me disturb you."

      Her troubled eyes rested on the strong, lean face that went so well with the strong, lean body. One eye was swollen and almost shut. Red bruises glistened on the forehead and the cheeks. A bit of plaster stretched diagonally above the right cheekbone where the prizefighter's knuckles had cut a deep gash. Little ridges covered his countenance as if it had been a contour map of a mountainous country. But through all the havoc that had been wrought flashed his white teeth in a cheerful smile.

      The girl's lip trembled. "I'm sorry you—were hurt."

      He flashed a quick look at her. "Sho! Forget it, Miss Seymour. I wasn't hurt any—none to speak of. It don't do a big husky like me any harm to be handed a licking."

      "You—hit him first, didn't you?"

      "Yes, ma'am—knocked him out cold before he knew where he was at. He was entitled to a come-back. I'm noways hos-tile to him because he's a better man than I am."

      She stood with the pillow in her hands, shy as a fawn, but with a certain resolution, too, the trouble of her soul still reflected on the sweet face.

      "Why do men—do such things?" she asked with a catch of her breath.

      He scratched his curly head in apologetic perplexity. "Search me. I reckon the cave man is lurking around in most of us. We hadn't ought to. That's a fact."

      "It was all a mistake, Miss Ellington says. You thought he was hurting Miss Winters. Why didn't you tell him you were sorry? Then it would have been all right."

      The cowpuncher did not bat an eye at this innocent suggestion.

      "That's right. Why didn't I think of that? Then of course he would have laid off o' me."

      "He—Mr. Harrison—is quick-tempered. I suppose all brave men are. But he's generous, too. If you had explained—"

      "I reckon you're right. He sure is generous, even in the whalings he gives. But don't worry about me. I'm all right, and much obliged for your kindness in asking."

      Steve found his cigar and retired. He carried with him in memory a picture of a troubled young creature with soft, tender eyes gleaming starlike from beneath waves of dark hair.

      Yeager met Harrison swaggering up the gravel walk toward the house. A malevolent gleam lit in the cold black eyes of the bully.

      "How you feeling, young fella?"

      "A hundred and eighty years old," answered the cowpuncher promptly with a grin. "Every time I open my mouth my face cracks. You ce'tainly did give me a proper trimming. I don't know sic-'em about this scientific fight game."

      Harrison scowled. "There's more at the same address any time you need it."

      "Not if I see you coming in time to make a getaway," retorted Steve with a laugh.

      As the range-rider passed lightly down the walk there drifted back to the prizefighter the words of a cowboy song:—

      "Oh, bury me out on the lone prairee,

       In a narrow grave just six by three,

       Where the wild coyotes will howl o'er me—

       Oh, bury me out on the lone prairee."

      Harrison ripped out an oath. There was a note of gentle irony about the minor strain of the song that he resented. He had given this youth the thrashing of his life, but he had apparently left his spirit quite uncrushed. What he liked was to have men walk in fear of him.

      The song presently died on the lips of Steve. Harrison was on his way to call on Ruth. The man had somehow won her promise to marry him. It was impossible for Yeager to believe that the child knew what she was doing. To think of her as the future wife of Chad Harrison moved him to resentment at life's satiric paradoxes. To give this sweet young innocent to such a man was to mate a lamb with a tiger or a wolf. The outrage of it cried to Heaven. What could her mother be thinking of to allow such a wanton sacrifice?