"Not much, Courtrey," she said, "you fast gun man! You're too slow.

An' this ain't your game, anyway, not face t' face. You're all right on a dark night--_an' from behind_. Fine! But you're a coward. You're what I called you before--an a.s.sa.s.sin."

She was pale as ashes, her eyes narrowed to blazing slits. Jim Last, gun man, was in her like those composite pictures which show the shadow in the substance. There was a gasp from the store porch where Thomas stood with a shaking hand covering his lips. Baston was stuck against his wall like a leech, rigid. These men knew that she tempted death.

Not a man in Lost Valley could have done it and gotten away with it.

Tharon knew it, too, but she did not care.

"An' now you know what you are, Courtrey. I'll tell th' same to you, Step Service. Law! In Lost Valley? Yes, Courtrey's law! Th' law of th'

gun alone--th' law of thieves--th' law of murderers. An' you stand for that, you bet! What were you before you took th' oath of office? Tell me that! Th' man who killed old Mike McCrea an' took his cattle down th' Wall! Th' whole Valley knows it--but we've never dared to say it before!"

The porch was lined with people now. Soft-footed Indians and Mexican _vaqueros_, sprung from nowhere, cowboys, ranchers, women, they came silently up and listened.

The sheriff's red face was the colour of liver, purple and mottled with bursting rage. His fingers worked at his sides. He set his lips, and his small eyes never left the girl's face.

Tharon, crouched a bit, her feet apart, her elbows crooked above her hips, her fingers curled on her gun-b.u.t.ts with nice precision, wet her own pale lips and continued:

"An' who put you in office? That laugh of an office! Who? Why, Courtrey--th' biggest thief, th' coldest murderer in th' country! _He_ put you there! An' what are you good for? My daddy was shot--_in th'

back_--an' did you make one inquiry into the murder? Come out to Last's, even to find a clew? Not you! There's only one sheriff in this Valley--one bit o' law that will avenge his death--an' that's _me_!

Now, you two fine gentlemen--I'm goin'. There's my hand! I throw th'

cards on th' table! Shoot me in the back if you've got th' nerve. Come out in th' open an' fight! _But you better be quick about it!_"

With that she backed slowly along the porch, keeping them in view.

"Get away behind me," she called. There was a path opened instantly, the sound of shuffling feet. Along the porch she went, step by step, stopping every moment or so to keep close hold on her advantage, every nerve strained, every one of her faculties at the top of its power.

She felt for the step with her foot, went down, backed through the crowd, brought them all in the range of the guns which she flashed out now and held upon them.

She was ashy pale, a flaming, vibrant thing. Not a man there but knew she was more dangerous at the moment than cool Jim Last had ever been, for she radiated hatred of her father's killer in every bitter glance. She had none for whom to be cautious. She was the last of her blood. She was efficient, and she knew it.

Courtrey knew it, and felt the sweat start on his skin.

Service knew it, and hated her for it.

As the girl backed clear there came into her vision a strange figure--the straight, trim figure of a man who stood stiffly at attention, where her imperious words had caught him.

He wore a uniform of semi-military style, leather leggings, a flannel shirt of b.u.t.ternut and a smart, tan, broad-brimmed hat.

He, too, came in the range of the travelling guns and waited their pleasure.

Tharon reached El Rey. She stuck her right-hand weapon in its holster, loosed the rein, flung it over the stallion's head, stepped around his shoulder and mounted deftly and swiftly from the wrong side. It was a pretty trick of horsemanship and showed up her adroitness. As El Rey rose on his hind feet, whirling, that unwavering muzzle whirled also, to keep in line. The king struck into his gait and his rider, facing backward, swung away down the narrow street. Until she was well out of range the tension held.

Then Steptoe Service struck a fist into a palm and began to swear in a fury, but Courtrey laughed, one of his rare, short bursts of mirth that were more bodeful than oaths.

He turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come.

The stranger in the uniform walked forward, went up the steps, crossed the porch, and, stooping, picked up the meal-sack which Tharon had dropped.

"Will some one kindly tell me who the young lady is and where she lives?" he asked gravely.

Baston, unglued from the wall, spoke up with his usual pompous eagerness.

"Tharon, from Last's Holdin'," he said.

"Thanks," and the man wrapped the sack into a small bundle and tied it with its own string.

He stuck it under one arm and taking out a short brown pipe, proceeded to fill and light it.

Courtrey, halted a few rods away, eyed him sharply.

As he turned, rolling his match to death in his fingers, the sun struck mellowly upon something on his breast, a small, dark copper shield which bore strange heraldry.

At the sight Courtrey's eyes sought Service's and held them for a swift, questioning moment.

Strangers in Lost Valley were contraband.

The three settlers looked covertly at each other, drifted apart, got their horses and presently left town by different ways.

Three hours later these men met by common consent at the head of Rolling Cove and talked long and earnestly of the happening. They knew that Courtrey would never take silently that bitter arraignment, that something would transpire swiftly to show his resentment, to prove his absolute power over Lost Valley.

"'Tain't Tharon that'll suffer, even ef he did try t' shoot her that night in th' Golden Cloud, because Courtrey wants her himself," said Jameson quietly, "th' whole country knows that. There was only one man who didn't know it, an' that was Jim Last himself. No, he won't monkey with th' Holdin' yet, not to any great extent. It'll be us little fellers, us others who he knows would stan' behind her. Some of us'll lose somethin' soon, an' don't you forget it."

"If we do," said Hill pa.s.sionately, "it's time t' show our hand. We've been hounded long enough. Th' men from Last's will be with us, we can gamble on that."

"Yes," said Thomas, "but it'll be war. Open war. There'll be killin's then."

Jameson, a quiet man with deep eyes, made a wide gesture.

"What if there is?" he asked, "might's well be done in th' open as in th' dark an' unseen. Might better be! I move we ride th' Valley an'

ask th' settlers to band together, under Last's, an' give our ultimatum t' Courtrey on th' heels of this. What say you?"

"I say yes," said Hill swiftly. Thomas, of less stern stuff, wavered.

"Well, let's wait awhile. Let's don't be too quick. Courtrey now, he's mighty quick an' hot. They ain't no tellin'----"

"All right," said Jameson promptly, "suit yourself--we ain't a-pressin' no man into this."

"Why, now, I'm fer it, boys--that is, I'm believin' it's got t' be done, only I counsels time."

"No time," cried Hill, "we ben counselin' time an' quiet an' not doin'

anything to stir 'em up, an' what d' we get? Cattle stole every spring, waterholes taken an' fenced fer Courtrey's stock right on th'

open range, hogs drove off, fences tore down, like pore old John Dement's an' some of us left t' rot every year in some coulee. We done waited a sight too long. Courtrey thinks he owns Lost Valley, an' he comes near doin' it, what with his hired killers, Wylackie an' Black Bart an' this new gun man that's just come in. I heered today he's from Arizona, an' imported article."

Jameson turned to him and held out his hand.

"I'm goin' to ride tomorrow," he said.

Hill grasped the extended hand and looked hard in the other's eyes.