Carolyn June colored the least bit, paused a moment before she replied, then said rather stiffly:

"He—yes, he is probably having more fun watching us being 'officially' made love to than any other one of the entire bunch. The Ramblin' Kid will have to take his medicine along with the rest! Every man-thing on the Quarter Circle KT—eliminating Sing Pete from that classification —is my meat!"

"When does the slaughter begin?" Ophelia laughed.

"Right now!" Carolyn June answered. "War is declared—"

She stopped suddenly as a step sounded on the porch and a moment later Skinny entered the room. He was painfully "dressed up." The instant Old Heck and Parker, in the Clagstone "Six," started for Eagle Butte and the cowboys disappeared down the lane in the direction of the big pasture, Skinny struggled into the white shirt. He planned to try its effect on Carolyn June while the others were away. If it did not produce results he would slip back to the bunk-house before they returned and change again to his normal dress.

When Skinny stepped into the room he was fully conscious of his unusual appearance. The morning was warm and he had not put on a coat. The shirt billowed over his shoulders, arms and chest in a snowy cloud. It seemed impossible to Skinny that anything in all the world could be so vividly, persistently white as the cloth that literally enveloped the upper half of his body. It actually gleamed. The sleeves of the shirt were too long. A pair of sky-blue, rosette-fastened, satin ribbon sleeve-holders above his elbows kept the cuffs from slipping over his hands. Parker had been unable to get the purple necktie and had brought, instead, one that was a solid Shamrock green. Skinny swore when he saw the tie, but decided to wear it anyhow. Parker had explained by saying he had forgotten the errand until he was starting from town and then stepped into Old Leon's—a cheap general store in Eagle Butte—and purchased the outfit from the Jew. That accounted also for the surplus length of sleeve—the shirt was a size and a half larger than Skinny had ordered and for which Parker declared positively he had asked. Eternal hatred for all Hebrews was born in Skinny's heart the moment he saw the layout. But, well, it was there; he was anxious to see if a white shirt would have any effect, and he would wear it anyway.

Skinny knew instantly that he made an impression on Carolyn June.

She looked at him once and was speechless!

"By gosh," he said to himself, "Chuck was right! It sure does beat hell how clothes affect a woman!"

Carolyn June, unquestionably, was overcome. The surprise had been too much for her. He had knocked her cold! The shirt had done the work! She bit nervously at the nail of her thumb, pressed desperately against her teeth. Her whole body trembled. Her face flamed scarlet. Skinny saw her agitation and resolved at that moment that he would never again be without a white shirt!

Ophelia also was visibly affected. The widow gave one look at Skinny, glanced quickly at Carolyn June, then, with her hands clasped tightly against her breast, she leaned weakly against the table and chewed at her underlip. She started to speak and stopped.

"Well, I—I—got back!" Skinny said, breaking the spell while he grinned somewhat sheepishly and yet with an air of complete satisfaction.

"I—I—see you—did!" Carolyn June choked hysterically.

"I was gone longer than I aimed to be," Skinny continued, rapidly gaining confidence as he saw the confusion of the women; "after I got the chores done I concluded to fix up a little. This is the first time I ever wore this shirt," he went on, feeling that a bit of explanation was entirely proper and would probably help in restoring the composure of Carolyn June and the widow. "Parker just brought it out yesterday and it was a good deal of trouble to make the collar work right. It seemed like it was pretty stiff or something. Generally speaking the whole outfit's bigger than it really ought to be, but maybe it'll shrink up some when it's washed," he finished in a casual matter-of-fact way.

"It—it—is wonderful!" Carolyn June stammered, "it is—I don't think I ever saw one that was—was—whiter—"

"It looked that way to me," Skinny interrupted as if glad some one else had noticed a peculiarity of the garment that already had troubled him somewhat, "I thought it was uncommonly white!"

"Perhaps it just seems that way because we are not used to it," Ophelia suggested sympathetically.

"That's it!" Carolyn June exclaimed feverishly, "it is because we are not used to it—it will be perfectly all right when we have looked at it a little more!"

Skinny decided he would risk the gauntlet of comment from Parker, Old Heck and the cowboys and wear the shirt the rest of the day.

