“You ask the sheriff to supper,” said Mrs. Allison, “I’ll kill a fryer an’ make some biscuits.”
When Nance went out she found Selwood examining the trampled field minutely.
“Must have had fifty head or more,” he said, “and five or six riders. Sud Provine was one of them.”
“Yes? How can you tell?”
“I know his horse’s tracks,” grinned the sheriff, “it’s that big grey gelding.”
CHAPTER XIII
“WE’RE OUR PAPPY’S OWN—AND WE BELONG ON NAMELESS.”
That night at dusk as Nance sat in the open door with Sonny drowsing in her lap, Dirk shot out across the yard like a tawny streak and headed away toward the river.
He made no outcry, but went straight as a dart, and presently there came the little crack of shod hoofs on the stones of Nameless’ lip, and a rider came up out of the farther shadows with the Collie leaping in ecstasy against his stirrup.
Something tightened in Nance’s throat, a thrill shot through her from head to foot. That strange surge of warmth and light seemed to flood her whole being again.
“Mammy—Bud—” she said softly, “I think Brand Fair is coming.”