it was springtime in the deep heart country. on the broad slopes, the towering slants of the hills themselves, the conifers sang their everlasting monotone, tuned by the little winds from the south.
on the flaring fringes of their sweeping skirts where the streams ran, maples trembled in the airy sun and cottonwoods shook their thousand palms of silver.
great cañons cut the ridges, dark and mysterious, murmuring with snow water, painted fantastically in the reds and browns and yellows of their weathered stone. pine trees grew here, and piñons, hemlock and spruce, all the dark and sombre people of the forest, majestic and aloof.
but in the sweet valleys that ran like playful fingers all ways among the hills, where lay tender grass of a laughing brightness, flowers nodded thick in the drowsy meadows. it was a lonesome land, set far from civilization, but beautiful withal, serene, silent, wild with crag and peak and precipice. deer browsed in its sheltered places, a few timber wolves preyed on them, while here and there a panther screamed to the stars at night.
for many years a pair of golden eagles had reared their young on the beetling escarpment that crowned mystery ridge.
it was a rich land, too, for many cattle ran on its timbered slants and grew sleek and fat for fall along the reaches of the river.
on a day when all the world seemed basking in the tempered sun, a horse and rider came down along the slopes heading toward the west. on the broad background of this primeval setting they made a striking picture, one to arrest the eye, for both were remarkable. of the two, perhaps the horse would first have caught the attention of an observer, owing to its great stature and its shining mouse-blue coat.
far off, also, the prideful grace of its carriage, the lightness, the arrogance of its step, would have been noticeable. but as they drew near, one looked instinctively to see what manner of rider bestrode so splendid a fellow, and was not disappointed—for the rider was a woman.
she was a gallant woman, if one could so describe her, not large but built with such nicety of line, of proportion, as best to show off the spirit in her—and that was a thing which might not be described. under her sombrero, worn low on her brow and level, one got the seeming of darkness shot with fire—the black eyes and bit of dusky hair above cheeks brightly flushed. she rode at ease, her gauntleted hands clasped on her pommel, her reins swinging. a blue flannel shirt, gay with pearl buttons, lay open at the throat and bloused a trifle above a broad leather belt, well worn and studded with nickel spots. a divided skirt of dark leather, precisely fitted and deeply fringed at the bottom, concealed the tops of high laced boots. all her clothing betokened especial make, and very thorough wear.
as the blue horse sidled expertly down the slope a loose stone turned under his shod hoof, causing him to stumble ever so slightly, though he caught himself instantly.
as instantly the woman’s spurred heel struck his flank, her swift tightening of the rein anticipated his resultant start.
“pick up your feet, you!” she said sharply, frowning.
the stallion did pick up his feet, for he was intelligent, but he shook his proud head, laid his ears back on his neck, and the sweat started on his sensitive skin at the needless rake of the spur. the great dark eyes in his grey-blue face shone for a time like fox-fire in the dark, twin sparks beneath the light of his tossing silver forelock.
he choose his footing more carefully, though he was an artist in hill climbing at all times, for the woman on his back was a hard task-master. caught as a colt in the high meadows of the upper country beyond the deep heart hills, the horse had served her faithfully for four of his seven years of life, and hated her sullenly. there was mixed blood in his veins—wild, from the slim white mother who had never felt a rope, patrician, gentle, tractable, from the thoroughbred black father lost from a horse-trader’s string eleven years back and sought for many bootless moons because of his great value.
swayed by the instincts of these two strains the superb animal obeyed this woman who was unquestionably his master, though rebellion surged in him at every chastisement.
the sun was at the zenith, marking the time of short shadows, and its light fell in pale golden washes over the tapestried green slopes. tall flowers nodded on slim stalks in nook and crevasse—frail columbine and flaming bleeding hearts—and mosses crept in the damp places.