Carolyn June was really sorry for Skinny, but—she needed air—she felt she must have it.

"Please," she cried suddenly and with, an effort, "excuse me! I—I—have something I wish to do! You," speaking to Skinny, "and Ophelia stay here and visit each other a while!"

Without waiting for an answer she stepped quickly into the kitchen, asked Sing Pete for a handful of sugar and hurried out to the circular corral.

"Oh, Skinny, Skinny, you are so funny," she laughed aloud as she went through the back-yard gate. "It breaks my heart to break your heart—but you are one of the 'fixers' and you've got to be 'fixed.'"

The Gold Dust maverick at first was shy when Carolyn June opened the gate and entered the corral. After a few moments she recognized the girl and was soon eating the sugar from the hand of Carolyn June. Before the supply was exhausted the friendship and confidence of the two, begun yesterday, was firmly reestablished. The maverick allowed Carolyn June to swing her weight from the glossy withers, to clasp her arms tightly about the trim, clean-built neck, and when, after an hour, the girl started toward the house, the outlaw mare protested so eagerly against being left alone that she turned back to the corral and leaning against the fence stroked the soft muzzle thrust between the bars.

Carolyn June was cooing endearing terms to the filly and playing with the quivering underlip when she heard a horse galloping swiftly up the lane and past the barn. Instinctively she stepped back and turned just as the Ramblin' Kid, riding Captain Jack, wheeled around the end of the shed near the corral.

His sudden appearance surprised her. She had thought he was with the cowboys over at the upland pasture helping skin the steers killed by the lightning.

When they left the ranch the Ramblin' Kid had ridden away with Charley and the others, but not with any intention of going to the big pasture. Where the road turned toward the lower ford he held Captain Jack to the left.

"Ain't you going with us," Charley Saunders asked, "and help skin them steers?"

"No," the Ramblin' Kid replied quietly. "I ain't. I've got something else to do. Anyhow, I ain't a butcher—I work with live cattle, not dead ones!" he concluded as Captain Jack continued in the direction of the upper crossing.

"He's the independentest darn' cuss I ever saw!" Charley remarked to his companions as the Ramblin' Kid disappeared. "It's a wonder Old Heck don't fire him."

"He can't," Bert laughed. "Th' Ramblin' Kid don't stay at the Quarter Circle KT by the grace of Old Heck, but by the choice of th' Ramblin' Kid! Anyhow, he's too good with horses—" His voice trailed away to a low mutter as they turned in among the willows and cottonwood trees along the bank of the Cimarron.

At the upper crossing on almost the same spot where he had lifted Carolyn June from the quicksand to the solid ground of the meadow land, the Ramblin' Kid stopped Captain Jack. He looked out over the placid, unbroken surface of the sand-bar and saw the end of the broken rope coiled loosely where Old Blue had been drawn under. A few yards away the white felt hat Carolyn June had tossed to one side, to be a mute and pathetic messenger of her fate, when she thought death was certain, still rested on the smooth surface of the sand. It was to get the hat the Ramblin' Kid had come again to the scene of yesterday's tragedy. He had seen it lying there when Carolyn June and he rode away on Captain Jack and thought then of trying to get it, but the part of the broken rope attached to his saddle was too short to reach it and it was impossible to secure it in any other way. Chuck had returned the Ramblin' Kid's rope to him yesterday when they were after the runaway steers and it was now on his saddle. He lightly tossed the noose so that it fell circling the object he sought. Gently flicking the rope toward him he tightened the loop about the crown of the hat and drew it to the edge of the quicksand. He picked up the hat, looked curiously at it, remounted Captain Jack, paused a moment and gazed at the treacherous surface beneath which the body of Old Blue was hidden and with a savagely muttered something about "th' damned stuff!" whirled the little stallion and rode rapidly in the direction from which he came.

As Captain Jack galloped along the lane the Ramblin' Kid looked at the hat curiously, turning it first one way and then the other. With a laugh he reached into his pocket and drew out the pink satin garter. An expression of tenderness, followed by a look of deep humility that quickly changed into savage anger, came into his eyes as he looked first at the hat, soiled and dirty, and then at the dainty bit of elastic he held in his hand.

