"Look at the men--_walking_!" cried Elsie.

"They're 'bull-whackers,'" nodded Genevieve, mischievously.

"Bull-whackers!"

"Yes, because their teams happen to be oxen; if they were mules, now,
they'd be 'mule-skinners.'"

"Is that what you are, then?" asked Elsie, with a demureness that
rivaled Tilly's best efforts. "You're driving mules, you know."

"Well, you better not call me that," laughed Genevieve. "See, they've
stopped to speak to Father. I reckon we'll have to stop, too."

"I 'reckon' we shall," mimicked Elsie, good-naturedly.

"They've got all their household goods and gods in those wagons," said
Genevieve, musingly. "I can see a tin coffeepot hanging straight over
one woman's head."

"I shouldn't think they had anything but children," laughed Alma, as
from every wagon there tumbled a scrambling, squirming mass of barefoot
legs, thin brown arms, and touseled hair above wide, questioning eyes.

Long minutes later, from the carriage, Cordelia Wilson followed with
dreamy eyes the slow-receding wagons, now again upon their way.

"I feel just like 'ships that pass in the night,'" she murmured.

"I don't. I feel just like supper," whispered Tilly. Then she laughed
at the frightened look Cordelia flung at Mr. Hartley.

On and on through the shimmering heat, under the cloudless sky, trailed
the carriage and the ranch wagons. Mr. Tim had long ago galloped out of
sight.

It was when they were within five miles of the ranch that Cordelia,
looking far ahead, saw against the horizon a rapidly growing black
speck. For some time she watched it in silence; then, suddenly, she
became aware that, large as was the speck now, it had broken into other
specks--bobbing, shifting specks that promptly became not specks at all,
but men on horseback.

Spasmodically she clutched Mr. Hartley's arm.

"What--are--those?" she questioned, with dry lips.

Mr. Hartley gave an indifferent glance ahead.

"Cowboys, I should say," he answered.

Cordelia caught her breath. At that moment a shot rang out, then
another, and another.

Mr. Hartley looked up now, sharply, a little angrily. The indifference
was quite gone from his face.

It was then that Genevieve's voice came clear and strong from the wagon
behind.

"It's the boys, Father--our boys!" she called. "I know it's the boys. I
told them I'd promised the girls a welcome, and they're giving it to
us!"

"By George! it is our boys," breathed Mr. Hartley. And the scowl