thought a moment. "We'll let him have them, but don't make the cut
till I come back. I'm going to ride over to the Twin Buttes."

His admiring eyes followed her as she went toward the pony that was
waiting saddled with the rein thrown to the ground. She carried her
slim, lithe figure with a grace, a lightness, that few women could have
rivaled. When she had swung to the saddle, she half-turned in her seat
to call an order to the foreman.

"I think, Mac, you had better run up those horses from Eagle Creek. Have
Denver and Missou look after them."

"Sure, ma'am," he said aloud; and to himself: "She's ce'tainly a
thoroughbred. Does everything well she tackles. I never saw anything
like it. I'm a Chink if she doesn't run this ranch like she had been
at it forty years. Same thing with her gasoline bronc. That pinto, too.
He's got a bad eye for fair, but she makes him eat out of her hand. I
reckon the pinto is like the rest of us--clean mashed." He put his arms
on the corral fence and grew introspective. "Blamed if I know what it is
about her. 'Course she's a winner on looks, but that ain't it alone. I
guess it's on account of her being such a game little gentleman. When
she turns that smile loose on a fellow--well, there's sure sunshine in
the air. And game--why, Ned Bannister ain't gamer himself."

McWilliams had climbed lazily to the top board of the fence. He was an
energetic youth, but he liked to do his thinking at his ease. Now, as
his gaze still followed its lodestar, he suddenly slipped from his seat
and ran forward, pulling the revolver from its scabbard as he ran. Into
his eyes had crept a tense alertness, the shining watchfulness of the
tiger ready for its spring.

The cause of the change in the foreman of the Lazy D was a simple one,
and on its face innocent enough. It was merely that a stranger had swung
in casually at the gate of the short stable lane, and was due to
meet Miss Messiter in about ten seconds. So far good enough. A dozen
travelers dropped in every day, but this particular one happened to be
Ned Bannister.

From the stable door a shot rang out. Bannister ducked and shouted
genially: "Try again."

But Helen Messiter whirled her pony as on a half-dollar, and charged
down on the stable.

"Who fired that shot?" she demanded, her eyes blazing.

The horse-wrangler showed embarrassment. He had found time only to lean
the rifle against the wall.

"I reckon I did, ma'am. Y'u see--"

"Did you