"A swell pair of souvenirs," he said bitterly, "for an 'ign'rant, savage, stupid brute' of a cow-puncher to be packin' around!"

Before reaching the barn the Ramblin' Kid dropped the garter again into his pocket. Rounding the end of the shed he rode Captain Jack directly up to Carolyn June. Dismounting, he left the little roan standing, not troubling to drop the reins over the broncho's head, stepped toward the girl and extended the hat, saying simply and without emotion.

"Here's your hat!"

There was no embarrassment now or humility in his eyes as he looked steadily at Carolyn June. His expression was as cold as if the one to whom he spoke was an utter stranger.

"I—" Carolyn June hesitated, "oh, I thank you! It was kind of you to think about it and ride back—back—there," she involuntarily shuddered when she thought of the upper crossing, "and get it!"

The simple, unexpected thoughtfulness of the deed touched her. It was the natural, instinctive act of a gentleman. She had forgotten the hat. He had not. As she looked at him she felt that, someway, she might have known such a thing was exactly what he would do.

"You're welcome," he said quietly, starting to turn away.

A spirit of mischief suddenly flared up in her heart. She thought of the pink elastic she had lost and which she believed he was carrying now in his pocket.

"Is the hat all—didn't you—" she intended to say "find something else?" but quickly stopped. The Ramblin' Kid paused and turned again toward Carolyn June. She hesitated in confusion. It had flashed to her mind that if he had the garter he would not lie about it. He would say as much and offer to return it to her. Someway, she did not wish that—she wanted him to keep it, but she did not want him to know that she wanted her garter to be carried by him!

His black eyes looked keenly at her, as if they would force from her lips the thing she evidently dared not say.

"I—I was just getting acquainted with the Gold Dust maverick!" Carolyn June finished lamely with a nervous laugh.

"You want to be careful," the Ramblin' Kid said with the slightest curl of his lips at her obvious shifting of meanings, "she ain't exactly a 'lady's animal' yet. She'll fight. Skinny started to go in th' corral this morning an' had to back up. Th' maverick went at him to kill. She's goin' to be a 'one-man' horse th' same as Captain Jack."

"Perhaps it was because she was afraid of him," Carolyn June suggested.

"Maybe it was because Skinny was afraid of her," the Ramblin' Kid chuckled.

"Aren't you going to ride the filly in that race at Eagle Butte?" she asked suddenly with a hint of coquetry in her eyes and voice.

"Why?" he shot back at her, observing the changed inflection and look.

"I—I—would like you to," Carolyn June murmured demurely as she followed up the feminine method of mastering a man, "it would be fun to see her run!"

"Is that all?" the Ramblin' Kid asked gently and with a peculiar emphasis.

"Isn't that enough?" the girl countered in a tone bordering close to the tender.

The answer was slow in coming.

"Th' Gold Dust maverick will be in th' sweepstakes," the Ramblin' Kid finally said, a note of contempt in his voice. "I'll ride her"—as he jerked the saddle from Captain Jack, turned the stallion into the corral, then started toward the bunk-house, while Carolyn June moved away in the direction of the back-yard gate—"I'll ride her," he repeated, emphasizing strongly the last ten words, "to beat that Thunderbolt horse from over on th' Vermejo".



CHAPTER XI

A DANCE AND A RIDE

Old Heck and Parker returned from Eagle Butte before noon. Parker climbed silently from the Clagstone "Six" and lifting out a new saddle went toward the stable. Old Heck carried another—a beautiful thing, artistically scrolled, the horn and stirrups silver trimmed—and laid it on the front porch as Carolyn June, Ophelia and Skinny stepped out of the big room.

"It's yours," he said to Carolyn June.

"Oh, you darling old uncle!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck and giving a tight squeeze while she kissed him full on the mouth.

He reddened. "I ain't so darned old!" he laughed as he withdrew from her embrace and, glancing up, caught sight of Skinny in the immaculate shirt. "My Gawd!" he whispered under his breath.

