"Oh, my God, if you were--were only Ivus Niles, or Beelzebub himself
sitting there on that horse," Thornton gasped. "You--you--" he turned
away from her maddening smile and stamped about on the turf. The hounds
still played around him, persistent in their attentions. He kicked at
them.

"It suits me to be just Clare Kavanagh, Mr. Duke--and I'm not afraid of
you!"

"Kyle--ho there, Kyle!" The big boss came out of the "ram pasture,"
wiping food fragments from his beard. "Get a rifle and shoot these
dogs. Clean 'em out! Take two men and ride this Irish imp across the
river where she belongs."

Kyle balked. His face showed it.

Presson had never seen his old friend in such a fury. He menaced the
girl with his fists as though about to forget that she was a woman. But
she did not retreat. The picture was that of the kitten and the mastiff.
Her sparkling eyes followed him. The scarlet of an anger as ready as his
own leaped to the soft curves of her cheeks.

"You've got my orders, Kyle. I stand behind them."

Without taking her eyes off Thornton, the girl reached behind her and
jerked a revolver from its holster.

"You shoot my dogs, Kyle, and I'll shoot you." In her tones there was
none of the hysteria that usually spices feminine threats. She was
angry, but her voice was grimly level. She had the poise of one who had