horsemen and horsewomen who might
have just ridden out of the Central Park bridle-path at Fifty-ninth
Street or out of the Fens in Boston's Back Bay section.

At a distance they disclosed to Frances' vision--unused to such
sights--a most remarkable jumble of colors and fashions. In the West
khaki, brown, or olive grey is much worn for riding togs by the women,
while the men, if not in overalls, or chaps, clothe themselves in plain
colors.

But here was actually more than one red coat! A red coat with never a
fox nearer than half a thousand miles!

"Is it a circus parade?" thought Frances, setting spurs to her pinto.

And no wonder she asked. There were three girls, or young women, riding
abreast, each in a natty red coat with tails to it, hard hats on their
heads, and skirts. They rode side-saddle. Luckily the horses they rode
were city bred.

There were two or three other girls who were dressed more like Frances
herself, and bestrode their ponies in sensible style. The males of the
party were in the Western mode; Frances recognized one of them
instantly; it was Pratt Sanderson.

He was not a bad rider. She saw that he accompanied one of the girls who
wore a red coat, riding close upon her far side. The cavalcade was
ambling along toward the branding pen, which was in the bottom of a
coulie.

As Frances rode up behind the party, Molly's little feet making so
little sound that her presence was unnoticed, the Western girl heard a
rather shrill voice ask:

"And what are they doing it for, Pratt? I re'lly don't just understand,
you know. Why burn the mark upon the hides of those--er--embryo cows?"

"I'm telling you," Pratt's voice replied, and Frances saw that it was
the girl next to him who had asked the question. "I'm telling you that
all the calves and young stock have to be branded."

"Branded?"

"Yes. They belong to the Bar-T, you see; therefore, the Bar-T mark has
to be burned on them."

"Just fancy!" exclaimed the girl in the red coat. "Who would think that
these rude cattle people would have so much sentiment. This Frances
Rugley you tell about owns all these cows? And does she have her
monogram burned on all of them?"

Frances drew in her mount. She wanted to laugh (she heard some of the
party chuckling among themselves), and then she wondered if Pratt
Sanderson was not, after all, making as much fun of her as he was of the
girl in the red coat?

Pratt suddenly turned and saw the ranchman's daugh