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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.”