Now, as Bud looked back on that time, two things stood out beyond all the rest. It was the desperate courage—even madness he called it—of Jeff, and the superlative devotion of Nan.

He had by no means understood all that Jeff had achieved at the moment of his rescue. It was not till long after, by a process of close questioning, that the magnitude of it became plain. Then the marvel of it dawned on him. The courage, the madness of it. Jeff had rid the district of the whole gang of rustlers single-handed. He had shot five of them to death, and the last two had fallen victims to his own, Bud's, gun after they had been wounded by Jeff.

Then had followed that period when Nan had stepped into the picture. With pride, and a great satisfaction, he remembered her weeks and months of devotion to the injured man. Her sleepless, tireless watch. Her skill and patient tenderness. These things had been colossal. To him it had been a vision of a mother's tender care for an ailing child. And the thought of it now stirred him to a touch of bitterness in his feelings toward his partner and friend.

To Bud there could only be one possible end to such a wealth of devotion as his little Nan had displayed, but it seemed that all his ideas on the subject must be wrong. To his uncomprehending mind they seemed no nearer to each other than in the days before a mad passion had seized upon Jeff for the woman he had married.

Bud was very human. His patience had its limits, and just now they seemed to have been reached. He admitted this to himself frankly. He told himself he had "no durned patience with the bunch." And the bunch included both Nan and Jeff. He felt that Nan, too, must be to blame in some way.

He had "no durned patience with the bunch." Therein lay the key-note of his mixed feelings. Here everything was prospering but the one thing above all others upon which he had set his heart. He felt as though he must "butt in" and put matters right himself. How, he did not attempt to suggest. But he felt that if he did not do so, or something or other did not occur to precipitate matters, the "whole durned shootin' match was li'ble to peter."

This was how he saw things. This was how he felt, as he awaited Nan's return from the pastures.

She came at last. She rode up and passed her weary horse to a barn-hand who promptly waited upon her. She was covered with dust to her waist. Her top-boots were white with it. But her cheeks were as fresh as peach bloom, and her soft eyes shone with all a ranchman's enthusiasm at the most exhilarating period of the year.

"One hundred an' forty-two young Obars to-day, my Daddy," she cried out exuberantly. "Ther' don't seem any end to last year's crop. Say, Jeff's just crazy to death about things."

"He surely is."

The old man's reply was tinged by a reflection of his thoughts. But his eyes lit nevertheless.

Nan regarded him seriously.

"Most men get a grouch when they're kept waiting food," she observed slily. "Say, come right in an' you'll soon feel the world's a mighty good place to live in."

Instantly Bud's humor improved.

"Guess you do your best to make it that way."

The girl laughed as she led the way in.

"That surely is a pretty nice talk, my Daddy. Guess I'll take advantage of it, an' keep you waiting another three minutes while I get rid of the dust."

Her father nodded.

"Jeff comin' up?" he inquired.

The girl shook her head. For a moment the smiling eyes were hidden beneath their lids.

"Not for supper. He's gone on to the branding 'pinch.'"

She was gone before her father could reply, and he was left to his own reflections, which were still further inspired by impatience.

Well enough he knew the arduous nature of the work. Had he not been at it himself since the first streak of dawn? But he felt that Jeff was going beyond the bounds of necessity. Even beyond the bounds of reason.

However, he was not given much time to nurse any imaginary grievance. For Nan reappeared after a surprisingly short interval, and the transformation she had achieved was not a little startling. Her dusty riding suit had given place to a pretty house frock of some softly clinging material which restored to her at once the charm of her essential femininity. The pretty brown of her eyes, and the wavy softness of her hair became indescribably charming in such a setting. Bud regarded her with warm approval, and his spirits rose.

"Jeff's coming right up after he's eaten," she said, as they look their places at the table. "He's getting the food he needs at the bunkhouse. He guesses he hasn't time to get supper right."

"Ah."

The announcement gave Bud more pleasure than his monosyllable admitted. His eyes once more took in the picture Nan made as she sat behind the steaming coffee urn at the head of the table. And somehow the change she had made became less startling.

