hesitated long.
Deliberately she untied the Yuma colt and swung into the saddle. Black
Boyar seemed to realize something unusual in her preference. He fretted
as the roan pony leaped sideways toward the gate.

Louise knew that Collie would follow her. She was riding his pony, the
Yuma colt, and he would be fearful for the rider's safety.

Collie, coming from the bunk-house, glanced up and saw Black Boyar
standing alone where his own pony had stood. This was not an invitation;
this was daring him to follow.

He rode into the canon, half conscious of Yuma's tracks ahead of him. He
rode past the tracks as they swerved toward a grassy level near the
stream.

"Collie!"

Louise stood beside the sweating Yuma, patting the pony's neck. Collie
raised his sombrero formally.

Louise was bareheaded. The clear morning sunlight enhanced her rich
coloring. Against the misty gray of the canon wall, her head in profile,
as she stood beside the horse, was as delicately beautiful as that
vision that imagination knows full well but may seldom realize.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Collie, don't! Say anything but that. You look awfully glum. Surely not
because I took Yuma."

"No. Only I was afraid for you."

"So you followed at break-neck speed to rescue the timorous, the
despairing, and-so-forth?"

"I can't joke like that this morning."

"Why? I'm here, safe enough. Had breakfast?"

"Yes. I wanted to see you about something, Louise."

"All right. But you are so unnaturally tall and severe and judicial
sitting there on Boyar. You look almost funereal. Please get down. Roll
a cigarette and act natural. I'm not going to scold you, sir."

"I wish you would."

"Why? What have you been doing that makes you look so ashamed of
yourself. Tell me!"

"I didn't know I was."

"You don't act naturally. Is there something about me that is different?
Is that it?"

"No. I wish you was different, sometimes."

"You do?"

"No," he said gently. "I don't wish you were different. I want to
remember you like you are."

"To _remember_ me?"

"Yes," he whispered, "to remember you."

He seemed to see regret, astonishment, questioning, gentle reproof, even
a hint of amusement in her eyes. But her expression changed instantly.
"I think you have something to remember me by; something you asked me
for once, long ago. I sent it to you. You have never spoken of
it--acknowledged it. I can't quite forgive that."

"Your glove. I know. I got it here." An