born, pleasant, cultivated--he was
all that made a gentleman of his class. If he had any vices she had
not heard of them. She knew he had no thirst for drink or craze for
gambling. He was considered a very desirable and eligible young man.
Madeline admitted all this.

Then she thought of things that were perhaps exclusively her own strange
ideas. Boyd Harvey's white skin did not tan even in this southwestern
sun and wind. His hands were whiter than her own, and as soft. They were
really beautiful, and she remembered what care he took of them. They
were a proof that he never worked. His frame was tall, graceful,
elegant. It did not bear evidence of ruggedness. He had never indulged
in a sport more strenuous than yachting. He hated effort and activity.
He rode horseback very little, disliked any but moderate motoring, spent
much time in Newport and Europe, never walked when he could help it, and
had no ambition unless it were to pass the days pleasantly. If he ever
had any sons they would be like him, only a generation more toward the
inevitable extinction of his race.

Madeline returned to camp in just the mood to make a sharp, deciding
contrast. It happened--fatefully, perhaps--that the first man she
saw was Stewart. He had just ridden into camp, and as she came up he
explained that he had gone down to the ranch for the important mail
about which she had expressed anxiety.

"Down and back in one day!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," he replied. "It wasn't so bad."

"But why did you not send one of the boys, and let him make the regular
two-day trip?"

"You were worried about your mail," he answered, briefly, as he
delivered it. Then he bent to examine the fetlocks of his weary horse.

It was midsummer now, Madeline reflected and exceedingly hot and dusty
on the lower trail. Stewart had ridden down the mountain and back again
in twelve hours. Probably no horse in the outfit, except his big black
or Majesty, could have stood that trip. And his horse showed the effects
of a grueling day. He was caked with dust and lame and weary.

Stewart looked as if he had spared the horse his weight on many a mile
of that rough ascent. His boots were evidence of it. His heavy flannel
shirt, wet through with perspiration, adhered closely to his shoulders
and arms, so that every ripple of muscle plainly showed. His face was
black, except round the temples and forehead, where it was bright red.
Drops of sweat, running off his blackened ha