The meal was the customary ranch supper. The table was simply loaded with cold meats, and sweets, and cakes of varied description. The fare was homely but plentiful, and, to these simple-living people, it was all that was required. Bud helped himself liberally, while Nan poured out the fragrant coffee.

"We ought to be through in a week now," Nan said, passing a heavy china cup of coffee across to her father. "Jeff figures we're well up on average in spite of the stock we lost last summer. It's pretty good to think—after that time. Say, Daddy, we owe Jeff a pretty big thing."

The old man looked up with a smile.

"Guess the owin' ain't all with us," he said, with his mouth full.

Nan paused in the act of sipping her coffee. Her eyes were full of incredulity.

"I don't understand, Daddy," she said frankly. "We owe more to Jeff than ever. Much more. He came pretty near handing over his poor life so the Obar might prosper. He cleared out that gang who would have done the Obar to death. A man can't give more to—his friends."

Bud remained unconvinced. He shook his great head and his smile deepened to a twinkle of real amusement.

"That's so," he said. "But he didn't just give that poor life of his. I allow he was ready to because—because, wal, I guess he's built in a right fashion. We owed him for that sure. But I 'low he's been paid in a way it don't fall to every feller's lot to git paid. You paid that score for us both, an' if ther's any debt left over to be paid, why I guess I'm ready to pay it." He chuckled. "You know, Nan, woman's a ticklish proposition. Ther's wise highbrows guess they handed out all ther' is to say 'bout women-folk, an' I figger some has used elegant langwidge, an' made pretty talk. But they ain't said it all, an' ain't never likely to ef they was to yarn the whole way from here to hell an' back. I'm gettin' older most every day, an' maybe I oughter git wiser. But ef I was to live till the great round-up I don't guess I'd ever learn the limits of a woman's self-sacrifice fer them she takes the notion to mother. An' it don't matter if it's her own folk, or her beau, or her man, or some pestilential kid she's rescued from drownin' in a churn of cream she's jest fixed ready fer butter makin'. Wot Jeff don't owe you fer haulin' him right back into the midst of life, why I guess you couldn't find with one of them things crazy highbrows wastes otherwise valuable lives in lookin' at bugs with."

Nan laughed, but her denial came swiftly.

"Jeff doesn't owe me a thing," she declared. "The wasn't a soul else around to nurse him. I'd have hated handing him on to you." Then she sighed, but her eyes shone with a light which her father well enough understood. "I—I needed to nurse him. If I hadn't been able to, why, I think I'd have just died. But he don't owe me a thing—not a thing."

Bud took a great gulp of coffee and set his cup down with a clatter. His deep gurgling laugh was good to hear.

"That ain't no argyment," he cried, his deep eyes twinkling. "You've jest said the things I hadn't savvee to put into words right. Woman's jest a sort of angel come right down from Heaven on a snowflake. She sure is. Ther' ain't no reason to her. Set her around a sick bed with physic she ken hand on to the feller lyin' there, an' ther' ain't no limit to wot she can do. It's a passion. You can't blame her. She's fixed that way. She'll just nurse that feller in a way that makes him feel he wants to start right in trundlin' a wooden hoop, or blowin' a painted trumpet, hanging on to her hand, same as he did before he quit actin' foolish on his mother's lap. It kind o' seems to me a mortal wonder women don't set their men-folk actin' queer settin' aside a railroad track guessin' they're advertisements fer a new hair-wash, or some other fancy dope. I guess women is the greatest proposition ever step out o' the Garden of Eden—someways."

Nan laughed happily.

"That's spoiled it, Daddy," she cried. "Why not leave it at the Garden of Eden?"

Bud laughingly shook his head.

