he buckskin scrambled to his feet, his eyes
blazing, nostrils distended, and as wild a horse as ever came off the
range.

"Look out, Miss Frances!" yelled Mack Hinkman, who had just come upon
the scene. "That thar buckskin hawse is a bad actor."

"Oh! the dear girl! Whatever did possess me to urge her on?" cried Mrs.
Edwards. "Boys! Save her!"

But it was all over before any of the punchers, or the visitors on the
fence, could go to Frances' rescue.

The buckskin rose on his hind legs and struck at the girl desperately.
She had gathered in the slack of the broken lariat and she swung it
sharply across the pony's face, leaping sideways to avoid him.

The pony whirled and struck again, whistling shrilly, the foam flying
from his jaws. Once more Frances avoided him.

Tom Gallup was yelling like a wild boy on the fence. Sue could scarcely
catch her breath for fear. She would not have admitted it for the world;
but the courage of the range girl amazed her. Her own rescue from the
charge of the little black bullock by Frances had not impressed Sue
Latrop as did this battle with the pony in the arena of the horse
corral.

Fred Purchase ran with another lariat. Frances seized it, flung the
noose over the upraised head of the pony, took a swift turn around a
shed post, and brought the "bad actor" up short.

She insisted, too, on cinching on the saddle and putting the bit in the
pony's mouth. Then she mounted him and as he tore around the corral, the
girl sitting as though she were a part of the creature, the boys and
girls joined the punchers in cheering her.

It was not in this way, however, that the girl visitors to the ranges
learned the true worth of Frances Rugley. They were, after all, only
"porch acquaintances." Once only had the party been invited into the
inner court for luncheon, and their brief calls to the ranch-house
offered little opportunity for the girls to really see Frances' home.

They had met her so much in riding costume that, like Pratt Sanderson,
they were amazed when she appeared in a pretty house dress. And they
were really a bit awed by her, for although the range girl was of a
naturally cheerful disposition, she possessed, too, more than her share
of dignity.

"You don't flit about like these other girls, Frances," said the old
ranchman, who was very observant. "You grow to look and seem more like
your mother every day. But the goodness knows I don't want you to grow
into a woman ahead of