Parker immediately saddled a horse and rode away to join the cowboys at their work. Lunches for the party had been taken with them when they left the ranch in the morning. During the trip to Eagle Butte Old Heck and his foreman had talked but little. There was a feeling of restraint between Parker and him that made each hesitate to start a conversation that would be almost certain to work around to a discussion of Ophelia—a subject uppermost in the minds of both.

At noon the Ramblin' Kid came to the house for dinner.

He and Skinny occupied their usual places. He looked once at Skinny's shirt, murmured softly and in a tone of infinite disgust and pity, "Hell!" then ate his food in silence. During the meal Carolyn June ignored him, but smiled tenderly and often at Skinny. Old Heck and the widow, at the far end of the table, carried on a low-voiced dialogue.

During the afternoon the Ramblin' Kid remained away from the house. A couple of times, glancing out of the window, Carolyn June saw him at the circular corral petting and caressing Captain Jack or the Gold Dust maverick.

When Sing Pete hammered the iron triangle announcing supper Parker and the cowboys had returned, the hides from the dead steers had been unloaded and the men were ready for the meal.

As Carolyn June and Ophelia went into the kitchen they exchanged a look of understanding. Skinny lagged behind Old Heck. He dreaded the shock of the white shirt on the other cowboys. When he stepped into the room his face flamed scarlet and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He expected merciless, sarcastic chiding—thinly veiled but cruel. He was disappointed. The cowboys looked at him for a moment, exchanged winks, then sat silently and solemnly down to the table. The presence of the women had saved, for the time being, the suffering Skinny.

Carolyn June distributed tender words and velvety looks impartially among the younger cowboys, while Ophelia alternated sweet nothings between Parker and Old Heck, with an occasional sidelong glance at Charley that brought a heightened color to his sun-browned cheeks.

Chuck sighed dolefully.

"Why so sad?" Carolyn June asked gently, looking with melting sympathy at the pensive cowboy.

"I—I—was just thinking of a—a—funeral I saw once!" he answered, gazing steadily and with pretended awe at Skinny's white shirt. "Some colors always remind me of funerals or—or—weddings!" he explained.

A suppressed snicker circled the table.

"Don't be down-hearted," Carolyn June laughed, "it may not go that far.

"Uncle Josiah," she added suddenly, "Ophelia and I have a wonderful surprise for you and the boys."

Old Heck looked at her without replying while he awaited an explanation.

"We are going to give a dance!" Carolyn June went on.

"A dance?" he repeated incredulously, "when—"

"To-night—in the front room," she hastened to explain, "not a big dance—just a little one for you and the boys. The graphophone will furnish music, there are some good one-step and waltz records—Skinny and I were playing them this afternoon—and every blessed cowboy on the Quarter Circle KT must be there!"

A short silence followed her words, then a chorus of "We'll be there!" greeted her.

"In an hour," Carolyn June said, smiling sweetly at the cowboys, as they left the kitchen, "everybody be back at the house. We'll fix the room and have it ready—don't any one bother to 'dress up,'" she added as an afterthought.

"Old Heck's niece acts kind of stampedish, don't she?" Bert remarked as Parker and the cowboys filed out of the back-yard gate toward the bunk-house.

"Yes," Charley answered. "I'm going to shave."

"So am I," said Chuck, as they hurried in the direction of their sleeping quarters.

"Me, too," laughed Bert. "Gee, didn't Skinny shine in that shirt?" as they disappeared inside the building and there was a rush to hunt out razors, brushes and other toilet necessities or clean handkerchiefs and ties.

The Ramblin' Kid alone seemed uninterested. He dropped down on his bed and idly watched the others prepare for the evening's diversion.

"Ain't you going?" Chuck asked him, noticing his indifference.

A short, half-cynical laugh with "Oh, maybe I'll go set on the porch an' listen to th' music!" was the answer.

When Parker and the cowboys reappeared at the house it was plain that all had disobeyed Carolyn June's injunction not to "dress up." Each had paid tribute in some way, by a smooth-scraped face, a dean shirt, a tie or something, to the vanity of his own heart and the desire for the good opinion of either Carolyn June or the widow.

Both women noticed it. They exchanged glances while Carolyn June softly whispered to Ophelia: "Stir them up—it's coming to them!"

