County. Across the river from Crocker were two counties, of which Tom Read County was the northern and Piegan County the southern. Shaler County ran the whole length of the southern side of Crocker, whose western line was the boundary of the neighboring territory.

There you have Crocker, a county three hundred miles wide by four hundred miles long, and Golden Bar was its county seat.

Political pickings in Crocker, which pickings the neighbors called by a much worse name, were consistently good. A small Indian reservation lay partly in Crocker and partly in Shaler, but somehow the Crocker citizens always secured the beef contracts. Crocker laws, provided the suspected person or persons were friendly with the county officials, were not administered with undue severity. Coarse work was never tolerated, naturally; but if one were judicious and a good picker, one could travel far and profitably. Thus it may be seen that Crocker was, as counties go, fertile ground for easy consciences.

But, like Gallio, Bill Wingo cared for none of these things. He watched the moving pencil-end that was Miss Prescott and her mount descend to the trail and ride along it in the direction of Golden Bar.

Another pencil-end was riding the same trail,—away from Golden Bar. Traveling at their present rate of speed, the riders would meet not far from the scattering grove of cedars marking the entrance to the low-walled draw that led to the Prescott ranch house.

Bill Wingo intently scrutinized the way-farer from Golden Bar side.

"Looks like Jack Murray's sorrel," he mused, holding the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and rocking it up and down. "If they stop, it's Jack."

The pencil-ends drew together at the lower end of the grove. They stopped.

"Shucks," Mr. Wingo muttered mildly. "I never did like that man."

Said the first pencil-end to the second pencil-end, "Hello, Sally Jane."

"Morning, Jack."

"I was just a-riding to your place."

"Don't let me stop you."

"I'll ride along with you."

"It's a free country." She lifted her reins and "kissed" to her horse. "And at times I've known you to be amusing, Jack. It's four miles to our ranch and you'll help to brighten the weary way."

He spurred alongside and turned in his saddle to stare at her.

"Is that all I'm good for—to help pass the time?"

"What else is a man good for?"

"Don't be so flip, Sally Jane. You know——" He stopped short.

She waited a moment. Then, "I know what?"

"You know I've been loving you a long, long time," he said abruptly. "I didn't want to tell you till I had something to offer you besides myself. And now I've got something—Rafe Tuckleton has promised to make me sheriff."

"I thought the voters usually decided such things," said she.

He laughed cynically. "Not in Crocker. We know the better way. Well, I've told you, Sally Jane. What do you say?"

She looked at him coolly. "What is this—a proposal?"

"Sure, I want you to marry me."

"No, you don't." There was no hint of coquetry in either her tone or the direct gaze of her violet eyes.

He crowded his horse almost against hers and dropped a hand on top of her hand where it lay on the saddle horn. She did not withdraw her hand at his touch. She simply suffered it impassively.

"Don't you understand?" he said earnestly. "Don't you understand that I love you, Sally Jane? And I want you."

Sally Jane continued to look at him.

"I understand that you want me," she told him calmly. "Why not? You're dark and tall and thick-lipped and headstrong. I'm slim and red-haired and my mouth is full, too—but I'm headstrong, thank Heaven. My type appeals to your type, that's all. Appeals physically, I mean. You'd like to possess me, but you don't love me, Jack Murray."

"I tell you——" he began passionately.

"You don't have to tell me," she said calmly. "I know."

"How do you know?"

"By your eyes."

"My eyes!"

"Your eyes. Love is something besides desire, Jack. I know that lots of men don't think so; but women know. You bet women know. And I, for one, don't intend to risk my happiness on a twenty-to-one-shot."

"What you talking about?" he demanded, scowling and withdrawing his hand.

"You—and me—us. If I married you, it's twenty to one our marriage would be unhappy. There's too much of the animal in you, Jack."

"You listen to me, Sally. I tell you I love you and I'm going to have you."

"I said you only wanted to possess me," she observed placidly.

"Dammit, I tell you——"

"That's right, swear," she interrupted. "A man always does that when he can't think of anything else to say."

"I'm gonna marry you," he persisted sullenly.

"If it does you any good, keep right on thinking so. It can't hurt me."

"Has Bill Wingo——" he began, but sensed his mistake and stopped—too late.

"You mean am I in love with Billy Wingo?" she put in helpfully. "My answer is, not at present."

"Meaning that you may be later on, I suppose."

"I didn't say so. Lord, man, haven't I a right to bestow my heart anywhere I like? I intend to, old-timer."

"You ain't gonna marry anybody but me," he insisted stubbornly.

"There you go again. Leave the melodrama alone, can't you? This isn't a play. It's real life."

"I said I was gonna have you and I am," he said slowly. "Neither Bill Wingo nor anybody else is gonna get you. You were always intended for me. You're mine, understand, mine!"

Jamming his horse against hers he pinioned both her hands with his right, swung his left arm round her waist and crushed her gasping against his chest. Be sure she struggled; but he was a man, and strong. Forcing the back of the hand that confined her two hands under her chin, he tilted her head up and backwards. Tightly she screwed up her mouth so that her lips were invisible. Once, twice and again he kissed her compressed mouth.

"There," he muttered, releasing her so abruptly that she almost fell out of the saddle and only saved herself by catching the saddle horn with both hands. "There. I've heard you boasted that no man had ever kissed you. Well, you're kissed now and you won't forget it in a hurry."

She settled her toes in the stirrups and faced him, her body shaking. Her hat had fallen off, her copper-colored hair hung tousled about her ears. Violet eyes sparkling under the black eyebrows, lips drawn back revealing the white, even teeth—her features were a mask of rage—a rage that seethed and boiled in her passionate heart.

Never in her life had she been so despitefully used. Had she had a gun, she would have shot the man. But she did not have a gun—nor any other weapon. She had even dropped her quirt somewhere.

"Oh!" she cried, striking her fists together. "Oh! I could kill you! You dog! You beast! Faugh!" Here she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and wiped her hand on her horse's mane. "When I get home," she raved on, "I'll try to wash the touch of your mouth off with soap, but I don't believe even ammonia will ever make my lips feel clean again!"

He laughed. She began to cry as her rage overflowed her heart.

"When I tell my father," she sobbed, "he will kill you!"

"Here, stop crying," he directed, stretching forth an arm and leaning toward her.

At that she came alive with startling suddenness and with a full-armed sweep scored his cheek with her finger nails from temple to jaw.

"Don't touch me!" she squalled. "Don't touch me! When my father gets through with you——" She left the sentence unfinished and wheeled her horse.

But he was too quick for her and seized the bridle rein and swung her mount back.

"Listen," he said, his voice quiet but his eyes ablaze, "don't say anything to your father."

"Afraid now, are you?" she taunted sneeringly.

"Not for me, for him. I don't want any trouble with your pa, not any. But if he jumps me,