n June turned, startled, toward the shed from where the voice had
come. She knew, even before she looked, that the speaker was the
Ramblin' Kid. Evidently he had just awakened. He had not risen and still
lay stretched on the ground, his head resting on the saddle he had used
for a pillow. Carolyn June could not help wondering how long he had been
lying there studying her back. The thought confused her. In spite of her
efforts at self-control a slow flush crept over her cheeks. The Ramblin'
Kid saw it and the faintest hint of a smile showed on his lips--or was
the suggestion of amusement in the twinkling glance of his eyes? Carolyn
June could not tell. The subtlety and queerly humble impudence of it
filled her with anger.

While she looked into his eyes Carolyn June appraised the physical
appearance of the Ramblin' Kid. Certainly he was not handsome, sprawling
there in his rough clothing. She knew his age was somewhere near her
own, perhaps he was a year, surely no more than that, older than
herself. Yet there was an expression about the face that suggested much
experience, a sort of settled maturity and seriousness. His mouth,
Carolyn June thought, showed a trace of cruelty--or was it only
firmness? The teeth were good. If he stood up her own eyes would have to
angle upward a trifle to look into his and if hers were brown the
Ramblin' Kid's were positively black--yes, she would say, a brutal,
unfathomable black, penetrating and hard. His cheeks were smooth and
almost sallow they were so dark, and she could tell there was not an
ounce of flesh save tough sinewy muscle on his body. He was fully
dressed except for the white weather-beaten Stetson lying beside the
saddle and the chaps and spurs kicked off and tossed with the bridle and
rope near by on the ground. A dark woolen shirt open at the throat, blue
overalls faded and somewhat dingy, black calfskin boots on a pair of
feet that could not have been larger than sixes, comprised his attire.

So this was the Ramblin' Kid, Carolyn June thought. Someway she had
pictured him a blue-eyed, yellow-haired sort of composite Skinny
Rawlins, Chuck, Bert Lilly, Charley Saunders all in one and with the
face of a boy in the teens!

He was different. She wondered, and almost laughed at the absurd
thought, if he was bow-legged. A glance at the straight limbs stretched
in repose on the ground dispelled the doubt.

The suddenness with which the Ramblin' Kid had spoken and the tone he