Nance sighed again, thinking of her lost corn field and of her present appalling poverty.
“As near as I’ll let myself come to hate,” she said, “I do hate her. I’ve got to fight it mighty hard. You know how hard it is to fight that way—inside your own soul.”
“Hardest battle-ground we ever stand on,” said Selwood with conviction. “I’ve had some skirmishes there myself—and I can’t say I always came off victor.”
“You can’t, sometimes, without a lot of prayer,” returned Nance soberly, “I’ve pretty near worn out my knees on the job.”
Selwood wanted to laugh at her naive earnestness, but caught himself in time.
They rode for a time in silence, Nance and Buckskin ahead, the sheriff following on his lean bay horse.
Presently Nance turned with a hand on her pony’s rump and looked at him speculatively.
“You sort of lay up something to Cattle Kate about this rustling, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I’ve watched her for months, but can’t get anything on her—not anything tangible.”