The Fighting Shepherdess

Lingle rose with a look of desperation on his countenance.

"Just a minute." There was that in his voice which made her turn quickly and look from one to the other in wonder.

Lingle had a feeling that his vocal cords had turned to wire, they moved so stiffly, when he heard himself saying: "Guess I'll have to ask you to take a ride with me to-morrow."

"Me?" Her eyes widened. "What for?"

The yellow flame flickered in the smudged chimney of the lantern on the table, a bit of burning wood fell out from the front of the stove and lay smoking on the dirt floor in front of it. Bowers stood rigid by the basin where he had been washing his hands, with the water dripping from his fingers.

In a frenzy to have it over the deputy blurted out harshly: "Mormon Joe's been murdered!"

The girl gave a cry--sharp, anguished, as one might scream out with a crushed finger.

Bowers advanced a step and demanded fiercely of Lingle: "Don't you know nothin'--not no damned nothin'?"

Kate's face was marble.

"You mean--he's dead--he won't come back here--ever?"

"You've said it," the deputy replied, huskily.

Kate walked back unsteadily to the seat she had just vacated and her head sank upon her folded arms on the table. She did not cry like a woman, but with deep tearless sobs that lifted her shoulders.

The two men stood with their hands hanging awkwardly, looking at each other. Then Bowers made a grimace and jerked his head towards the tent entrance. The deputy obeyed the signal and went out on tip-toe with the sheepherder following.

"She's got guts," said Bowers briefly.

"She'll need 'em," was the laconic answer.