ntures on the
Border:

"Your father is a very interesting talker. He has seen and done so
much."

"Yes," said Frances.

"And how adventurous his life must have been! I'd love to get him in a
story-telling mood some day."

"He doesn't talk much about old times."

"But, of course, you know all about his adventures as a Ranger, and his
trips into Mexico?"

"No," said Frances.

"Why! he spoke last night as though he often talked about it. About the
looting of---- Who was the old Spanish grandee he mentioned?"

"I know very little about it, Pratt," fluttered Frances. "That's just
dad's talk."

"But that gorgeous girdle and bracelet you wore!"

Frances secretly determined not to wear jewelry from the treasure chest
again. She had never thought before about its causing comment and
conjecture in the minds of people who did not know her father as well as
she did.

Suppose people believed that Captain Dan Rugley had actually stolen
those things in some raid into Mexico? Such a thought had never troubled
her before. But she could see, now, that strangers might misjudge her
father. He talked so recklessly about his old life on the Border that he
might easily cause those who did not know him to believe that not alone
the contents of that mysterious treasure chest but his other wealth was
gained by questionable means.

Fortunately, a herd of steers, crossing from one of the extreme southern
ranges of the Bar-T to the north where juicier grass grew, attracted the
attention of the guest from Amarillo.

"Are those all yours, Frances?" he asked, when he saw the mass of dark
bodies and tossing horns that appeared through rifts in the dust cloud
that accompanies a driven herd even over sod-land.

"My father's," she corrected, smiling. "And only a small herd. Not more
than two thousand head in that bunch."

"I'd call two thousand cows a whole lot," Pratt sighed.

"Not for us. Remember, the Bar-T has been in the past one of the great
cattle ranches of the West. Daddy is getting old now and cannot attend
to so much work."

"But you seem to know all about it," said Pratt, with enthusiasm. "Don't
you really do all the overseeing for him?"

"Oh, no!" laughed Frances. "Not at all. Silent Sam is the ranch manager.
I just do what either dad or Sam tell me. I'm just errand girl for the
whole ranch."

But Pratt knew better than that. He saw now that she was watching the
oncoming mass of steers with a frown of annoyance. Som