for him to come and hunt Alcatraz--because once that man-killing horse
is dead, it will be easy to get the mares back. And every day counts--
every day the mares are getting wilder!"

"What mares?" Then he nodded. "I remember. And they ain't nothing but
that worrying you, Marianne."

His expression of concern vanished; his glance wandered far east where
the shades were already brimming the valleys.

"I'll be getting on, then, honey."

All at once, for pity at thought of him driving into the lonely
silences, she caught his hand. It was still lean, hard of palm, sinewy
with strength of which most extreme age, indeed, would never entirely
rob it. And the touch of those strong fingers called back to her mind
the picture of Oliver Jordan as he had been, a kingly man among men.
Tears came into the eyes of Marianne.

"But where are you going?" she asked him gently. "And why do you never
let me go with you, dear?"

"You?" he chuckled. "Waste time driving out nowheres with an old codger
like me? I didn't give you all that schooling to have you throw your
life away doing things like that. Don't you bother about me, Marianne.
I'm just going to drift over yonder around Jackson Peak. You see?"

"But who is there, and what is there?"

He merely rubbed his knuckles across his forehead and then shook his