The Fighting Shepherdess

While he poured out his soul with only the sheep and the tired collie sleeping on its paws for audience, the gorgeous sunset died and a chill wind came up, scattering the gray ashes of the camp fire and swaying the tepee tent. Suddenly he stopped and shivered a little in spite of his woolen shirt. "Dog-gone!" he said abruptly, aloud, as he put the violin away, "I can't get that kid out of my thoughts!" Though he could not have told why he did so, or what he might, even remotely, expect to hear, he stood and listened intently before he stooped and disappeared for the night between the flaps of the tent.

He turned often between the blankets of his hard bed, disturbed by uneasy dreams quite unlike the deep oblivion of his usual sleep.

"Oh, Mister, where are you?"

The sheepherder stirred uneasily.

"Please--please, Mister, won't you speak?"

The plaintive pleading cry was tremulous and faint like the voice of a disembodied spirit floating somewhere in the air. This time he sat up with a start.

"It's only me--Katie Prentice, from the Roadhouse. Don't be scart."

The wail was closer. There was no mistake. Then the dog barked. The man threw back the blanket and sprang to his feet. It took only a moment to get into his clothes and step out into a night that had turned pitch dark.

"Where are you?" he called.

"Oh, Mister!?" The shrill cry held gladness and relief.

Then she came out of the blackness, the ends of a white nubia and a little shoulder cape snapping in the wind, her breath coming short in a sound that was a mixture of exhaustion and sobs.

"I was afraid I couldn't find you till daylight. I heard a bell, but I didn't know where to go, it's such a dark night. I ran all the way, nearly, till I played out."

"What's the row?" he asked gently.

She slipped both arms through one of his and hugged it convulsively, while in a kind of hysteria she begged: "Don't send me back, Mister! I won't go! I'll kill myself first. Take me with you--please, please let me go with you!"

"Tell me what it's all about."

She did not answer, and he urged: "Go on. Don't be afraid. You can tell me anything."

She replied in a strained voice: "Pete Mullendore, he--"

A gust of wind blew the shoulder cape back and he saw her bare arm with the sleeve of her dress hanging by a shred.