"Why for should I?" he retorted. "If they're angels they ain't all halo an' wings. Anyway, she did step out o' the Garden. An' though the committee ast her to vacate, I allow it was a mighty good thing fer the human race, or we'd all be eatin' grass still, or some other perfectly ridiculous cattle feed. No siree! She ain't all halo an' wings, or us men 'ud be settin' around all the time shoutin' hymns doleful instead of enjoyin' ourselves lyin' awake at nights figgerin' to beat the other feller's play. Woman's jest woman, an' the diff'rences in her is just what a mighty tough world makes of her. Maybe she's foolish. Maybe she ain't. Anyway, she's got most things agin her to make her that way, an' it seems to me a yeller dawg don't have much the worst of the game. No. I guess woman's jest woman, an' us men needs to git right on our knees and thank Providence that is so."

Bud reattacked his supper. There had been impatience as well as amiability in his denial. For all his regard for his partner he could not allow Nan her absurd self-effacement without protest. None knew better than he the extent of his debt to Jeff for ridding the Obar of the rustlers. But Jeff, he also knew, owed his life to the devotion, the skill, the love of this girl upon whom he had no claim.

He remained silent now, lost in thoughts he dared not impart to Nan, and the girl herself had nothing to say. She, too, was thinking. But there was no impatience in her thoughts.

She was thinking of a moment which had occurred down at the pastures. A moment just before her return home to supper. To her it had been a moment of compensation for everything which she had ever suffered, a moment when the whole aspect of her life had been suddenly changed to a radiant vision of happiness.

She had been standing beside Jeff watching the work of the boys within the pastures. Their talk had all been of the business of the day. There had been no other sign between them. The old comradeship alone seemed to prevail. Then they had turned away, with their talk silenced. They had moved toward their horses which were standing in the shadow of a small bluff.

Just as they came up Jeff had paused, and turned, and looked down at her from his superior height. She would never forget that look. It was the look she had seen in his eyes when he first gazed on the beauty of the woman he had married. Her heart was set thumping in her bosom as she thought of it now. A deep flush surged to her cheeks, and she kept her head studiously bent over her plate.

Then had followed a great impulsive abandoning of his usual reserve. It had been so unusual in him, but to Nan so natural. It seemed as though of a sudden some great barrier between them had been thrust aside by emotions beyond the man's control. He had flung out his hands toward her, and, before she knew what was happening, she felt their passionate pressure under the buckskin gauntlets she was wearing. Then had come words, rapid, even disjointed; again to her so natural, yet strange, awkward on the lips of this man.

"Say, little Nan," he cried, "we've won out. Look at 'em. The pastures. They're full. Fuller than we ever guessed they'd be after last year. Things are running same as we've dreamed. The Obar's going up—up. And—it's all too late."

On the warm impulse of the moment she had answered him without a second thought.

"Why—why is it too late?"

Her hands were still held in his passionate grasp. He laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh.

"Why, because—because I've wakened out of a passionate nightmare to realize all I've—lost."

She had abruptly withdrawn her hands. She remembered the curious chill which suddenly seemed to pass through her body. But she answered him simply, earnestly.

"You mustn't blame yourself for all you've lost, Jeff," she said. "Maybe Evie loved you better than you knew. But she—she, too, was to blame. You must try to forget."

Then had happened something so startling that even now she could hardly credit it. Jeff had turned away. His face was toward the hills where the setting sun still lit the fastnesses in which lay the fateful Spruce Crossing. His words came shortly, simply.

"I wasn't thinking of—Evie," he said. "The memory of her, of all that, has gone—forever."

Oh, the bewilderment of that moment. Nan remembered the absurdity of her reply now with something very like panic:

"Who—what—were you thinking of then?"

"Who—what?" The man's eyes lit with a deep, passionate yearning. "Why, little Nan, the only person who is ever in my thoughts now—you."

It had come so simply yet so full of scarcely restrained passion. Would she ever forget? Never, never. Her emotions had been beyond words. She wanted to weep. She wanted to laugh. But more than all she wanted to flee before he could utter another word. She turned to her horse without a word. In a moment she was in the saddle, and had turned the creature about to ride off. But Jeff's voice stayed her.

"Say, little Nan, I——" he broke off. "Oh, I guess I'll eat at the bunkhouse. I haven't time for supper right. I've got to get down to the branding pinch. Say, Nan," a sudden deep urging had filled his voice, and he came to her horse's side and laid a detaining hand upon its reins. "Can I come along up—later? I didn't mean to make you mad. True. I couldn't help it. I—— May I come along—after I get through?"

