the house, hitched the horses to the buckboard, and
changed to her best dress. She made a little bundle of her other clothes
and tied them in a bandanna handkerchief.

On a scrap of coarse brown wrapping-paper she wrote a short note:

Dear Dad,

I'm going away with Bob Dillon. We're going to be married. Don't
blame me too much. Jake Houck drove me to it. I'll write you soon.
Don't forget to take the cough medicine when you need it.

June

She added a postscript.

I'll leave the team at Kilburn's Corral.

Unexpectedly, she found herself crying. Tears splashed on the writing.
She folded the note, put it in the empty coffee pot, and left this on the
table.

June had no time just now for doubts. The horses were half-broken
broncos. They traveled the first hundred yards tied in a knot, the
buckboard sometimes on four wheels, but more often on two.

At the top of the hill she managed to slacken them enough for Bob to jump
in. They were off again as though shot from a bow. June wound the reins
round her hands and leaned back, arms and strong thin wrists taut. The
colts flew over the ground at a gallop.

There was no chance for conversation. Bob watched the girl drive. He
offered no advice. She was, he knew, a better teamster than himself. Her
eyes and mind were wholly on the business in hand.

A flush of excitement burned in June's cheeks. Tolliver never would let
her drive the colts because of the danger. She loved the stimulation of
rapid travel, the rush of the wind past her ears, the sense of
responsibility at holding the lines.

Bob clung to the seat and braced himself. He knew that all June could do
was to steady the team enough to keep the horses in the road. Every
moment he expected a smash, but it did not come. The colts reached the
foot of Twelve-Mile safely and swept up the slope beyond. The driver took
a new grip on the lines and put her weight on them. It was a long hill.
By the time they reached the top the colts were under control and ready
to behave for the rest of the day.

The sparkling eyes of June met those of Bob. "Great, ain't it?"

He nodded, but it had not been fun for him. He had been distinctly
frightened. He felt for June the reluctant admiration gameness compels
from those who are constitutionally timid. What manner of girl was this
who could shave disaster in such a reckless fashion and actually enjoy
it?

At