If she ain't, why, Sam can ride the bay back. But me an'
Pronto, the bay an' Grit are goin' thataway."

There were certain tones of Sandy's voice that gave absolute finality to
his statements. He used them on this occasion. The argument dropped. In
a way Sandy was making the matter a test of Molly. If she was as anxious
as she wrote to "fork a bronco," if she understood Sandy and he her, she
would feel that he would be waiting with her mount for her to return to
the ranch western fashion. If not, it meant that she was out of the
chrysalis and had become, not the busy bee that belongs to the mesquite
and the sage, but a gaudier, less responsible flutterer among eastern
flower-beds.

The bay with the white blaze had been groomed by Sandy until his hide
was glossy and rich as polished mahogany, while the blaze on his nose
shone like a plate of silver. His dark mane and tail had been braided
and combed until it crinkled proudly, the light shone from his curves
as he moved, reflecting the sky in the high-lights. Hoofs had been oiled
and Sandy had attended to his shoeing. The bay had been up for a month
and fed until he was almost pampered, save that Sandy took the excess
pepper out of him every morning.

A new saddle came from Cheyenne, most famous of all cities for making of
saddles that are tailor-made, the leather carved cunningly into
arabesques of cactus design, bossed and rimmed here and there with
silver, the pattern carried over into the tapideros that hooded the
stirrups, even into the bridle. It was a masterpiece of art craft, that
saddle, "made for a lady to ride astride," and it cost Sandy an even
quarter of a thousand dollars.

Sam and Mormon knew of the grooming of the horse but, when the saddle,
cinched above a Navajo blanket, smote their vision, they blinked and
complained. They too had gifts for the homecomer, but Sandy's outshone
them as a newly minted five-dollar gold piece does a silver coin.

"If that don't win her to stay west there ain't no use a-tryin',"
declared Sam as Sandy mounted and rode away, leading the bay. Grit,
newly washed also, sorely against his will, since he did not know the
occasion of the bath at the time of suffering it, went bounding on pads
of rubber, leaping up, tearing ahead and back, a shuttling streak of
gold and silver.

Miranda's caravan started an hour later, she driving, Mormon and Sam in
the back, each dressed in his best, minus chaparejos and spurs, but
otherwise