, good boy. We--we'll manage
somehow. I mum-must tell Mother."

Abruptly she swung away and left him. He watched her cross the garden
and enter the kitchen of the ranch-house. Then slowly, thoughtfully,
he set to work repairing as best he could the ravages left in the
garden by the hoofs of Lanpher's horse.

Came then Swing Tunstall on a paint pony and was moved to mirth at
sight of Racey Dawson engaged in earthy labour.

"See the pret-ty flowers," mouthed Swing Tunstall, after the fashion
of a child wrestling with the First Reader. "Does Racey like pret-ty
flow-ers? Yeth, he'th crathy ab-out them. Ain't he cute squattin'
there all same hoptoad and a-workin' away two-handed? Only he ain't
a-workin' now. He's stopped workin'. He's gettin' all red in the face.
He's mad at Swing who never done him no harm nohow. Whatsa matter,
Racey?" he added in his natural voice. "What bit you on the ear this
fine an' summer day?"

Racey looked over his shoulder toward the house. Then he got to his
feet and strode across the garden to where Swing Tunstall sat his
horse.

"Swing," said he, quietly, "are you busy just now?"

Swing, suspecting a catch somewhere, stared in swift suspicion.
"Why--uh--no," was his cautious reply.

"Then go off some'ers and die."

Without waiting for Swing's possible comment Racey turned his back on
his friend and walked unhurriedly to his horse Cuter. Swing slouched
sidewise in the saddle and watched him go.

He rolled a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled luxuriously. And all
without removing his gaze from Racey's back. He watched while Racey
flung the reins crosswise over Cuter's neck, mounted, and rode down
into the creek. When he saw that Racey, after allowing Cuter to drink
nearly all he wanted, rode on across the creek and up the farther
bank, Swing's brow became corrugated with a puzzled frown.

"He means business," muttered Swing. "I ain't seen that look on his
face for some time. I wonder what did happen this morning."

His eyes still fixed on the dwindling westward moving object that was
Racey Dawson and his horse, he smoked his cigarette to a butt. Then he
picked up his reins, found his stirrups, and rode away.

Racey Dawson, bound for the 88 ranch-house, did not smoke. He did not
feel like it. He did not feel like doing anything but facing Lanpher.
What he would be moved to do while facing Lanpher he was not sure.
Time enough to cross that bridge when the crucial moment should
arrive. He