s she
passed in through the half score of admirers she had won, her dark eyes
swept smilingly over assembled Cattleland. She had already met most of
them at the launching of the machine from the flat car, and had directed
their perspiring energies as they labored to follow her orders. Now she
nodded a recognition with a little ripple of gay laughter.

"I'm delighted to be able to contribute to the entertainment of Gimlet
Butte," she said, as she swept in. For this young woman was possessed
of Western adaptation. It gave her no conscientious qualms to exchange
conversation fraternal with these genial savages.

The Elk House did not rejoice in a private dining room, and competition
strenuous ensued as to who should have the pleasure of sitting beside
the guest of honor. To avoid ill feeling, the matter was determined by
a game of freeze-out, in which Texas and a mature gentleman named,
from his complexion, "Beet" Collins, were the lucky victors. Texas
immediately repaired to the general store, where he purchased a new
scarlet bandanna for the occasion; also a cake of soap with which to
rout the alkali dust that had filtered into every pore of his hands and
face from a long ride across the desert.

Came supper and Texas simultaneously, the cow-puncher's face scrubbed
to an apple shine. At the last moment Collins defaulted, his nerve
completely gone. Since, however, he was a thrifty soul, he sold his
place to Soapy for ten dollars, and proceeded to invest the proceeds in
an immediate drunk.

During the first ten minutes of supper Miss Messiter did not appear, and
the two guardians who flanked her chair solicitously were the object of
much badinage.

"She got one glimpse of that red haid of Tex and the pore lady's took to
the sage," explained Yorky.

"And him scrubbed so shiny fust time since Christmas before the big
blizzard," sighed Doc Rogers.

"Shucks! She ain't scared of no sawed-off, hammered-down runt like
Texas, No, siree! Miss Messiter's on the absent list 'cause she's afraid
she cayn't resist the blandishments of Soapy. Did yo' ever hear about
Soapy and that Caspar hash slinger?"

"Forget it, Slim," advised Soapy, promptly. He had been engaged in lofty
and oblivious conversation with Texas, but he did not intend to allow
reminiscences to get under way just now.

At this opportune juncture arrived the mistress of the "gasoline bronc,"
neatly clad in a simple white lawn with blue trimmings. She looked like