quizzical eyes.

There was an appeal in Miss Bransford's glance that made the blood leap
to Sanderson's face. Her eyes were shining with an eloquent yearning
that would have caused him to kill Dale--if he had thought killing the
man would have been the means of saving Ben Nyland.

And then Mary Bransford was at his side, her hands grasping his,
holding them tightly as her gaze sought his and held it.

"Won't you please do something?" she pleaded. "Oh, if it only could
be! That's a mystery to you, perhaps, but when I spoke to you before I
was going to ask you if--if-- But then, of course you couldn't be--or
you would have spoken before."

Sanderson's eyes glowed with a cold fire. He worked his hands free,
patted hers reassuringly, and gently pushed her away from Streak.

He swung down from the saddle and walked to Dale. The big man had his
back turned to Sanderson, and when Sanderson reached him he leaned over
his shoulder and said gently:

"Look here, Dale."

The latter wheeled, recognizing Sanderson's voice and snarling into the
latter's face.

"Well?" he demanded.

Sanderson grinned mildly. "I reckon you've got to let Ben Nyland off,