For a moment her left hand fell in his. He looked down at the small,
firm, sunbrowned fist. That hand was, as Browning has written, a woman
in itself, but it was a woman competent, unafraid, trained hard as
nails. She would go through with whatever she set out to do.

As his eyes rested on the fingers there came to him a swift,
unreasoning prescience of impending tragedy. To what dark destiny was
she moving?




CHAPTER IV

NOT ALWAYS TWO TO MAKE A QUARREL

Kirby put Wild Rose on the morning train for Denver. She had escaped
from the doctor by sheer force of will. The night had been a wretched
one, almost sleepless, and she knew that her fever would rise in the
afternoon. But that could not be helped. She had more important
business than her health to attend to just now.

Ordinarily Rose bloomed with vitality, but this morning she looked
tired and worn. In her eyes there was a hard brilliancy Kirby did not
like to see. He knew from of old the fire that could blaze in her
heart, the insurgent impulses that could sweep her into recklessness.
What would she do if the worst she feared turned out to be true?

"Good luck," she called through the open window as the train pulled
out. "Beat Cole, Kirby."