ith most of the cowboys, the car was never driven,
but ridden.

A white spot with a long trail of dust showed low down in the valley.
It was now headed almost straight for the ranch. Madeline watched
it growing larger moment by moment, and her pleasurable emotion grew
accordingly. Then the rapid beat of a horse's hoofs caused her to turn.

Stewart was riding in on his black horse. He had been absent on an
important mission, and his duty had taken him to the international
boundary-line. His presence home long before he was expected was
particularly gratifying to Madeline, for it meant that his mission had
been brought to a successful issue. Once more, for the hundredth time,
the man's reliability struck Madeline. He was a doer of things. The
black horse halted wearily without the usual pound of hoofs on the
gravel, and the dusty rider dismounted wearily. Both horse and rider
showed the heat and dust and wind of many miles.

Madeline advanced to the porch steps. And Stewart, after taking a parcel
of papers from a saddle-bag, turned toward her.

"Stewart, you are the best of couriers," she said. "I am pleased."

Dust streamed from his sombrero as he doffed it. His dark face seemed to
rise as he straightened weary shoulders.

"Here are the reports, Miss Hammond," he replied.

As he looked up to see her standing there, dressed to receive her
Eastern guests, he checked his advance with a violent action which
recalled to Madeline the one he had made on the night she had met him,
when she disclosed her identity. It was not fear nor embarrassment nor
awkwardness. And it was only momentary. Yet, slight as had been his
pause, Madeline received from it an impression of some strong halting
force. A man struck by a bullet might have had an instant jerk of
muscular control such as convulsed Stewart. In that instant, as her keen
gaze searched his dust-caked face, she met the full, free look of
his eyes. Her own did not fall, though she felt a warmth steal to her
cheeks. Madeline very seldom blushed. And now, conscious of her sudden
color a genuine blush flamed on her face. It was irritating because it
was incomprehensible. She received the papers from Stewart and thanked
him. He bowed, then led the black down the path toward the corrals.

"When Stewart looks like that he's been riding," said Florence. "But
when his horse looks like that he's sure been burning the wind."

Madeline watched the weary horse and rider limp down the