y
times. He studied it now, after the passage of the buckboard, and was
supremely pleased, for the likeness did not flatter her.

Displeasure came into his eyes, though, when he thought of the driver. He
was strangely disturbed over the thought that the driver had accompanied
her from the East. He knew the driver was an Easterner, for no Westerner
would ever rig himself out in such an absurd fashion--the cream-colored
Stetson with the high pointed crown, extra wide brim with nickel spangles
around the band, a white shirt with a broad turndown collar and a flowing
colored tie--blue; a cartridge belt that fitted snugly around his waist,
yellow with newness, so that the man on the mesa almost imagined he could
hear it creak when its owner moved; corduroy riding-breeches, tight at
the knees, and glistening boots with stiff tops. And--here the observer's
eyes gleamed with derision--as the buckboard passed, he had caught a
glimpse of a nickeled spur, with long rowels, on one of the ridiculous
boots.

He chuckled, his face wreathing in smiles as he urged the pony along the
edge of the mesa, following the buckboard. He drew up presently at a
point just above the buckboard, keeping discreetly behind some brush that
he might not be seen, and gravely considered the vehicle and its
occupants. The buckboard had stopped at the edge of the water, and the
blacks were drinking. The girl was talking; the watcher heard her voice
distinctly.

"What a rough, grim country!" she said. "It is beautiful, though."

"She's a knowin' girl," mused the rider, strangely pleased that she
should like the world he lived in. For it was his world; he had been born
here.

"Don't you think so, Willard?" added the girl.

The rider strained his ears for the answer. It came, grumblingly:

"I suppose it's well enough--for the clodhoppers that live here."

The girl laughed tolerantly; the rider on the mesa smiled. "I reckon I
ain't goin' to like Willard a heap, Patches," he said to the pony; "he's
runnin' down our country." He considered the girl and the driver gravely,
and again spoke to the pony. "Do you reckon he's her brother, Patches? I
expect it ain't possible--they're so different."

"Do you think it is quite safe?" The girl's voice reached him again; she
was looking at the water of the crossing.

"Vickers said it was," the driver replied. "He ought to know." His tone
was irritable.

"He's her brother, I reckon," reflected the man on the mesa