for an hour the two came down along the breast of a ridge, dropping slowly in a long diagonal, and presently came out on a bold shoulder that jutted from the parent spine. here, with the thinning trees falling abruptly away, a magnificent view spread out below. for a long time there had been in the rider’s ears a low and heavy murmur, a ceaseless sound of power. now its source was visible—the river that wound between wide meadows spread like flaring flounces on either side—broad, level, green stretches that looked rich as a king’s lands, and were.
the woman reined up her horse and sitting sidewise looked down with moody eyes. a frown drew close the dark brows under the hat brim, the full sensuous lips hardened into a tight line.
hatred flamed in her passionate face, for the smiling valley was tenanted. at the far edge of the green floor across the river there nestled against the hills that rose abruptly the small log buildings of a homestead. there was a cabin, squarely built and neat, a stable, a shed or two, and stout corrals, built after the fashion of a stockade, their close-set upright saplings gleaming faintly in the light.
and on the green carpet a long brown line lay stretched from end to end, straight as a plumb-line, attesting to the accuracy of the eye that drew it. a team of big bay horses even now plodded along that line, leaving behind them a tiny addition in the form of a flange of new turned earth, the resistless effect of the conquering plow.
the plow, hated of all those who follow the fringe of the wilderness, savage, trapper, and cattleman.
in the furrow behind walked the owner of the accurate eyes—deep, wide, blue eyes they were, set beautifully apart under calm brows of a golden bronze which matched exactly the thick lashes and the heavy rope of hair braided and pinned around the head hidden in an old-fashioned sunbonnet—for this only other figure in the primeval picture was a woman also. she was young by the grace of the upright carriage, strong by the way she handled her plow, confident in every movement, every action. she stood almost as tall as the average man, and she walked with the free swing of one.
for a long time the rider on the high shoulder of the ridge sat regarding these tiny plodders in the valley.
then she deliberately took from its straps the rifle that hung on her saddle, lifted it to her shoulder, took slow aim and fired. it was a high-power gun, capable of carrying much farther than this point of aim, and its bullet spat whiningly into the earth so near the moving team that one of the horses jumped and squatted.
the woman lowered the gun and watched.
but the upright figure plodding in its furrow never so much as turned its head. it merely pulled the lines buckled about its waist, thereby steadying the frightened horse back to its business, and crept ahead at its plowing.
“damn!” said the woman.
she laid the rifle across her pommel, reined the blue stallion sharply away and went on her interrupted journey.
two hours later she rode into the shady, crooked lane that passed for a street in cordova. composed of a general store, a blacksmith-shop, a few ancient cabins, the isolated trading point called itself a town. mckane of the store did four-ply business and fancied himself exceedingly.
as the woman came cantering down the street between the cabins he ceased whittling on the splinter in his hands and watched her. she was well worth watching, too, for she was straight as an indian and she rode like one. of the half-dozen men lounging on the store porch in the drowsy afternoon, not one but gazed at her with covetous eyes.
a light grew up in mckane’s keen face, a satisfaction, an appreciation, a recognition of excellence.
“by george!” he said softly. “boys, i don’t know which is the most worth while—the half-breed bluefire or kate cathrew on his back!”
“i’ll take the woman,” said a lean youth in worn leather, his starved young face attesting to the womanless wilderness of the upper county from whence he hailed. “yea, lord—i’ll take the woman.”
“you mean you would,” said mckane, smiling, “if you could. many a man has tried it, but kate rides alone. yes, and rules her kingdom with an iron hand—that’s wrong—it’s steel, and toledo steel at that, tempered fine. and merciless.”
“you seem to know th’ lady pretty well.”
“all nameless river knows her,” said the trader, lowering his voice as she drew near, “and the deep hearts, too, as far as cattle run.”
“take an’ keep yer woman—if ye can—” put in a bearded man of fifty who sat against a post, this booted feet stretched along the floor, “but give me th’ horse. i’ve loved him ever sence i first laid eyes on him two years back.
