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Updated: June 6, 2025
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.
He knew how Ellen loved Courtrey. He knew also that Lola of the Golden Cloud had made the cattle king step lively for over a year. He saw the daily growing impatience with which Courtrey regarded his marriage. He resented with every ounce of the repressed spirit there was in him the girl's poor standing at the Stronghold.
But speech concerning it was sparse as it had ever been anent the doings of Courtrey. A man's tongue was a prisoner to his common sense those days. To Tharon Last, busy at her tasks about the Holding, it was a vital matter. She felt a strong surge, an uplift within her. She had begun the task she had set herself and solemn joy pervaded her being.
It took the sound of running horses, many of them coming up along the slopes, to bring Kenset back to the present with a snap, to make the woman reach swiftly for the bonnet and clap it on her head. "Mrs. Courtrey," said Kenset hurriedly, "this has been the first real talk I have had with any of my neighbours, and I want to thank you for it."
An' over all I want to thank you fer fer killin' th' Pomo half-breed in th' Cup o' God fer you done that trick fer me! Th' one stain on your dear hands fer me the only one, fer Fate killed Courtrey, not you. His neck was clean broke when they picked him up.... That memory will keep me alive, will save th' beauty of th' stars at night fer me, will make th' rest worth livin'.... That one kiss."
Ellen rose and he followed her around the corner of the house to the door yard. As they waited, Courtrey, clad in dark leather chaps, his guns swinging, came toward them. At sight of Kenset he stopped short and an oath rolled from his lips. The kerchief at his neck was turned knot-back and hung like a glob of crimson blood upon his breast.
It was lilting and soft, a lover's voice, a victor's voice, and presently he caught a few of the broken words that passed between them "Clean! Clean! Oh, Tharon, darling there is no blood on these dear hands! Tell me you did not kill Courtrey!" He heard Tharon answer in the negative.
These women knew Ellen Courtrey as not even the master of the Stronghold himself knew her. They knew her in her idle hours, at her small tasks, at her bedside, in the loving solicitude she displayed for all of them and they knew her on her knees in prayer, for Ellen had a strange and simple religion, half Catholic and half Pomo paganism.
Cow ponies and half-breeds of the Ironwood stock which Courtrey would not keep at the Stronghold but was too close to kill, shouldered pintos from the Indian settlements, big, half-wild horses from over the mountains at the North. Inside the brightly lighted saloons men passed back and forth, drank neat liquor at the worn bars, played at the green felt and canvas covered tables.
For the first time in his life Courtrey felt real fear grip him. He had killed and stolen and wronged among these people and gotten away with it. He had never feared them. They had been silent. Now with the first deep rumble from the concrete throat of Lost Valley he got his first instinctive thrill of disaster. He stood for a moment in utter silence.
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