Mullendore's face took on a peculiar ashiness. Then with an oath and a choking snarl of rage he jumped for her. Kate's long braid just escaped his finger tips.
" Mother ! Mother ! Make him quit I " There was terror in the shrill cry as the girl ran towards the freight wagon. The response to the appeal came in a hard voice :
" You needn't expect me to take up your fights. You finish what you start."
Kate gave her mother a despairing look and ran towards the pack ponies, with Mullendore now close at her heels. Spurred by fear, she dodged in and out, doubling and redoubling, endeavouring to keep a pony between her- self and her pursuer. Once or twice a fold of her skirt slipped through his grasp, but she was young and fleet of foot, and after the game of hare and hounds had kept up for a few minutes her pursuer's breath was coming short and labored. Finally, he stopped :
" You little —! " He panted the epithet. "I'll get you yet ! "
She glared at him across a pony's neck and ran out her tongue. Then, defiantly: " I ain't scart of you !"
A drawling voice made them both turn quickly. " As an entirely impartial and unbiased spectator, friend, I should say that you are outclassed." The man addressed himself to Mullendore. The stranger unobserved had entered by the corral gate. He was a typical sheepherder in looks if not in speech, even to the collie that stood by his side. He wore a dusty, high-crowned black hat, overalls, mackinaw coat, with a small woolen scarf
twisted about his neck, and in his hand he carried a gnarled staff. His eyes had a humorously cynical light lurking in their brown depths.
5
