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Miz Satterlee sat at one end of the table, pushing the contract of sale, the deed, and the conveyance of all Stirrup S brands and marks down to William Wells Woolfridge, who sat at the other end. Josiah Craib from his place at the side took the legal instruments and scanned them with a severe glance. He signed as witness, and Mark Eagle likewise affixed his signature. Then Eagle retired from Craib's office, and Woolfridge accepted the papers, in turn passing a check to Miz Satterlee. And by that gesture all the wide-flung range land that was the dream and the pride of old Dad Satterlee passed out of the name and into alien hands. Persistence had finally won—persistence and subterfuge and pressure; the property now belonged to Woolfridge.

Miz Satterlee accepted the check, hardly looking at it. She sat very straight in the chair. Her mouth was tightly pursed, and her eyes, still the vigorous and expressive eyes of her youth, fell squarely upon Woolfridge.

"I have given in, sir."

Woolfridge bowed. "In my life, Mrs. Satterlee, I have found that everybody has a price. It is only a matter of finding that price. You must admit, madam that in this case I have not tried to haggle. You must admit I have paid a just sum."

"I never argue," replied Miz Satterlee, and for once the weariness showed through. Yet she was too proud to reveal the resentment. "I only say that I sell to you in order to avoid further shedding of blood. I will not stand by and see my boys killed and driven away and ambushed. Nothing is worth that."

"Surely, Mrs. Satterlee, you are not laying all that to my door—"

"I detest a liar. Do you deny driving Jim Chaffee out of the country?"

Woolfridge's chubby cheeks flushed until the freckles were buried in color. The formal politeness congealed. "The man was a murderer. He was escaping from justice—"

"Do you deny having Mack Moran shot down in the road and nearly killed?"

"I regret that. I had nothing to do with it. You must realize that he was instrumental in Chaffee's escape and that the posse, disappointed in not bagging him, might have gone beyond reason in shooting Moran. And Moran was really an accessory."

"Do you deny ordering my cattle stampeded over the bluffs?"

Woolfridge raised his hand. And at once his face hardened, the autocratic and arbitrary mandarin spirit slanted out beneath his slightly drooping lids. "I owe you all respect, madam, but in fairness—"

"Fairness, Mr. Woolfridge? I detest a hyprocnte. You have won. Why not be proud of your weapons, since you do so well with them?"

"I have never denied that I wanted Stirrup S badly, Mrs. Satterlee," was Woolfridge's sharp rejoinder. "Nor have I ever hesitated about the price to be paid. If you desire honesty, I will add that the price includes other items besides that check I have handed you. Now if I can be of any assistance in helping you move—"

"I require no help. I will remain in the hotel."

Woolfridge permitted himself a thin smile. "I do not wish to take any further advantage. Knowing that you certainly would not wish to remain under my hospitality I might say that I own the hotel."

Miz Satterlee rose. "I am glad to know it. In that case I will look for a house."

"You may probably find that I own a great many of the houses as well," added Woolfridge. He was enjoying this; such courteously spoken phrases with a barbed tip to them were much to his taste now that he was in a position to reveal the extent of his power.

"Do you own all of Roaring Horse, Mr. Woolfridge?" demanded Miz Satterlee, losing a little of her self-control. "Are you trying to drive me from this county?"

"I own a great deal of the county—all that I need. No, madam, I am not trying to drive you away. Why should I? But it would perhaps be far better for your own happiness if you did go."

Josiah Craib broke his long silence. He, too, rose and his bony head bobbed at Woolfridge. "That will be enough. Ma'am, let me escort you to the door." The two of them crossed the bank room. At the door Craib spoke earnestly. "Miz Satterlee, whatever has happened, I wish you could still regard me as a personal friend."

The woman turned and looked into his sparse, raw-boned face. "Craib," said she with more of sadness and emotion than at any other time during the interview, "I wish I knew you."

