"The sheriff telephoned him to keep me, but you see he brought me home."
"Brought you home?" The sheepman's black eyes lifted quickly and met those of his enemy.
"So you're there, Buck Weaver. I reckon you and I will settle accounts."
Phil and Tom Dixon had quietly circled round so as to cut off Weaver's retreat in case he attempted one.
"He's got the rustler with him," Tom Dixon cried quickly.
"Goddlemighty, so he has. We'll make a clean sweep," the Southerner cried, his eyes blazing.
"Then you'll destroy the man who was ready to give his life for mine," his daughter said quietly.
"What's that? How's that, Phyllie?"
"It's a long story. I want you to hear it all. But not here."
Her voice fell. A sudden memory had come to her of one thing at least that she could not tell even to him—the story of that moment when she had lain in the arms of the nester with his heart beating against her breast.