She was carrying a quirt, and she started to raise it, then let it fall again and dangle from her wrist.

"I saw your fire", she said, speaking slowly, making an effort to control her anger.
"You could burn down this whole mountainside with a fire that size.
It wouldn't matter to a fool like you.
It would to me".

"All right", Wilson said quickly.
"The fire's too big.
And I appreciate the advice".

He was losing patience again.
An hour before, with the children asleep and nothing but the strange darkness, he would have appreciated company.
She had helped him change his mind.

"I'm not advising you", she said.
"I'm telling you.
That fire's too big.
Let it burn down.
And make sure it's out when you leave in the morning".

He was taken aback.
It took him a long time to compose himself.

"There's some mistake", he said finally.
"You're right about the fire.
It's bigger than it has to be, though I don't see where it's doing any harm.
But you're wrong about the rest of it.
I'm not leaving in the morning.
Why should I?
I own the place".

She showed her surprise by tightening the reins and moving the gelding around so that she could get a better look at his face.
It didn't seem to tell her anything.
She glanced around the clearing, taking in the wagon and the load of supplies and trappings scattered over the ground, the two kids, the whiteface bull that was chewing its cud just within the far reaches of the firelight.
She studied it for a long time.
Then she turned back to Wilson and smiled, and he wasn't quite sure what she meant by it.

"You own this place"?
She said, and her tone had softened until it was almost friendly.
"You bought it"?

"From a man in St. Louis", Wilson said.
"Jake Carwood.
Maybe you know him".

The girl laughed.
"I know him.
I ought to.
My father ran him off here six years ago".

Wilson didn't say anything.
He stood watching the girl, wondering what was coming next.
She had picked up the quirt and was twirling it around her wrist and smiling at him.

"Carwood didn't tell you that", she said.

"No", Wilson said.
"But it's understandable.
It's not the kind of thing that a man would be proud of.
And it doesn't make any difference.
He sold me a clear title.
I have it with me, right here.
If you want to see" --

"Never mind", she said sternly.
"It wouldn't matter to my father, and not to me.
I meant what I said about that fire.
Be sure it's out when you leave.
That's all.
I'll let you go back to doing the dishes now".

It was meant to insult him, and didn't quite succeed.
He took the reins just below the bit and held them firmly, and it was his turn to smile now.
"I don't mind washing dishes now and then", he said pleasantly.
"It doesn't hurt.
It might hurt you, though.
Somebody might mistake you for a woman".

He meant to say more, but he never got the chance.
She was quick.
She brought the quirt down, slashing it across his cheek, and he tried to step back.
She swung the quirt again, and this time he caught her wrist and pulled her out of the saddle.

She came down against him, and he tried to break her fall.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and went down on one knee, taking her weight so that some of the wind was driven out of him.
It made him a little sick, and he let go of her.
He got up slowly, and she was already on her feet, and he stood facing her.
He wiped the blood from his cheek.

"I ought to" -- he said.
He was shaking with anger, his breath coming in long, painful gasps.
"That quirt -- I ought to use it on you, where it would do the most good.
If you were a man" --

"She isn't, mister".

The voice came from behind him, and Wilson turned.
The fire had gone down, and the man was only a shadow against the trees.
But a moment later he brought his horse forward into the light, and Wilson had a good look at him.
He was tall and dark-skinned, a half-breed, Wilson thought.
And he was handsome, despite the long thin scar that slanted across his cheek.

"She's not a man, mister", he said.
"I am.
If you've got any ideas".
He raised the Winchester and pointed it at Wilson's chest.

"Put the rifle down, Joseph", the girl said.
She seemed irritated.
"I thought I told you to stay home".

The half-breed eased the Winchester down and rested it across his lap.
The scar looked pure white in the half-darkness;
his eyes were black and deep-set, and expressionless.
"You shouldn't be riding up here after dark, Judith", he said quietly.
"I can take care of this.
It's no job for you".

The girl tapped the quirt impatiently against her knee and glared at him.
He took it without flinching.

"I said go home, Joseph.
You've got no business up here".

The half-breed didn't answer this time.
But the scar seemed to pull hard at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were hurt and angry.
It made Wilson wonder.
He watched the half-breed as he turned silently.
They could hear the pony's feet on the dry leaves for a while, then the sound faded out.

Wilson brushed the dust from his coat.
"Who was that"?
He asked.
"Your personal guard?
You're pretty hard on him".

"He works for my father", the girl said, and then seemed to change her mind.
"He's a friend.
His name's Joseph Sanchez.
Is there anything else you want to know"?

