Nance Allison, standing in her trampled spot, knew that the moment she had dreaded for so long was come. Knew that danger threatened at last some one whom she loved—the stark danger of death—and as if something broke within her, the “stirrings” crystalized. Without taking her eyes from the frantic woman on the big blue horse, she began to feel with her foot for something in the grass—something long and dark and cold, but which seemed to her now more precious and to be desired than anything upon the earth—namely, Sud Provine’s rifle.
It seemed, all suddenly, as if the feel of a gun in her hands had been with her from birth, as if she had leaped the years between and was a daughter of the feudal mountaineers who had marked her Pappy’s line.
Gone was all the stern restraint, the earnest supplication to be kept from spilling blood. The hatred which had smouldered in her leaped to its fulfillment.
For herself and hers she had borne all things—lost hope and poverty, and the deadening weariness of gigantic labors.
She had believed in the hand of God that had been her shield and buckler, had been patient in adversity, meek in her dogged courage.
Now, as Kate Cathrew clawed for a weapon to kill Brand Fair sitting on his horse at the cave’s mouth, she was become a killer herself, joying in the fact.
Her foot touched the rifle.
She bent and took it up.
As Cattle Kate straightened in her saddle, Nance dropped stiffly to her knee and raised the gun.
Her blue eyes caught the sights and drew down steadily upon the woman’s heart.