He was about to answer that. Yet he never did. Instead he bowed an awkward, craning motion of his gaunt neck and turned back. Woolfridge was smoking, and Woolfridge studied the banker coldly.

"My friend, I do not relish orders, nor suggestions."

"The remark stands," replied Craib without a particle of emotion. "I will not have Miz Satterlee badgered."

Woolfridge studied Craib, and a gleam of cold amusement became visible. "You have a stiffer backbone than I figured." Then he was blunt and peremptory. "Go get these instruments recorded. Then lock them in your safe. Keep your mouth closed as to all that has transpired between us. What is to be revealed I will reveal."

"Yes," said Craib.

Woolfridge left the bank. In passing the teller's cage he discovered Mark Eagle's following glance, and it seemed to irritate him. He paused. "My friend, I do not require my help to be friendly. I do not wish friendliness. But I do expect both politeness and respect. Think about that."

Eagle's round cheeks never moved. Woolfridge frowned and appeared to debate another idea. Whatever it was, he suppressed it for the time and went along the street to the hotel. In his suite of rooms he relaxed. There was a map on his desk. To that map he directed his attention, erasing certain boundary lines and inserting others. And when, later that afternoon, the stage dropped a passenger from down-territory, he was still studying the map. In that posture the newcomer found him.

"You are late," said Woolfridge, neither civil nor uncivil.

"Very sorry, sir. I couldn't get away from the capital a moment earlier. There has been so much ado—"

"Well?" interrupted Woolfridge. "What do I care about all that chatter? Come to the point."

The newcomer looked at a vacant chair. Since no invitation to rest was forthcoming he remained on his feet. "I am afraid I have no good news. That is what delayed me. The governor has been on the warpath. The legislature is about to convene, and there have been many radical bills proposed. Also, nobody understands just how, there was a repercussion in Washington. On top of that the irrigation commissioner has become unfriendly. In short, T. Q. Bangor has instructed me to say to you that his company can no longer be interested in the proposed dam up here. That is quite final."

He was somewhat nervous, having once delivered the news, and he looked apprehensively at Woolfridge. Yet it he expected ar explosion of wrathful disappointment he was to be disappointed. All that marked Woolfridge's state of mind was a sardonic gleam.

"So Bangor got cold feet and threw me down?"

"No, sir, that is not the impression he wants me to convey—"

"It amounts to just that," snapped Woolfridge. "He's got the courage of a jellyfish. All of those fools down below are the same. If I had stayed there I'd be the same way. Thank God, I got out of it. Now I suppose Bangor expects I'll come weeping on his shoulders. I suppose you think I mean to discard all the plans I had you draw up. Well, I do not intend any such thing. We are going ahead."

"I don't see—" began the newcomer.

"Of course not. If you did see you'd have an imagination. If you had an imagination I wouldn't be hiring you. Sit down."

The newcomer sat down, uncertain, puzzled, and distrait. He had worked for Woolfridge many years, and he thought he understood his employer. Yet here was a man he didn't know at all. Woolfridge was changing; he was hardening to internal pressures. There was a squareness to the chubby face and a cast to the lips; a suggestion of saturnine confidence that never before had been visible. The newcomer never had known what went on in Woolfridge's mind, but hitherto he always had felt more or less secure of a certain routine. He didn't feel it now. Woolfridge looked at him in a way that made him wish there were others in the room. In fact the newcomer was somehow afraid.

"All our plans were based on the fact that the dam was coming in," stated Woolfridge. "We were to sell land on that basis. We will still sell land, but on a different basis. You go back. Revise your advertisements. State in them that here is a land that will grow anything with water. Dwell upon the irrigation possibilities of the canyon. Do not promise that a dam is to be built, but convey by every clever word you have that a dam is sure to go in. Don't promise—hint. Hit 'em on the head with that hint. By Saturday—two days from now—I want a copy of that advertisement on the way to all the country newspapers in the surrounding states."

"But Bangor positively states the dam isn't going in."