"Not now", Wilson said.
"I guess I'll find out soon enough.
You've got blood on your cheek.
Not yours.
Mine.
It must have got there when you fell against me".

She wiped it off with the sleeve of her coat.

"I'll bet that's as close as you've been to a man since you were a baby", Wilson said.

He saw her hand start to work down the leather thong toward the handle of the quirt, and he grabbed her wrist.
"Oh, no", he said, and he was without humor now.
"I've had enough of that.
I've had enough of you.
I don't know what goes on around here, and I don't care.
I don't know what makes you think you can get away with this kind of business, and I don't care about that, either.
You took me by surprise.
But I'll know how to handle you next time".

She brought up her free hand to hit him, but this time he was quicker.
He side-stepped her blow and she fell, stumbling against the gelding.
She finally regained her balance and got up in the saddle.
Her hat had come off and fallen behind her shoulders, held by the string, and he could see her face more clearly than he had at any time before.
He had forgotten that she was so pretty.
But her prettiness was what he had noticed first, and all the other things had come afterward: cruelty, meanness, self-will.
He had known women like that, one woman in particular.
And one had been too many.
He watched the girl until she had gone into the trees, and waited until he couldn't hear the sound of her horse any longer, then went up to where the children were sleeping.

They weren't sleeping, of course, but they thought they were doing him a favor by pretending.
He hadn't shown up too well in their eyes, letting himself be browbeaten by a woman.
They expected greater things from him, regardless of how trying the circumstances, and they were disappointed.
And determined not to show it.
They lay a little too stiffly, with their eyes straining to stay closed.

"Go to sleep", he said.
"Both of you.
There's better things to do than listen to something like that.
I'll be down at the creek finishing the dishes, if you want me".

He found the pan where he had dropped it and carried it back down to the stream.
The coyote was calling again, and he hoped that this time there would be no other sounds to interrupt it.
Not tonight, at any rate.
He had a feeling that the girl meant trouble.
If she did, he could stand it better in the light.

He scrubbed absent-mindedly at the pans and reflected on how things had turned out.
That afternoon when they had pulled up in front of the broken-down ranch house, his hopes had been high.
Already some of the pain had gone from Amelia's death.
Not all of it.
There would still be plenty of moments of regret and sadness and guilty relief.
But they were starting a new life.
And they had almost everything they needed: land, a house, two whiteface bulls, three horses.

The land wasn't all Wilson had expected of it.
Six hundred and forty acres, the old man back in St. Louis had said;
good grass, good water.
Well, the grass was there, though in some places the ground was too steep for a cow to get to it.
The water was there, so much of it that it spread all through the dead orchard.
And there was a house;
livable perhaps, but badly in need of repairs.

In the last analysis, though, Wilson had little cause to complain.
The place had been cheap -- just the little he had left after Amelia's burial -- and it would serve its purpose.
There was only one place where Jake Carwood's description had gone badly awry: the peace and quiet.
It hadn't started out that way.
And he had a feeling -- thanks to the girl -- that things would get worse before they got better.

2

They had the house cleaned up by noon, and Wilson sent the boy out to the meadow to bring in the horses.
He stood on the porch and watched him struggling with the heavy harness, and finally went over to help him.
Kathy was already in the wagon.
They were going to town, and they were both excited.

Wilson backed the team into the traces, and wished they weren't going to town at all.
He had an uneasy feeling about it.
That girl last night, what was her name?
Judith Pierce.
It was the only thing about her that was the least bit hard to remember.

He finished with the team and filled his pipe and stood looking about him.
He had spent two hours riding around the ranch that morning, and in broad daylight it was even less inviting than Judith Pierce had made it seem.
There was brush, and stands of pine that no grass could grow under, and places so steep that cattle wouldn't stop to graze.
But there was water.
There was an artificial lake just out of sight in the first stand of trees, fed by a half dozen springs that popped out of the ground above the hillside orchard.
Yes, there was plenty of water, too much, and that was probably the trouble.
There were tracks of cattle all over his six hundred and forty acres.

The first part of the road was steep, but it leveled off after the second bend and curled gradually into the valley.
It was hotter once they reached the flat, and drier, but the grass was better.
A warm breeze played across it, moving it like waves.
A red-tailed hawk flew in behind them and stayed there, watching for any snakes or rabbits that they might stir up from the side of the road.
It took them an hour before they came to the first houses of Kelseyville.

The town was about what Wilson expected: one main street with its rows of false-fronted buildings, a water tower, a few warehouses, a single hotel;
all dusty and sunbaked.
The place was quiet.