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All at once the harsh brightness of the earth vanished, and a still twilight settled across the ridge. Pale blue shadows filtered through the trees; the air began to take on a brief transparency, and she saw the valley sweep away and melt into the southern horizon. A faint breeze rose.

      Immobile, watching the tremendous change, she thought: "It will not be as hard to live with myself as I thought."

      Neel St. Cloud cut due west from Nan's place, up and down the rolling ravines. Not quite two miles onward he came into a small flat bay of land that butted against the side of Squaw ridge. There—at the junction of valley and high ground—set Dan Bellew's Broken Stirrup, its face to the open south and its rear darkened by the rising pine slope. Poplars made a pleasant circle about the place; unseen water fell down a gentle drop and sent its music across the dry, motionless air. Passing through the front gateway, St. Cloud's face went smooth and noncommittal, the sharpened cast of expression that comes to a man on unsure soil. Dan Bellew sat in the shade of the porch, but he rose at St. Cloud's approach and stood waiting till the latter had circled and dismounted. St. Cloud took a seat on the steps, reached for his tobacco. In the back angles of the place a blacksmith's hammer suddenly ceased to ring; Bellew sat down again.

      St. Cloud, absorbed with the making of his smoke, said, "Dry summer," Indolently.

      But Bellew brushed the invitation of preliminary talk aside. Both big fists lay along the arms of his chair, his head tipped soberly toward St. Cloud, "Neel," he said abruptly, "we might as well get this straight. You and I are headed far the same crossing. We stand a chance of collidin'."

      "You've just discovered that?" asked St. Cloud, obviously ironic.

      "I've known it a long time."

      "Of course you have," said St. Cloud. "You're no fool, Dan. If you were, I wouldn't bother with you."

      "I had to draw and kill a man last night," mused Bellew. "He wasn't hunting me. He was after Jubilee Hawk. He had no particular reason to bear grudge against Jubilee. He was doing a job because he had his orders. Your orders."

      "You sure?" drawled St. Cloud.

      "There ain't any other answer."

      St. Cloud shrugged his shoulders. "Let it ride like that, then."

      "No. I'm afraid not. You're determined to win. But you're not too sure about it. So you figured to make it a little easier by erasing Jubilee."

      "If you think so, I'll not contradict."

      "What's there in it for you?" challenged Bellew. "Supposin' you place your men in office. What of it?"

      "You don't see it?" queried St. Cloud. He flashed a sardonic smile at Bellew. "You can't guess my hole card? Of course you can't. But it is there. Make no mistake about that."

      Bellew said evenly, definitely: "In the first place, you won't win the election."

      St. Cloud squared himself about. Into his deliberate stare crept a harder, yellower flame of emotion. "Don't lay any bets on it, Dan. I'll win. Nine days from now my sheriff will carry the star."

      "What for?"

      St. Cloud got up, threw his cigarette into the dust.

      "Listen. There's too much law and order in the country. You ought to know I've got no regard for it. You do know it—damned well. Law and order kicked my father out of the valley fifteen years ago, A bunch of pious hypocrites did it. Your old man was one of the bunch that helped drive the St. Clouds back into Smoky Draw."

      "That's ancient history," cut in Bellew curtly. "Has nothing to do with the present. The valley drove the St. Clouds out because it couldn't afford to keep 'em."

      "It has paid the St. Clouds ever since," said St. Cloud arrogantly.

      Bellew nodded. "The rustling has never stopped. You're a clever man, Neel, but you'll be caught some day."

      St. Cloud's mind was still on the fact of banishment.

      All at once he was bitter, defiant: "Well, you've got rid of the old man. But I'm still alive. I've lived back there in those damned dreary hills most of my life—an outcast, by God! Your kind has forced me to prowl that country, like same outlawed hungry wolf skirtin' the edges of civilized territory! I've got the right to fight back, Bellew—and that is what I'm doing! I'll win this election, hands down!"

      "One way or another," qualified Bellew. "Legitimately or with the gun."

      "I make no bones about it."

      Bellew struck one fist heavily against the chair. But his voice remained casual: "Two can play at that game, Neel. If you're layin' down the challenge I'll pick it up."

      "You've got to," answered St. Cloud abruptly. "I know who I have to lick. It's you—no question of it. You carry the sentiment of this valley around in your watch pocket. I don't know why, but you do. I can cut off the people in Trail whenever I want to. LeBoeuf's afraid of his shadow. Gunderson would rather make a compromise than fight me. As for the nesters, they don't count. You're the one that'll get these people organized against me, You see I've got it figured. You're"—and St. Cloud's voice was thin and resenting—"the fair-haired boy."

      Bellew remained still a long while. Then he said, "All right, Neel. I'll have to declare myself in."

      "Don't guess wrong on that election," warned St. Cloud. "I'm going to win it. It's been a long ambition of my life. When I do—"

      "Go on," prompted Bellew.

      St. Cloud's grin was malicious and secretive; and all the reckless, restless nature of the man appeared on his sharp face. "No, I've said enough. But when I win, there will be a further surprise for the valley."

      "I'll fight fire with fire," stated Bellew. "Remember that."

      "I guess we understand each other," was St. Cloud's even answer. "You're the man I've got to lick. And will lick. So long, Dan."

      He turned to his horse and in another moment swept away at a dead gallop toward the hills. It was a signal for the curious ranch crew. The Chinese cook appeared in the front door. Solano, prematurely old and shriveled, walked from a hidden corner with the intent air of having been listening. Link Medders, the foreman, came over from the barn—youthful, but showing the soberness of an early responsibility. He had a gray, smooth face and gave the suggestion of unhurried competence.

      "What did that lad want?" he asked Dan.

      "Just explainin' himself."

      "Not in ten minutes," objected Link Medders. "It'd take him a month."

      One last figure—Mike Shannon—sauntered up with a blacksmith's hammer in his hand. Honest sweat dripped off a currycomb mustache, and his solid Irish cheeks were red from heat. Seldom-speaking, he only listened now.

      "He's got something up his sleeve," muttered Bellew. "And it's dynamite."

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