"What do we care? You do as I tell you. That hint will draw a class of men who are always ready to drop what they've got and rush to some other place on a shoestring prospect. The world is full of such. They will buy my land, pay something down, and wait for water to come."

"Then what?" queried the newcomer.

"Then—what do you want to know for?" Woolfridge was about to say that then he would have their money and they would go broke. In the end they would leave and he would still have the land. "Go back and get at it. Tell them that dry farming can pay them while they are waiting." Once more the newcomer saw a touch of that cynical, sardonic amusement. He rose, fumbling with his hat.

"Very well. I will take care of it. There is no stage out of here until to-morrow."

"I said you didn't have any imagination," murmured Woolfridge. "There is a livery stable here that will rent you a rig and driver. Eat a bite and get out."

The man departed, glad to be clear of Woolfridge's presence. A stouter fellow would have resigned. This man was not of that caliber. Woolfridge had known as much at the time of hiring.

For perhaps an hour after Woolfridge had gone from the bank Mark Eagle tended to business. At the end of this time he very quietly laid down his pen, removed his light coat, and slid into his heavier one. He left the cage, closed the door, and went to Craib's office. Craib was busy, so Mark Eagle waited in entire patience until the older man pulled free from a ledger.

"I'd like my money," said Eagle.

Craib solemnly figured the days and dug into his own pocket for the cash. "Your dad pretty sick?"

"Yes," replied Mark. "Thank you." It was still before closing time, yet the Indian left the bank and walked to his room in a private house over near the rodeo field. A little later he reappeared on the street again with a paper bundle beneath his arm, going directly to the stable. Will Leaver, the spare stable hand, saw Mark enter and spoke casually. "How's tricks, old- timer?"

"Fair enough, Will. It is getting colder. Winter early this year."

The stable hand nodded. Mark Eagle walked to the rear of the place and slipped into a litle alley made by the high stacks of baled hay. He was gone for quite a while and the stable hand, thinking it somewhat curious, at last rose and started out the back. Midway, he was stopped dead and struck speechless. Mark Eagle stepped out from the alley.

When Eagle entered that alley he was much like any other man in Roaring Horse—dressed in the same conventional clothes, using the same speech and owning the same manners. Possibly he was more reserved and possibly he carried himself a little straighter, for he was proud of his education and proud of his place in a white man's society. Nothing about Mark Eagle, save the color of his skin, set him apart from the average run of townsmen, and even that was overlooked through many years of close contact. Roaring Horse spoke of him as a good man, nothing more and nothing less. Yet, as he stood now before Will Leaver, all the trappings of civilization had been flung aside. The woolen suit was gone, the derby hat and the leather shoes were cast aside. Mark Eagle was stripped to the waist; he wore a pair of leather breeches and a set of moccasins. His jet black hair stood upright, heavy with grease, and twin blotches of red paint emblazoned his cheek bones. Poising there in the half light of the stable's vault he stared at Will Leaver out of burning, haughty eyes, and the perfect picture of some wild savage emerged from the past.

Will Leaver started to speak. Mark Eagle raised a hand, around the wrist of which dangled a beaded quirt. And he muttered: "Ha—me red! I go!" His body bent, he slipped around Leaver at a dog trot. Down the driveway to the door and into the street. There he halted, copper body shining in the cold sunlight, crimson paint creating a weird and repulsive mask of his face.

Leaver woke from his wonder and ran after Eagle, shouting: "Hey, Mark, yuh can't do that! Yuh'll get pinched. Come back here, yuh damndarn fool, before folks see yuh!"

Mark Eagle threw up his hands. A wild, exultant cry went ringing down along the building walls of Roaring Horse, waking barbaric echoes, shocking all hearers out of the afternoon drowse. Then he whirled. When Will Leaver reached the door he saw Mark Eagle leaping into the saddle of a tethered pony. Leaver yelled again, men came up on the run. But Mark Eagle, full blood, was on his way with the winds, out into the open desert, bound for the high and distant ridges he had looked at so long from the imprisoning streets of the white man's town.