ces, and
Two-Gun Benson caught a look in the desperate eyes of his pet which he
did not wholly like. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him any
more to-day. Perhaps it would be better not to ride him again until next
Sunday. After all, wasn't Dexter practically a wild horse, caught
up from the range and broken to saddle only that afternoon? No use
overdoing it. At this moment the beast's back looked higher than ever.

It was the cutting remark of a thoughtless, empty-headed girl that
confirmed Merton in his rash resolve. Metta Judson, again on the back
steps, surveyed the scene with kindling eyes.

"I bet you daresn't get on him again," said Metta.

These were strong words; not words to be flung lightly at Two-Gun
Benson.

"You know a lot about it, don't you?" parried Merton Gill.

"Afraid of that old skate!" murmured Metta, counterfeiting the
inflections of pity.

Her target shot her a glance of equal pity for her lack of understanding
and empty-headed banter. He stalked to the barnyard gate and opened it.
The way to his haven over the border was no longer barred. He returned
to Dexter, firmly grasped the bridle reins under his weak chin and
cajoled him again to the watering trough. Metta Judson was about to
be overwhelmed with confusion. From the edge of the trough he again
clambered into the saddle, the new boots groping a way to the stirrups.
The reins in his left hand, he swept off his ideal hat with a careless
gesture--he wished he had had an art study made of this, but you can't
think of everything at one time. He turned loftily to Metta as one who
had not even heard her tasteless taunts.

"Well, so long! I won't be out late." Metta was now convinced that she
had in her heart done this hero a wrong.

"You better be here before the folks get back!" she warned.

Merton knew this as well as she did, but the folks wouldn't be back for
a couple of hours yet, and all he meant to venture was a ride at sober
pace the length of the alley.

"Oh, I'll take care of that!" he said. "A few miles' stiff gallop'll be
all I want." He jerked Dexter's head up, snapped the reins on his neck,
and addressed him in genial, comradely but authoritative tones.

"Git up there, old hoss!"

Dexter lowered his head again and remained as if posing conscientiously
for the statue of a tired horse.

"Giddap, there, you old skate!" again ordered the rider.

The comradely unction was gone from his voice and the bony neck receiv