The widow smiled understandingly.

Old Heck fidgeted uncomfortably. The situation was entirely beyond his control. By right he and Ophelia ought to be sitting there quietly making love, while Skinny and Carolyn June, in another corner of the room or out on the porch, were doing the same thing. He would just have to await developments.

Parker was elated. Carolyn June's proposal had broken up Old Heck's evening alone with the widow. Perhaps—the thought thrilled the foreman —Ophelia herself had planned it!

"Skinny can keep the graphophone working," Carolyn June laughed. "Put on a one-step first," she said as he rather grudgingly went to the corner and started the music. "Come on, Bert, we'll dance this one," she cried merrily, as she stepped up to the blushing cowboy and put her hand, with a tender little pressure, on his arm. "It's 'ladies' night,' you know—Ophelia, pick your pardner!"

"Aw—don't you reckon you ought to choose one of the others first?" Bert, considerably embarrassed by the sudden attention, mumbled as he moved with pretended reluctance but secret eagerness out on to the floor.

"I know who I want to dance with!" Carolyn June whispered significantly with another squeeze of his arm while her warm breath fanned his cheek.

For a moment Ophelia stood as if undecided while Old Heck and Parker each tried by their looks to register unconcern, their hearts meanwhile leaping with uncertain expectancy and hope. Suddenly turning from both and going up to Charley, she said softly and with well-feigned shyness:

"I—I—please, won't you dance this one with me?"

"With the most exceeding pleasure!" Charley replied gallantly, arising and reaching out his hands.

Parker and Old Heck gulped their astonishment and disappointment—each swallowing as if he had something in his throat that would not go down—and glared savagely at each other.

Skinny next put on a waltz record. Carolyn June and Chuck swung through its dreamy rhythm while her hair brushed the cowboy's neck and her eyes, half closed, looked alluringly into his. "I—I—could do this forever—with you!" she breathed, accenting the last word and making Chuck want to yell for joy.

At the beginning of the waltz Ophelia paused a moment before Old Heck, glanced demurely at Parker, took a step toward the latter, turned quickly to the first and flooding him with a look of tenderness held out her hands while she spoke the simple entreaty:

"Please!"

Old Heck leaped to his feet, hitched nervously at the belt of his trousers, ran his fingers around the inside of his collar, and, with a look of triumph at Parker, led the widow through the dance. She permitted her body to relax and lean against her partner, dancing with an abandon that not only fired the emotions of Old Heck to fever heat, but was as well like dippers of oil on the flame of the foreman's jealousy.

Parker gritted his teeth and followed Old Heck with a look that meant nothing less than the desire to kill!

As Ophelia and Old Heck, and Carolyn June with Chuck circled the room Skinny leaned weakly against the graphophone. He was tortured agonizingly by the strange action of Carolyn June. He was her lover, her official, absolute lover! Why did she want to go and get things all mixed up like this? It wasn't fair. The other boys were not supposed to make love to her! They had elected him to do it and he was getting along all right till she thought of having this blamed fool dance. He began to doubt the efficacy of the white shirt and frequently drew one of the loose, baggy sleeves—rapidly losing their snowy spotlessness—across his face to rid himself of beads of perspiration.

The waltz was followed by another one-step and Ophelia granted this favor to Parker while Old Heck sat and swore steadily under his breath—regretful that he had not sent the foreman and the cowboys out on the beef hunt a week ago!

Outside, the Ramblin' Kid half-reclined on the edge of the porch. With a cigarette between his teeth, a sneering smile on his lips, he watched, through the open door, the group within. He was convinced now that Carolyn June was utterly frivolous. She danced and flirted with Bert, Chuck, Charley—and even Pedro—one after the other and occasionally Parker. Poor Skinny alone was neglected. She seemed to have forgotten that he existed save when, from time to time, she suggested that he put this or that record on the graphophone. To each of the cowboys she whispered tender little sentiments, gave soulful looks and insinuating smiles—all but caressed them openly. Ophelia did like things to Old Heck, Parker and Charley.

In very truth it was a "slaughter."

