laid out by Sam, acting foreman for the month. Sandy
got up and went to the window, turning in mock dismay.

"Here comes that Bailey female," he announced. "Young Ed Bailey drivin'
the flivver. Sure stahted bright an' early. Wonder what she's nosin'
afteh now? Mormon--an' you, Sam," he added sharply, "you'll stick around
till she goes. Sabe? I don't aim to be talked to death an' then pickled
by her vinegar, like I was las' time she come oveh."

A tinny machine, in need of paint, short of oil, braked squeakingly as
a horn squawked and the auto halted by the porch steps. Young Ed Bailey
slung one leg over another disproportionate limb, glanced at the
windows, rolled a cigarette and lit it. His aunt, tall, gaunt, clad in
starched dress and starched sunbonnet, with a rigidity of spine and
feature that helped the fancy that these also had been starched,
descended, strode across the porch and entered the living-room, her
bright eyes darting all about, needling Molly, taking in every detail.

"Out lookin' fo' a stray," she announced. "Red-an'-white heifer we had
up to the house for milkin'. Got rambuncterous an' loped off. Had one
horn crumpled. Rawhide halter, ef she ain't got rid of it. You ain't
seen her, hev you?"

"No m'm, we ain't. No strange heifer round the Three Star that answers
that description." Sam winked at Molly, who was flushing under the
inspection of Miranda Bailey, maiden sister of the neighbor owner of the
Double-Dumbbell Ranch. He fancied the missing milker an excuse if not an
actual invention to furnish opportunity for a visit to the Three Star,
an inspection of Molly Casey and subsequent gossip. "You-all air up to
date," he said, "ridin' herd in a flivver."

"I see a piece in the paper the other day," she said, "about men playin'
a game with autos 'stead of hawsses--polo it was called--an' another
piece about cowboys cuttin' out an' ropin' from autos. Hawsses is
passin'. Science is replacin' of 'em."

"Reckon they'll last my time," drawled Sandy. "I hear they aim to roll
food up in pills an' do us cattlemen out of a livin'. But I ain't
worryin'. Me, I prefers steaks--somethin' I can set my teeth in. I
reckon there's mo' like me. Let me make you 'quainted with Miss Bailey,
Molly. This is Molly Casey, whose dad is dead. Molly, if you-all want to
skip out an' tend to them chickens, hop to it."

Molly caught the suggestion that was more than a hint and started for
the door. The woman checked her with