d; but
Sue had plainly revealed her opinion of the ranchman's daughter.

The contrast between them cut Frances to the quick. She keenly realized
how she, herself, must appear in the company of the pretty Eastern girl.

"Of course, Pratt, and Mrs. Edwards, and all of them, must see how
superior she is to me," Frances thought, as Molly galloped away with
her. "But just the same, I don't like that Sue Latrop a bit!"

CHAPTER XV

IN THE FACE OF DANGER

Frances was going by the way of Cottonwood Bottom because the trail was
better and there were fewer gates to open.

The Bar-T kept a gang riding fence all the time; but even so, it was
impossible always to keep up the wires. Frances seldom if ever rode from
home without wire cutters and staples in a pocket of her saddle.

She stopped several times on this morning to mend breaks and to tighten
slack wires, so it was late when she found the herd at West Run. Here
were chuck-wagon, horse corral and camp--a regular "cowboy's home," in
fact.

The boss of the outfit was Asa Bird, and Tom Phipps was the wrangler,
while a Mexican, named Miguel, was cooking for the outfit.

"Ya-as, Miss Frances," drawled Asa, "I reckon we need a right smart of
things. Mike says he's most out o' provisions; but for the love of home
don't send us no more beans. We've jest about been beaned to death! No
wonder them Greasers are fighting among themselves all the endurin'
time. It's the _frijoles_ they eat makes 'em so fractious--sure
is!"

Frances wrote out a list of the goods needed, for the next supply wagon
that passed this way to drop at the camp, and looked over the outfit in
general in order to report fully to Sam and her father regarding the
conditions at the West Run.

It was high noon before she got in sight of the cottonwoods on her
homeward trail. She was hurrying Molly, for she did not want to keep
Ratty M'Gill waiting for his money. As she had told him, she wanted the
reckless cowboy off the Bar-T ranges before nightfall.

She had struck the plain above the river ford when she sighted a single
rider far ahead, and going in her own direction. It was plain that the
man--whoever he was--was heading for the ford instead of the bridge
where the new trail crossed.

Something about this fact--or about the slouching rider himself--made
Frances suspicious. She was reminded of the last time she had come this
way and of the dialogue she had overheard between Ratty M'Gill and the