It had been utterly impossible for her to make articulate reply. Her emotions were too deep, too overwhelming. She had simply nodded her head. And in that trifling movement she knew she had conveyed a sign beyond all misunderstanding.

After that the woman had impelled her. She hurriedly rode off, fearing she knew not what. She knew she fled, incontinently fled. And her first act on arrival home had been to rid herself of the almost mannish suit in which she worked, so that Jeff, when he made his appearance, might find her the woman she really was.

The voices of the men on the veranda reached Nan within the parlor. She did not want to listen. She told herself so. Besides, she had a perfect right to remain where she was. And, anyway, Bud had no secrets from her. So she placed herself beyond the chance of observation, and remained quiet lest she should lose a word of what the voices were saying.

Bud was talking. His tone and words rumbled pleasantly upon the evening air. His talk was of the round-up. It was the talk of a man wedded to the life of the western plains. It was the talk of a man who is conscious of success achieved in spite of great difficulties and trials. There was a deep note of satisfaction in all he said.

Jeff's voice sounded at intervals. A lighter note. His answers were precise, as was his way. But they lacked the enthusiasm of the other. It was as though his thoughts were traveling far afield, while his ears subconsciously conveyed the other's talk to a brain ready to formulate adequate reply.

Apparently, however, this abstraction impressed itself upon the other at last, for presently Nan heard her father challenge him in his direct fashion.

"Feelin' beat, eh?"

Nan pictured the steady gaze of her father's deep-set inquiring eyes as he put the question.

"No."

The reply came without hesitation. It was simple, definite. Again the picture presented itself to Nan. Jeff, she felt, was gazing out into the twilight, absorbed in the thoughts which held him. She knew the attitude. She had seen it so often before.

It was Bud's voice which broke the silence that followed.

"Guess the work's pretty tough," he said. "You don't need to fergit you bin a mighty sick man. If you do, why, you'll be li'ble to find yourself on Nan's hands again."

"I couldn't wish for better."

The reply had come on the instant. It must have warned even Bud that he had found a key to the man's abstraction.

"That's so—sure."

The emphasis was unmistakable. Nan waited almost breathlessly in a delicious condition of apprehension.

"Wher's Nan?"

Jeff's demand came sharply.

"Som'eres around inside."

"I came up to see her."

"So?"

"Yes."

The lowing of the cattle in the pastures was dying with the deepening twilight. The calves seemed to have found their mothers and all was contentment. Nan glad of the growing shadows. For her, obscurity the only thing just now.

Jeff's voice again broke the silence. There was something utterly simple in the manner of his words.

"I love Nan, Bud," he said. "I want to tell her so. If she'd marry me, I don't guess there'd be a thing left worth asking for. But I don't guess she will. Why should she? I'm not worth her. Gee! But I want her bad."

Nan buried her face in her hands. Then she drew back, back, far into the dusk of the room. But she could not escape the voices.

Bud's answer came slowly, deliberately. There was a curious note of emotion in it.

"You sure aren't. No man is. Ther' ain't a feller on earth worthy my little Nan. But it's up to her. Guess she's around inside som'eres."

There was the sound of swift footsteps on the veranda. Nan drew further back into the room. The far wall alone stayed her progress. The door was to her hand, but she made no attempt to avail herself of it. Oh, those delicious moments of terror. It seemed to her as if every joy of life was concentrated in them. Her breath came pantingly. The moments became insupportable.

Suddenly a figure, tall, slim, filled the open window. Swift as a flash the mind of the girl went back to the long months of nursing when he had lain helpless in her hands. He had been hers then in his helplessness. Now, in his full manhood's strength, he was coming to her again. A choking sensation seized her, a mist grew before her eyes.

"Nan!"

The tone of it The softness. The thrilling passion.

"Yes, Jeff."

The answer was low, almost inaudible.

Nor did the man have to search the darkened room. The love which he had for so long thrust aside was—waiting for him.

THE END