ferocity held in abeyance—that made his flesh crawl.
“Look!” the girl cried. “Look at his eyes!”
Mulvaney felt the intensity of the crowd's gaze focussed on his face. He was embarrassed.
“I can prove I’m Kenneth Mulvaney,” he said.
He brought a packet of papers from the pocket of his jacket and held them out to Joan’s father. Hoofs clattered across the square.
Mulvaney looked up and met the fierce, lupine gaze of the man on the black stallion. The beast reared, and its rider leaned out of the saddle, seized the papers from Mulvaney’s grasp.
“I'll look at these!”
The valley people fell back with respect and awe. The horseman was darkly, cruelly handsome. Black eyes darted over the papers he took from the packet. It contained Mulvaney’s birth certificate, a picture of his parents, and his mother’s diary bound with a faded blue ribbon. The man held the picture out for the townspeople to see.
“That's Tod and Mary, all right,” agreed Joan’s father.
The attitude of the crowd changed perceptibly. Their expressions became friendly. All but the lupine rider of the black stallion. He passed the packet back to Mulvaney. He roamed his glance possessively to Joan. Mulvaney felt his scalp tighten as the probing stare rested on the soft, warm curves of the girl’s body. The eyes came back to Mulvaney. Thin lips smiled sneeringly.
“It takes more than credentials to hold your proper place in this valley, Mulvaney. We don’t run alone here.”
With these cryptic words, he wheeled the restive, wild-eyed stallion and galloped away across the town square.
“Who does he think he is?” Mulvaney queried resentfully.
“Bock Martiri,” Joan said quietly.
“Bock’s a hard feller to get along with,” her father added. He held out his hand. “My name’s Jordan. Welcome to Were Valley, Mulvaney.”
Mulvaney shook hands, “Thanks. I'll probably not stay long. I just came to find if I had any folks living here. . . .”
“You'll stay,” Jordan said, peering at him. Mulvaney could not describe the look—the queer lack of expression—that was in his eyes. “Few ever leave,” Jordan went on. “Those who do generally come back—unless something happens.” He turned to his daughter. “Find out anything town?”
“The place was practically deserted. Even the priest was gone.”
“Where's your horse? Leave it at the gate?”
Mulvaney lifted his head. The girl had been walking when he picked her up. She shrugged slightly.
“It’s dead. One of the ranchers shot it.”
“Shot your horse!”
A sigh went up from the villagers.
“Yes. I was taking the shortcut through Baxter’s Canyon. A man was hidden behind a rock, and he shot my horse. He shouted that that was just a warning, and I heard his horse’s hoofs as he rode away. I never did see him.”
Jordan’s face was stony. He put his arm around her.
“What did he say, honey?”
Her lip curled. “Said our kind wasn't wanted in these parts. Said we better ‘git’.”
Jordan pulled thoughtfully at his chin.
“They're gathering against us,” he muttered. “That priest—!”
He shook his head somberly and took Mulvaney’s arm.
“I suppose you'll want to move into your old home, lad. It’s just like your
