g she was pale and
languid, but in a mental condition that promised composure.

It was considerably after her regular hour that Madeline repaired to her
office. The door was open, and just outside, tipped back in a chair, sat
Stillwell.

"Mawnin', Miss Majesty," he said, as he rose to greet her with his usual
courtesy. There were signs of trouble in his lined face. Madeline shrank
inwardly, fearing his old lamentations about Stewart. Then she saw a
dusty, ragged pony in the yard and a little burro drooping under a heavy
pack. Both animals bore evidence of long, arduous travel.

"To whom do they belong?" asked Madeline.

"Them critters? Why, Danny Mains," replied Stillwell, with a cough that
betrayed embarrassment.

"Danny Mains?" echoed Madeline, wonderingly.

"Wal, I said so."

Stillwell was indeed not himself.

"Is Danny Mains here?" she asked, in sudden curiosity.

The old cattleman nodded gloomily.

"Yep, he's hyar, all right. Sloped in from the hills, an' he hollered to
see Bonita. He's locoed, too, about that little black-eyed hussy. Why,
he hardly said, 'Howdy, Bill,' before he begun to ask wild an' eager
questions. I took him in to see Bonita. He's been there more 'n a
half-hour now."

Evidently Stillwell's sensitive feelings had been ruffled. Madeline's
curiosity changed to blank astonishment, which left her with a thrilling
premonition. She caught her breath. A thousand thoughts seemed thronging
for clear conception in her mind.

Rapid footsteps with an accompaniment of clinking spurs sounded in the
hallway. Then a young man ran out upon the porch. He resembled a cowboy
in his lithe build, his garb and action, in the way he wore his gun, but
his face, instead of being red, was clear brown tan. His eyes were blue;
his hair was light and curly. He was a handsome, frank-faced boy. At
sight of Madeline he slammed down his sombrero and, leaping at her, he
possessed himself of her hands. His swift violence not only alarmed her,
but painfully reminded her of something she wished to forget.

This cowboy bent his head and kissed her hands and wrung them, and when
he straightened up he was crying.

"Miss Hammond, she's safe an' almost well, an' what I feared most ain't
so, thank God," he cried. "Sure I'll never be able to pay you for all
you've done for her. She's told me how she was dragged down here, how
Gene tried to save her, how you spoke up for Gene an' her, too, how
Monty at the last throwed his