THE FIGHTING SHEPHERDESS
Again the light feminine laugh reached Kate and her lips tightened as she thought cynically:
"Dudes from the Scissor Ranch over to look at the freak woman sheepherder."
Disston winced a little. Kate might misundersand and take offense at Beth Rathbum's laughter.
But Kate ignored, then forgot them, until Bowers, working at that end of the corral, came back and jerked his thumb over his shoulder:
"That feller wants to speak to you."
Kate looked up impatiently, hesitated, wiped her face on the sleeve of her forearm and walked over without great alacrity.
As she went forward Kate looked only at the girl, who, cool and dainty in her sheer white muslin, her fur face reflecting the glow from the pink silk lining of her parasol, small of stature and as exquisitely feminine as a Dresden china shepherdess, was her direct antithesis.
Kate's divided skirt was bedraggled, a rent showed in the sleeve of her blouse, her riding boots were shabby, and the fingers were out of her worn gauntlets. Her hat was white with the dust of the corral, her hair disheveled and her face, still damp with perspiration, was grimy. But somehow she managed to be picturesque and striking. Her clothes could not hide the long beautiful curves of her tall figure and she carried herself very erect, with something dignified and authoritative in her manner, while her wide free gestures were the movements of independence and self-reliance.
Disston looking at her eagerly and intently as she came closer noted that the changes the years had made were chiefly in her expression. The friendly candor of her eyes was replaced by a look that was coldly speculative, and her lips that had smiled so readily now expressed de-
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