he is one of the few men who still know how
to make money out of cows," laughed Pratt Sanderson. "Thank you, Miss
Rugley. I can't let you do anything more for me----"

"You are a long way from the Edwards' place," she said. "You'd better
ride to the Bar-T for the night. We will send a boy over there with a
message, if you think Mrs. Edwards will be worried."

"I suppose I'd better do as you say," he said, rather ruefully. "Mrs.
Edwards _will_ be worried about my absence over supper time. She
says I'm such a tenderfoot."

For a moment a twinkle came into the veiled grey eyes; the new
expression illumined the girl's face like a flash of sunlight across the
shadowed field.

"You rather back up her opinion when you tackle a lion with nothing but
birdshot--and one barrel of your gun fouled in the bargain," she said.
"Don't you think so?"

"But I killed it with a revolver!" exclaimed the young fellow,
struggling to his feet again.

"That pistol throws a good-sized bullet," said the ranchman's daughter,
smiling. "But I'd never think of picking a quarrel with a lion unless I
had a good rope, or something that threw heavier lead than birdshot."

He looked at her, standing there in the after-glow of the sunset, with
honest admiration in his eyes.

"I _am_ a tenderfoot, I guess," he admitted. "And you were not
scared for a single moment!"

"Oh, yes, I was," and Frances Rugley's laugh was low and musical. "But
it was all over so quickly that the scare didn't have a chance to show.
Come on! I'll catch your pony, and we'll make the Bar-T before supper
time."

CHAPTER II

"FRANCES OF THE RANGES"

The grey was a well-trained cow-pony, for the Edwards' ranch was one of
the latest in that section of the Panhandle to change from cattle to
wheat raising. A part of its range had not as yet been plowed, and Bill
Edwards still had a corral full of good riding stock.

Pratt Sanderson got into his saddle without much trouble and the girl
whistled for Molly.

"I'll throw that lion over my saddle," she said. "Molly won't mind it
much--especially if you hold her bridle with her head up-wind."

"All right, Miss Rugley," the young man returned. "My name is Pratt
Sanderson--I don't know that you know it."

"Very well, Mr. Sanderson," she repeated.

"They don't call me _that_ much," the young fellow blurted out. "I
answer easier to my first name, you know--Pratt."

"Very well, Pratt," said the girl, frankly. "I am Franc