It was hot. After an hour Carolyn June stepped out on the porch for a breath of air while Skinny sought in the cabinet for a record she had asked him to play. The Ramblin' Kid straightened up as she came out of the door. He was disgusted, angry, heart-sickened. He had seen enough and was starting to leave.

Carolyn June had noticed the absence of the Ramblin' Kid. She had believed, all evening, he was on the porch and that was the real reason she had come outside. She saw him. "Oh, is—is—that you, Ramblin' Kid?" she exclaimed as if surprised, and went quickly to where, at the sound of her voice, he had paused.

He did not answer. The light shone full on his face and he knew that she knew—and had known before she spoke—that he was there. His eyes were filled with a look queerly blending scorn, loathing, pity and pain.

"Why—why—don't you come in and dance?" she asked lightly, not certain of his mood.

"I don't want to," he replied coldly: "anyhow—" he added with a sneer and a brutal laugh as he slowly moved away in the darkness, "when I decide to hug I'll hug in private!"

Carolyn June started almost as though he had struck her. The taunt was an insult! A flood of anger swept over her. "The brute!" she whispered passionately and with utter contempt in her voice. She stood a moment. Suddenly she remembered the reckless abandon with which she had been dancing and flirting with the cowboys inside the house. Her face flamed scarlet. She looked out into the blackness toward the circular corral. Her expression changed and a pitying smile crossed her lips: "Poor Ramblin' Kid—he just—does not understand!" she murmured and stepped back into the house.

As the Ramblin' Kid passed through the back-yard gate he muttered savagely under his breath: "Playin' with their hearts like marbles—th' damned fools!" He paused a moment and added, as though tired, "Oh, well, I reckon she thinks she has to do it—it's her breed—she was raised that way I guess!"

The snuffling sound of a horse blowing hay-powder or other dust from its nostrils came from the direction of the circular corral. The Ramblin' Kid stopped in his walk and turning went thoughtfully through the darkness toward where Captain Jack and the Gold Dust maverick were quietly feeding. He leaned against the bars of the corral and looked at the shadowy forms of the two horses standing a little distance away. Captain Jack quit eating and came to the fence.

"God! Little Horse"—the Ramblin' Kid spoke tensely and without repression—"why can't humans be as decent an' honest as you?"

The black dome of night was studded with innumerable stars that gleamed like points of silver sprinkled over a canopy of somber velvet some infinite hand had flung, in a great arch, from rim to rim of a sleeping world. The call of a night bird shrilled softly from the cottonwood trees along the Cimarron. A hint of a breeze swung idly from the west and rustled the leaves in the tops of the poplars in front of the house. Faintly as a distant echo came the wailing strains of a waltz, drifting out from the lighted windows and the open door of the room where Carolyn June and Ophelia, in a spirit of sport and for revenge, juggled the hearts of men afraid of nothing in all the world but the look in a Woman's eyes.

The music tortured the soul of the Ramblin' Kid. It breathed the unfathomable strife of life—of love, longing, hope, despair—almost, yet subtly, elusively, would not tell the eternal "Why?" of all things.

Not heeding time, he stood and listened. The crunching sound made by the Gold Dust maverick, munching at the pile of hay on the ground in the corral, blended with and seemed a queer accompaniment to the melody that came from the scene of revelry up at the house.

The orange disk of a late-rising moon showed above the rim of the sand-hills at the lower end of the valley. The Ramblin' Kid watched it—until it grew into a rounded plate of burnished, glistening silver. The Gold Dust maverick was suddenly flooded with a glare of light as the moonbeams poured over the top of the shed and streamed through the bars of the circular corral. The filly lifted her head.

An impulse to ride—ride—ride, to get away from it all—far out on the wide unpeopled plains where there was nothing above but God, and the unmeasured depths of His heavens, and nothing beneath but the earth and the rhythmic beat of his horse's feet, came over the Ramblin' Kid. Men, and the works of men—their passions, their strifes, their foolishness—and women—women who played with love—he wanted to forget, to leave miles and miles behind.

