The right arm swung towards the Wetmore ranch, where at certain times
during the course of the year a hundred cow-punchers reported on the stock
that grazed in four States. At certain seasons, likewise, despite the fact
that the ranch was well into the foot-hill country, there might be found a
New York family playing at life primeval with the co-operation of
porcelain bath-tubs, a French _chef_, and electric light.

The left fork of the road had a meaner destiny. It dipped straight into
desolation, penetrating a naked wilderness where bad men skulked till the
evil they had done was forgotten in deeds that called afresh to Heaven for
vengeance. It was well away on this west fork of the road that they
lynched Kate Watson—"Cattle Kate"—for the crime of loyalty. It was she,
intrepid and reckless, who threatened the horde of masked scoundrels when
they came to lynch her man for the iniquity of raising a few vegetables on
a strip of ground that cut into their grazing country. And when she,
recognizing them, masked though they were, threatened them with the
vengeance of the law, they hanged her with her man high as Haman.

Judith watched Hamilton with narrowing eyes. And now she was all Indian,
the white woman in her dead. Only the Sioux watched, and, in the patient,
Indian style, bided its time. "Cattle thieves," "the girl at
Wetmore’s"—the words sang themselves in her head like an incantation.
"Cattle thieves" meant her brother, their recognized leader—her brother,
who was dearer to her than the heart in her breast, the eye in her head,
the right hand that held together the shambling, uncertain destiny of her
people. Would he turn to the left, Justice, on a pale horse, hunting her
brother gallowsward? Would he turn towards the right, the impetuous lover
spurring his steed that he might come swiftly to the woman. A pulse in her
bosom rose slowly until her breath was suspended, then fell again; she was
still watching, without an outward quiver, long after he had turned to the