THE FIGHTING SHEPHERDESS
work forbade any of the pleasant episodes, which the
average woman accepted as a matter of course, ever happening
in her life. To be an object of ridicule, the target
of somebody's wit, appeared to be her lot. At odds with
humanity, engaged almost constantly in combating the
handicaps imposed by Nature, the serenity of the normal
woman's life was not for her.
Anyway, one thing was certain; her poor little romance, builded upon so slight a foundation as an impulsive boy's ephemeral interest, was over. He would not come again—and she cared. She put her hand to her throat. It ached with the lump in it—yes, she cared.
The tears slipped down and wet the flour-sack pillow case. The outlines of the coffee pot on the stove and the frying pan dangling on the door grew blurred. Her eyes were still swimming when she suddenly held her breath.
An unfamiliar sound had caught her ear, a sound like a stealthy footstep. In the instant that she waited to be sure, a hand and forearm reached inside the door and laid something on the floor.
"Who's there?"
There was no response to the imperative interrogation.
With the same movement that she swung her feet over the edge of the bunk she reached for her rifle and ran to the door. There was not a sound or sign that was unusual save that the horses had stopped eating and with ears thrown forward were looking down the gulch. She picked up the paper that lay on the floor, struck a match and read a scrawl by its flare:
WARNING
Stop where you are if you ain't looking for trouble. Them range maggots of yourn ain't wanted on the mountain this summer.
210
