rhythm of the great El Rey, the clap-clap, clap-clap of the king of Last’s Holding as he singlefooted down the hollow slopes of the lifting eastern range.

And as she waited she thought of many things. Odd little happenings of her childhood came back to her––the time she had caught her father killing the winter’s beef, had wept in hysterical pity and forbidden him to finish.

They had had no meat those long months following––and she had so tired of beans, that she 15 had never been able to eat them since. She smiled in the dusk as she recalled Jim Last’s life-long indulgence of her.

And the time she had wanted to make her own knee-short dresses as long as Anita’s, to sweep the floors, with fringe upon them and stripes of bright print.

She had worn them so––at twelve––until she found that they hindered the free use of her young limbs in mounting a horse, free-foot and bareback. Then, once again the memory of her father’s face when she questioned him concerning her mother.

“Boys,” she said suddenly, smiling to herself, “did you ever know a man like my dad?”

There was a movement among the lounging riders, a shifting of position, a striking of cigarette ash.

“No, sir,” said Billy promptly, “there hain’t another man’s good with a gun as him, not anywhere’s in Lost Valley. Not even Buck Courtrey himself. I’d back Jim Last against him, even, in fair-draw. Why?”

“Oh, nothin’,” said the girl, “only––listen––Glory!” she added slipping down from the window to stand quietly in the gloom, “that’s him now! I was wishin’ hard he’d come. 16 Say––listen–––Why,––there’s somethin’ gone wrong with El Rey’s feet! 1––2–––3, 4, 5, 6–––1––2––Boys––he’s breakin’! Th’ king ain’t singlefootin’ right, for th’ first time since Jim Last put a halter on him! Come––come quick!”

Ordinarily Tharon was a bit slow in her movements, as the very graceful often are. Now she was across the room to the western door before a man had moved. They joined her there and she stood at attention, one hand at her breast, the breath held still in her throat. The light, shining through from the eating room beyond, made a halo of her tawny hair. Silently the riders grouped about her and listened.

Sure enough. Down along the range that rang as some open stretches do, there came the clip-clap of a hurrying horse, only now the hoof beats were regular for a little space, to break, halt, start on, and again ring true in the beautiful syncopation of the born singlefooter. The king was coming home, but, alas! not as he had ever come before, in full flight, proud and powerful. He held his speed and sacrificed his certainty to the man who clung desperately to the saddle horn and swayed in wide arcs, so that he must shift continually to keep under him.

Into the dim glow of light at the open door came El Rey at last, great blue-silver stallion, his 17 big eyes shining like phosphorus, his nostrils wide with horror of the pungent crimson wash that painted his right shoulder.

He stopped at the door-stone, his duty done.

“Dad!” screamed Tharon, shrill as a bugle, for Jim Last, white and dull as a moon in fog, let go his desperate hold on the pommel and slid, deadweight, into the reaching arms that circled him.

They carried him into the living room. Before they had him safely on the wide couch where the Indian blankets glowed, Tharon, trembling but efficient, had lighted the hanging lamp above the table.

Then she pushed the men aside and knelt beside him.

“Dad,” she said clearly, “Jim! Jim Last!”

But the gaining of his goal had been too much. For a moment the flickering light in him died down to ashes. Tharon, her face as white as his own, waited in a man-like quiet. She held his stiffened hands and her eyes burned upon his features. With a deadly knowledge she was printing them indelibly upon her heart.

Presently Jim Last sighed and opened his eyes. They sought hers and he smiled, a tender lighting from within. He fumbled for the buckle of his gun-belt. The girl unclasped it and pulled it 18 free. She noticed that both guns were in their holsters.

“Put it on,” whispered the master of Last’s Holding.

Without a question Tharon stood up and buckled the belt about her slender waist.

Her father raising himself with difficulty on an elbow, wet his lips.

“Tharon, my girl,” he said, “show your dad th’ backhand flip.”

Strange play, this, when every second counted, but Last’s daughter obeyed him to the letter.

She stepped clear by the table, stood at attention a second, and, with a peculiar outward whirl, lightning-quick, of her two wrists, had him covered with the big blue guns.

He nodded.

“Good as I learned ye,” he whispered, “make it better.”

“I will,” promised Tharon swiftly.

The man closed his eyes, swayed, recovered as Conford caught him, and brightened again.

“Now th’ under-sling.”

Again she obeyed, replacing the weapons, standing that second at attention, and flipping them from the holsters so quickly that the eye could scarcely catch the motion. Both draws were peculiar––and peculiarly Last’s own. 19 “Good girl,” he said with a husk grown suddenly in his voice, “take––three hours––a day. I want t’ leave you th’ best gun-handler in Lost Valley––because, my girl––you’ll––have––to––to––pro–––”

He ceased, wilting forward in Conford’s arms.

Then he opened his eyes again for one last smile at the daughter he had loved above all things on earth, save and except the memory of the woman who had given her to him.

For once in her life Tharon did not wait his finished speech. She saw the Hand reach out of the shadows and flung herself upon his breast where the blood still seeped and fairly forced the last flutter of life to brighten in him. She kissed his rugged cheek.

“Who, Dad,” she called into his dulling senses, “tell me who? I’ll get him, so help me God!” and she loosed one hand to cross herself, as old Anita had taught her.

But the promise was late. None knew whether or not Jim Last heard it, for before the last word was done the breath had ceased in his throat.

Another twilight came down upon Lost Valley. The wide ranges lay dim and mysterious, grey and pink and lavendar, as if the hand of a Master 20 Painter had coloured them, as indeed it had. The Rockface at the west was black with shadow for all its rugged miles, the eastern uplands were bathed and aglow with purplish crimson light.

In Corvan lights twinkled all up and down the one main street. Horses were tied at the hitch-racks and among them were the Ironwoods from Courtrey’s Stronghold, beautiful big creatures, blood-bay, black-pointed, noticeable in any bunch. There were no Finger Marks, however, the blue roans, red roans and buckskins with the four black stripes on the outside of the knee, as if one had slapped them with a tarred hand, which hailed from Last’s. There were horses from all up and down the Valley. Cow ponies and half-breeds of the Ironwood stock which Courtrey would not keep at the Stronghold but was too close to kill, shouldered pintos from the Indian settlements, big, half-wild horses from over the mountains at the North. Inside the brightly lighted saloons men passed back and forth, drank neat liquor at the worn bars, played at the green felt and canvas covered tables. At one, The Golden Cloud, more pretentious than the rest, there foregathered the leading spirits of the Valley. Here Courtrey came and