They did not see Bud standing in the door, so absorbed in their game were they, until he moved and his shadow fell across them.
Nance turned her laughing face up to him—and stared with the laughter set upon it.
The boy was white as milk, his eyes black with terrible portent.
“Bud,” she cried, “what’s up? What——”
“The rustlers were out last night,” he said slowly with a strange hesitation—“I met Old Man Conlan going down to Cordova—a man was shot—they think it is—the prospector—Smith.”
For a moment Nance sat still on her heels, her mouth open, the sickly lines of laughter still around it.
Then she put out a hand that was beginning to shake—like an aged hand with palsy.
“Smith?” she gasped, “that’s—Brand Fair! Oh—oh—dear Lord—Brand Fair!”
For the first time in her life the bright sunlight faded out and Nance Allison, who had fought so long and hard against tremendous odds,—who had held her battle line and borne all things with the courage of a strong man swayed back upon the floor.
Bud sprang forward to lift her up, but already the weakness was passing and she put him aside, getting to her feet.