He started to open the gate, thinking to saddle Captain Jack and obey the impulse of the moment. Carolyn June's words, spoken of the Gold Dust maverick: "It would be fun to see her run!" and uttered lightly and in a spirit of coquetry that morning when she teased him to enter the outlaw filly in the race against the Thunderbolt horse from the Vermejo, came to his mind. The selfishness of the plea maddened him. She cared nothing for the price in effort—the straining muscles, the panting breath—the agony the beautiful mare must pay to defeat the black wonder from the other part of the range. She wanted only to see the maverick run—to coax him to yield and run the filly merely to please the cheap vanity of her sex! No doubt also she counted on entertainment when, to-morrow, he would ride the outlaw for the first time. It would be a kind of show—the battle for mastery between himself and the high-bred untamed mare. The whole bunch—Old Heck, Parker, Ophelia, Carolyn June, the cowboys—yes, even that damned Chink—unquestionably would be crowded about the corral to watch the fear and pain of the maverick as she learned her first hard lesson of servitude to man! They would laugh at her frenzied efforts to throw him.

He would fool them. He would ride the filly to-night!

He went to the shed, slipped his legs into the worn leather chaps, took saddle, bridle, blanket and rope and returned to the corral.

Stepping inside he closed the gate behind him.

Captain Jack came to him and nosed at his shoulder.

"No, Little Man," the Ramblin' Kid said gently, "this ain't your turn. You can go with us though, if you want to!" he laughed.

The Gold Dust maverick stood, half-afraid, at the other side of the corral. She had not yet wholly conquered her dread of him. She did not, however, offer to fight as she had done that morning when Skinny entered the enclosure.

The Ramblin' Kid spoke to the filly and, as she began to move shyly away, with one toss threw the loop over her head. The instant the mare felt the rope she stopped and stood trembling a moment, then came straight up to him. She was "rope-wise." The experience at the North Springs the night he caught her, and when she had, three separate times, been cruelly thrown by this same rope; had taught the Gold Dust maverick the power that lay in those pliant strands.

She flinched from the touch of the blanket. The Ramblin' Kid worked easily, carefully, but in absolute confidence, with her. As he cautiously saddled the mare he talked in a low, drawling monotone, uttering endearing phrases and occasionally slipping a lump of sugar—a supply of which he had got that night from the kitchen—into her mouth. She ate it ravenously.

"Darn, Little One," he laughed, "you sure have got a sweet tooth—you gobble that sugar like an Indian squaw eatin' choc'late candy!"

At last the mare was saddled. Still holding to the rope, the Ramblin' Kid, without trying to get the filly to follow, moved over and opened the gate, giving it a push and swinging it wide. During the performance the Gold Dust maverick stood perfectly still, save for a constant chewing at the iron bit between her teeth.

The Ramblin' Kid went quietly up to her, coiling the slack of the rope as he advanced. Without bothering to tighten the reins, but watching closely the look in the maverick's big brown eyes and the nervous twitching of her ears, he laid one hand on the withers of the outlaw, with the other he grasped the horn of the saddle and slipping his foot in the stirrup swung quickly and lightly on to her back.

For the space of a deep breath the maverick crouched, grew tense in every muscle, slowly arched her back, gathered herself together for a great effort.

A quiet smile curled the lips of the Ramblin' Kid as he looked down on the curving neck of the beautiful creature.

With a tremendous leap the Gold Dust maverick sprang high into the air, lunging forward while all her hoofs were off the ground. Her forefeet came down across the back of Captain Jack—she had all but cleared the little roan. The shock almost threw the stallion to the ground. As he surged from under her the filly slid and sprawled on her shoulder and side. Instantly she was on her feet, the Ramblin' Kid still in the saddle. His spurs had not touched the mare—instead he had been careful not to let their steel points so much as ruffle the golden-chestnut hair of her belly or flank. Only when the outlaw fell had he thrown forward his right leg and hooked the sharp rowels into the strong fiber of the forward cinch. With the left hand he loosely held the reins, giving the maverick her head—the other hand he brushed with a caressing upward movement along her glossy neck.

Twice the Gold Dust maverick circled the corral, plunging, bucking "side-winding," desperately—her nose between her knees, squealing pitifully—as she tried vainly to rid herself of the weight of the Ramblin' Kid.