“he’s more than a horse—he’s got brains behind them speakin’ eyes, soft an’ black when he’s peaceful, but burnin’ like coals when he’s mad. i’ve seen him mad, an’ itched to own him then. kate’s a brute to him—don’t understand him, an’ don’t want to.”
mckane dropped his chair forward and rose quickly to his feet as the woman cantered up.
“hello, kate,” he said, as she sat a moment regarding the group, “how’s the world at sky line ranch?”
“all there,” she said shortly, “or was when i left.”
she swung out of her saddle and flung her reins to the ground. she pulled off her gloves and pushed the hat back from her forehead, which showed sweated white above the tan of her face. she passed into the store with mckane, the spurs rattling on her booted heels.
left alone the big, blue stallion turned his alert head and looked at the men on the porch, drawing a deep breath and rolling the wheel in his half-breed bit.
it was as the bearded man had said—intelligence in a marked degree looked out of the starry eyes in the blue face. that individual reached out a covetous hand, but the horse did not move. he knew his business too well as kate cathrew’s servant.
inside the store the woman took two letters which mckane gave her from the dingy pigeonholes that did duty as post office, read them, frowned and put them in the pocket of her leather riding skirt. then she selected a few things from the shelves which she stowed in a flour-sack and was ready to go. mckane followed her close, his eyes searching her face with ill-concealed desire. she did not notice the men on the porch, who regarded her frankly, but passed out among them as though they were not there. it was this cool insolence which cleared the path before her wherever she appeared, as if all observers, feeling the inferiority her disdain implied, acknowledged it.
but as she descended the five or six steps that led down from the porch, she came face to face with a newcomer, one who neither gaped nor shifted back, but looked her square in the face.
this was a man of some thirty-four or five, big, brawny, lean and fit, of a rather homely countenance lighted by grey eyes that read his kind like print.
he looked like a cattleman save for one thing—the silver star pinned to the left breast of his flannel shirt, for this was sheriff price selwood.
“good day, kate,” he said.
a red flush rose in the woman’s face, but it was not set there by any liking for the speaker who accosted her, that was plain.
“it’s never a good day when i meet you,” she said evenly, “it’s a bad one.”
the sheriff smiled.
“that’s good,” he answered, “but some day i’ll make it better.”
mckane, his own face flushed with sudden anger, stepped close.
“price,” he said thinly, “you and i’ve been pretty fair friends, but when you talk to miss cathrew like that, you’ve got me to settle with. that sounded like a threat.”
“did it?” said selwood. “it was.”
the trader was as good as his word.
with the last syllable his fist shot out and took the speaker in the jaw, a clean stroke, timed a half-second sooner than the other had expected, though he had expected it. it snapped his head back on his shoulders, but did not make him stagger, and the next moment he had met mckane half-way with all the force of his two hundred pounds of bone and muscle.
in the midst of the whirlwind fight that followed, kate cathrew, having pulled on her gloves and coolly tied her sack in place on her saddle, mounted bluefire and rode away without a backward look.
twenty minutes later the sheriff picked up the trader and rolled him up on the porch. he stood panting himself, one hand on the worn planking, the other wiping the blood and dirt from his face.
“get some water, boys,” he said quietly, “and when he comes around tell him i’ll be back tomorrow for my coffee and tobacco—five pounds of each—and anything more he wants to give me.”
he picked up his wide hat, brushed it with his torn sleeve, set it back on his head precisely, walked to his own horse, which was tied some distance away, mounted and rode south toward the more open country where his own ranch lay.
“i’m damned!” said the bearded man softly, “it didn’t take her long to stir up somethin’ on a peaceful day! if it’d been over bluefire, now—there’s somethin’ to fight for—but a woman; hell!”
“but—glory—glory!” whispered the lean boy who had watched kate hungrily, “ain’t she worth it! oh, just ain’t she! wisht i was mckane this minute!”
“druther be th’ sheriff,” said the other enigmatically.
