horse! What you been doing--doubling for him in a lead?"

Lance swung down and came toward her. "Belle, where did dad and the
boys go?"

"Oh--fussing with the stock," said Belle vaguely, her eyes clouding a
little. "We're getting so many cattle it keeps Tom on the go day and
night, seems to me. And he _will_ keep buying more all the while.
Did--did you want to go with them, honey? I guess Tom never thought
you might. You've been away so long. You'd better not ride Coaley,
Lance. Tom would just about murder you if he caught you at it. And
where did you get hold of that hat?"

Lance laughed queerly. "I just picked it off the table as I came out.
Mine is too new and stiff yet. This seemed to fit. And Coaley's better
off under the saddle than he is in the stable, Belle. He's a peach--I
always did want to ride Coaley, but I never had the nerve till I got
big enough to lick dad."

He caught Belle in a quick, breath-taking hug, kissed her swiftly on
the cheek and turned Coaley into the corral with the saddle still on.

"Are you going over--to the funeral?" he asked as he closed the gate.

"I'm going to town, and I've got the letters you left on the table to
be mailed. No, I'm not going to the funeral. I don't enjoy having my
face slapped--and being called a painted Jezebel," she added dryly.

Under his breath Lance muttered something and went into the house, not
looking at Belle or making her any reply.

"Lance," said Belle to the pintos, "thinks we're rough and tough and
just about half civilized. Lord, when you take a Lorrigan and educate
him and _polish_ him, you sure have got a combination that's hard to
go up against. Two years--and my heavens, I don't _know_ Lance any
more! I never thought any Lorrigan could feaze _me_--but there's
something about Lance--"

In the house Lance was not showing any of the polish which Belle had
mentioned rather regretfully. He was kneeling before a trunk, throwing
books and pipes and socks and soft-toned silk shirts over his
shoulder, looking for something which he seemed in a great haste to
find. When his fingers, prying deep among his belongings, closed upon
the thing he sought, he brought it up, frowning abstractedly.

A black leather case, small and curved, opened when he unbuckled the
confining strap. A binocular, small but extremely efficient in its
magnifying power he withdrew, dusting the lenses with the sleeve of
his shirt. He had bought the glasses because some one had