well
as of admiration. She was skilled in reading the character of men on
horseback, and peculiarly sensitive to such an exhibition of grace and
power. Her hostler was transformed into something new and wholly
admirable, and she gladly took the trouble to watch for his return, as
she could not witness the roping and the skilful subduing of the
outlaws.

The picture he made as he tore along, swinging his rope, had displaced
that of the dirty, indifferent hostler, and Anita thereafter looked upon
him with respect, notwithstanding his presumptuous warning, which still
lay heavy in her ears.

She still resented his interference, but she resented it less now that
she knew him better. She began to wonder about him. Who was he? Why was
he the hostler? Naturally, being wise in certain ways of men, she
inferred that strong drink had "set him afoot"; but when she hesitantly
approached her husband on this point, his reply was brusque: "I don't
know anything about Kelley, and don't want to know. So long as he does
his work his family vault is safe."

Still desiring to be informed, she turned to her servants, with no
better results; they knew very little about Tall Ed, "but we like him,"
they were free to say.

This newly discovered mystery in the life of her hostler accomplished
what his warning had failed to do; it caused her to neglect her
correspondence with the major. His letter lay in a hollow willow-tree on
the river road unread for nearly a week. And when, one afternoon, she
finally rode by to claim it, her interest was strangely dulled. The
spice of the adventure was gone.

As she was about to deliver her pony to Kelley that night he handed her
an envelope, and, with penetrating glance, said: "I found this on the
river road to-day. I wouldn't write any more such--if I was you; it
ain't nice and it ain't safe."

It was her own letter, the one she had but just written and deposited in
the tree. She chilled and stiffened under the keen edge of Kelley's
contemptuous pity, then burned hot with illogical rage.

"What right--? You spied on me. It's a shame!"

"So it is!" he agreed, quietly; "but I don't want any killing
done--unless I do it myself."

"You are a thief," she accused.

"All right," he answered, dispassionately. "Spy--keeper--big
brother--dog--anything goes--only I don't intend to let you slide to
hell without a protest. You're nothing but a kid--a baby. You don't know
what you're going into. I'm an old