mud-hole.  They took to books, an’ writin’ home to mother an’ sister, an’ to savin’ money, an’ to gittin’ married.  Onct they was only a lot of poor cowboys, an’ then sudden-like they was human bein’s, livin’ in a big world thet hed somethin’ sweet even fer them.  Even fer me—­an ole, worn-out, hobble-legged, burned-up cowman like me!  Do you git thet?  An’ you, Mister Hawe, you come along, not satisfied with ropin’ an’ beatin’, an’ Gaw knows what else, of thet friendless little Bonita; you come along an’ face the lady we fellers honor an’ love an’ reverence, an’ you—­you—­ Hell’s fire!”

With whistling breath, foaming at the mouth, Monty Price crouched lower, hands at his hips, and he edged inch by inch farther out from the porch, closer to Hawe and Sneed.  Madeline saw them only in the blurred fringe of her sight.  They resembled specters.  She heard the shrill whistle of a horse and recognized Majesty calling her from the corral.

“Thet’s all!” roared Monty, in a voice now strangling.  Lower and lower he bent, a terrible figure of ferocity.  “Now, both you armed ocifers of the law, come on!  Flash your guns!  Throw ’em, an’ be quick!  Monty Price is done!  There’ll be daylight through you both before you fan a hammer!  But I’m givin’ you a chanst to sting me.  You holler law, an’ my way is the ole law.”

His breath came quicker, his voice grew hoarser, and he crouched lower.  All his body except his rigid arms quivered with a wonderful muscular convulsion.

“Dogs!  Skunks!  Buzzards!  Flash them guns, er I’ll flash mine!  Aha!”

To Madeline it seemed the three stiff, crouching men leaped into instant and united action.  She saw streaks of fire—­streaks of smoke.  Then a crashing volley deafened her.  It ceased as quickly.  Smoke veiled the scene.  Slowly it drifted away to disclose three fallen men, one of whom, Monty, leaned on his left hand, a smoking gun in his right.  He watched for a movement from the other two.  It did not come.  Then, with a terrible smile, he slid back and stretched out.

XX Unbridled

In waking and sleeping hours Madeline Hammond could not release herself from the thralling memory of that tragedy.  She was haunted by Monty Price’s terrible smile.  Only in action of some kind could she escape; and to that end she worked, she walked and rode.  She even overcame a strong feeling, which she feared was unreasonable disgust, for the Mexican girl Bonita, who lay ill at the ranch, bruised and feverish, in need of skilful nursing.

Madeline felt there was something inscrutable changing her soul.  That strife—­the struggle to decide her destiny for East or West —­held still further aloof.  She was never spiritually alone.  There was a step on her trail.  Indoors she was oppressed.  She required the open—­the light and wind, the sight of endless slope, the sounds of corral and pond and field, physical things, natural things.