Yes, if he lived to do his work in the hidden 180 Valley––if he was shot this night on his own doorstep, it was his country.
He who was alien in every way, was yet native.
Something in the depths of him came down as from far distant racial haunts and was at home.
So he rode slowly up among the scattered oaks with his hands folded on the mutilated pommel, and he knew that his lines were definitely cast.
Tharon Last rode into the Holding and dismounted in unwonted silence.
There was a frown between her brows, an unusual thing. She turned the stallion into his corral, dragged off the big saddle to hang it on its peg, flung the studded bridle on a post.
The men were not in yet. Far toward the north beyond the big corrals she could see the cattle grazing toward home. A surge of savage joy in her possessions flooded over her. These things were her own. They were what Jim Last had worked for all his life.
Not one hoof or hide should Courtrey take without swift reprisal.
Not one inch should he push her from her avowed purpose––not though all the strangers in the world came to Lost Valley and prated of blood-guilt.