a strange story if I would. But you don't need to be scared. That's
one thing I never do--I never squeal on a friend."

She was burning with his insults, and if she had had a gun at hand she
undoubtedly would have made good her threat. But she had none. Drazk
very deliberately turned his horse and rode away toward the meadows.

"Oh, won't I fix him!" she said, as she continued her toilet in a fury.
She had not the faintest idea what revenge she would take, but she
promised herself that it would leave nothing to be desired. Then,
because she was young and healthy and an optimist, and did not know
what it meant to be afraid, she dismissed the incident from her mind to
consider the more urgent matter of breakfast.

Tompkins, the cook, had not needed Transley's suggestion to put his
best foot forward when catering to Y.D. and his daughter. Tompkins' soul
yearned for a cooking berth that could be occupied the year round.
Work in the railway camps had always left him high and dry at the
freeze-up--dry, particularly, and a few nights in Calgary or Edmonton
saw the end of his season's earnings. Then came a precarious existence
for Tompkins until the scrapers were back on the dump the following
spring. A steady job, cooking on a ranch like the Y.D.; if Tompkins had
written the Apocalypse that would have been his picture of heaven. So he
had left nothing undone, even to despatching a courier over night to a
railway station thirty miles away for fresh fruit and other delicacies.
Another of the gang had been impressed into a trip up the river to a
squatter who was suspected of keeping one or two milch cows and sundry
hens.

"This way, Ma'am," Tompkins was waving as Zen emerged from the grove.
"Another of our usual mornings. Hope you slep' well, Ma'am." He stood
deferentially aside while she ascended the three steps that led into the
covered wagon.

Zen gave a little shriek of delight, and Tompkins felt that all his
efforts had been well repaid. One end of the table--it was with a
sore heart Tompkins had realized that he could not cut down the big
table--one end of the table was set with a clean linen cloth and granite
dishware scoured until it shone. Beside Zen's plate were grape fruit and
sliced oranges and real cream.

"However did you manage it?" she gasped.

"Nothing's too good for Y.D.'s daughter," was the only explanation
Tompkins would offer, but, as Zen afterwards said, the smile on his face
was as good as another b