LITMIR.BIZ

      VIII. EAST COMES WEST

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      A month passed, the year turned its apex and swung down the farther side of its arc. The broiling heat of a forenoon's sun blasted the land; all things withered beneath it, all things were turned to a dun and henna colouring. The hardy pines were coated with a dust that hid their natural greenery, and they appeared to suffer a suspension of life. Fog stretched across the horizon, the surface of the river was like glowing brass. Tom Gillette, from his vantage point a half mile removed, saw the new Circle G cabins shimmering and rising with the heat mirage. He turned to Lispenard.

      "Nevertheless, Blondy, it's a fertile land, and we've got our footing. Let winter come. Let anything come. We can fight."

      Lispenard shrugged his shoulders. He was clean shaven once more, and he had let his yellow hair grow until it fell below his hat brim, plainsman's style. "Winter? It's a devil of a time to be thinking of winter, my lad. And why should you be so cursed proud of a few clap-daubed huts?"

      "It means..." began Tom, and then caught the words before they ran past his lips. After all, Lispenard wouldn't understand how much those few cabins and corrals meant in a raw country. Achievement—security—the onward march of a dream. So he murmured, "It means shelter," and let it go at that. He wondered of late why it was the man seemed to arouse in him a defensive mood. It appeared that his friend had shaken himself into a certain state of mind, a kind of taciturn aloofness and a veiled antagonism that couldn't be penetrated. The old smile and jest had returned to the Blond Giant, but there was no charity in either. He had quite distinctly hardened; and he had grown secretive.

      Tom turned about. "I'm going to town. Coming along?"

      "No. I want to explore the north side of the river," said Lispenard. And he grinned. "But give my regards to the prairie beauty, old man. Ah, touched! Of course I know you'll see her along the way. I could even tell you where she makes her stand. Don't you suppose I have ridden over there myself on occasion? She's a spitfire—but the time will come when she'll see me in a better light."

      Tom returned the man's smile with a sharp glance, wondering at the flare of anger he felt. "Still the lady's man, Blondy?"

      "It's a weakness," replied his companion. "Give her my regards and say to her that there are other desirable types of men in addition to the rockbound and frowning creature tramping across the footlights."

      "What's the nubbin to that, Blondy?"

      The Blond Giant raised his shoulders again and spurred off. Much later, when Tom had gone eastward, he swung to see the man outlined on the bluff north of the river a moment, then dip from view.

      "What draws him over there so much?" The question stuck to his mind for several miles and then vanished before a kind of expectancy. Halfway to the Wyatt range he saw Lorena—Lorena loosely poised on her horse and watching him approach. Her hand swung upward, and of a sudden her pony sprang to life and raced across the prairie, the girl's compact body weaving from side to side. Without ceremony she wheeled alongside—and thus they rode for a good half mile, saying not a word. Neither of these people made conversation to order, neither of them seemed to feel the necessity of it. Presently she waved her arm around the compass points.

      "Guess my dad's fixing to sell out."

      "To Grist and the P.R.N.?"

      "How did you know?" she demanded.

      "He's been after me," replied Tom. "Seems to want this country pretty bad."

      "Then that's why both Eapley and Diggerts have sold. And I guess we will too." She struck her gauntlet against the saddle, crying, "I don't want to leave—I don't want to!" With that same disconcerting swiftness she faced him. "Are you going to sell?"

      Gillette shook his head. "No, I guess not. Where would I go? This is my land now. I'm stickin' to it."

      "It's the way I feel," she explained wistfully. "But Grist offered Dad a lot of money—and where does he think to make a profit?—so I think Dad will take it. No idea just where we will go next. I don't want to leave."

      "Corporation money," said Tom, "is cautious money. It may seem as if they are paying a fancy price, but don't you doubt they'll get it back twice over."

      They came to the lower ford, across which lay the road to Nelson. The girl studied the sandy earth for a long interval, then swept Tom's face with a quick and shrewd glance. "I don't want to go. I won't. If Dad leaves here I'll go to Nelson and work in the restaurant."

      "I'd hate to think of you doing that," protested Tom.

      There was another short silence, in which Tom silently applauded. The girl in the East would have made a marvelous play of his sentiment. She would have coquetted with him, would have softly asked, "Would it make any difference to you, Tom, what I did?" But not Lorena Wyatt. This clear-featured girl—whose eyes now and then so arrested and troubled him—had nothing of the coquette about her.

      She spread her hands apart; the white V of her throat slid beneath the bandana's knot. "I'm strong. I'm not afraid. What harm would there be? Oh, I know what you think. You've got all those queer ideas as to what a lady shouldn't do. But, you see, I'm not..."

      "Don't say it, Lorena." He wasn't aware that he had used her given name for the first time; and perhaps that explained why he was so puzzled to find the quick glow in her black eyes. It bothered him so much that he turned into the ford, calling over his shoulder. "Blondy sent his regards."

      He heard a sound of impatience. "How very kind of him. But you can tell the gentleman I don't need his company."

      Tom's horse took the water, veering aside. And it was then the quiet of the land was broken by the crack of a rifle, and a jet of sand shot lip on the bank, just behind horse and rider. The girl cried an abrupt warning. "Behind the bluffs rim. Above you—see the smoke? Come back!" Even before he drew his own gun she fired at the thin trail of powder smoke eddying from the summit of the bluff. A second shot ripped the water. Tom bent over and put the shelter of the pony between himself and the unseen marksman. The powder smoke was a poor mark, but he threw two bullets up that way and raced through the deep part of the ford to the farther bank. He was now in a bad trap, for the trail led sharply up between a cleft in the bluff, and he was exposed to whoever lay along that rim and watched him. Still, he galloped on, hearing the girl crying at him from behind, hearing her horse splash through the ford. He twisted in the saddle, half angry. "Don't follow me! Get to shelter!"

      His pony took the steep grade at great irregular jumps and came out on high ground several hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. He stopped, seeing nothing. The land on this side of the river

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