tapering legs that moved as regularly as the
pistonrod of an engine. "It's a race, of course; but you're too much
of a horseman to whoop it up this soon. Say we travel together till we
get to the home stretch."

"I'm your company," agreed Pearson, "and I admire your sense. If
there's hats at Lone Elm, one of 'em shall set on Miss Tonia's brow
to-morrow, and you won't be at the crowning. I ain't bragging, Burr,
but that sorrel of yours is weak in the fore-legs."

"My horse against yours," offered Burrows, "that Miss Tonia wears the
hat I take her to Cactus to-morrow."

"I'll take you up," shouted Pearson. "But oh, it's just like
horse-stealing for me! I can use that sorrel for a lady's animal
when--when somebody comes over to Mucho Calor, and--"

Burrows' dark face glowered so suddenly that the cowman broke off his
sentence. But Pearson could never feel any pressure for long.

"What's all this Easter business about, Burr?" he asked, cheerfully.
"Why do the women folks have to have new hats by the almanac or bust
all cinches trying to get 'em?"

"It's a seasonable statute out of the testaments," explained Burrows.
"It's ordered by the Pope or somebody. And it has something to do with
the Zodiac I don't know exactly, but I think it was invented by the
Egyptians."

"It's an all-right jubilee if the heathens did put their brand on it,"
said Pearson; "or else Tonia wouldn't have anything to do with it. And
they pull it off at church, too. Suppose there ain't but one hat in
the Lone Elm store, Burr!"

"Then," said Burrows, darkly, "the best man of us'll take it back to
the Espinosa."

"Oh, man!" cried Pearson, throwing his hat high and catching it again,
"there's nothing like you come off the sheep ranges before. You talk
good and collateral to the occasion. And if there's more than one?"

"Then," said Burrows, "we'll pick our choice and one of us'll get back
first with his and the other won't."

"There never was two souls," proclaimed Pearson to the stars, "that
beat more like one heart than yourn and mine. Me and you might be
riding on a unicorn and thinking out of the same piece of mind."

At a little past midnight the riders loped into Lone Elm. The half a
hundred houses of the big village were dark. On its only street the
big wooden store stood barred and shuttered.

In a few moments the horses were fastened and Pearson was pounding
cheerfully on the door of old Sutton, the storekeeper.

The