"Go to it, Baby Girl, go to it!" he chuckled; "you've got to learn! Sooner or later you'll find out it can't be done!" He rode limply, loosely, low in the saddle, and while he made no effort to urge the filly into greater frenzy he did not try in any way to prevent her bucking her hardest in, the futile attempts to hurl him off her back.

The second time the outlaw mare came to the gate she whirled and dashed through the opening, out of the corral, across the open space, past the corner of the front-yard fence and along the road that led up to the bench and toward Eagle Butte. Captain Jack trotted around the corral once, then followed at a long, swinging gallop.

The noise of the filly bucking inside the corral reached the ears of the dancers in the big room at the house.

"What in thunderation's that commotion?" Old Heck exclaimed, starting up—he and Ophelia had just finished a two-step and Skinny was winding the graphophone to play his favorite, the alluring La Paloma.

There was an instant's pause, then a rush for the door.

Carolyn June reached the porch just in time to see the Gold Dust maverick "hitting the breeze"—careering madly, wildly pitching as she ran past the opening in front of the house and up the road out on the bench. It was almost as though a phantom horse and rider had passed before her sight.

"Lord! Look at them go!" Charley cried admiringly.

At first the girl had not recognized the outlaw mare or her rider.

"Who—what—is it?" she asked Chuck, who was standing beside her.

Bert answered for Chuck. "It's that darn-fool Ramblin' Kid—he's riding the Gold Dust maverick!" he said. "Ain't that just like the blamed idiot—to go and ride that filly to-night?"

"Aw, he's liable to do anything," Charley commented, "he's—"

Before the sentence was finished the beautiful mare and her apparently careless rider, with Captain Jack a hundred yards behind, disappeared over the brink of the bench and in the silence that followed the group on the porch heard only the distant thudding of hoofs beating an ever fainter tattoo through the calm, moonlit night.

Carolyn June went back into the house with conflicting emotions surging through her heart. She believed she knew why the Ramblin' Kid had elected to ride the outlaw filly to-night. But her thoughts she kept to herself.

For an hour longer the dance continued. But not with the spirit of earlier in the evening. The interruption took something of the eagerness to punish Old Heck, Parker and the cowboys, out of the heart of Carolyn June. A bit of doubt that the role she and Ophelia were playing was worthy of true womanhood crept into her mind.

When the widow and Carolyn June were alone Ophelia laughed.

"Whew!" she exclaimed, "that was a strenuous party! I've danced till my feet ache! Do you think our little 'counterplot' was a success?"

"Entirely!" Carolyn June replied with an uncertain chuckle. "Uncle Josiah, Parker and Charley will dream dreams about you and fight duels in their sleep to-night!"

"I think the others—" the widow started to say, then pausing, finished: "Wasn't it queer the Ramblin' Kid decided to ride that outlaw horse to-night instead of coming to the house to dance?"

"Oh, I don't know," Carolyn June answered indifferently.

"I guess it's as Charley says," Ophelia remarked: "'You can't tell what th' Ramblin' Kid's liable to do'—"

"I suppose not," Carolyn June replied wearily as she went into her room. "Good night!"

"Good night!" Ophelia echoed.



CHAPTER XII

YOU'LL GET YOUR WISH

It was a silent group that gathered in the bunk-house after the dance. Old Heck, Parker, Charley and the other cowboys had been unduly stimulated by the music, the laughter and the bright smiles of Carolyn June and Ophelia. When they stepped out of the house into the cool night these all were left behind. The cow-men quickly sobered down and by the time they reached their sleeping quarters on the faces of all were half-ashamed looks as if they had been playing at a game not quite dignified enough or proper for men of maturity and seriousness.

All were thoughtful and none seemed eager to start conversation.

Skinny was dejected and utterly miserable.

He felt that he had been cruelty treated. Carolyn June had acted all evening as though his only object in living was to stand in the corner and wind up that blamed graphophone, while she openly flirted with the other cowboys. Skinny was grateful to the Ramblin' Kid who, alone of all the cow-punchers, had decency enough to stay away and not interfere with the original agreement. The Ramblin' Kid had some sense and was square. He had realized that any fellow officially elected to make love—especially when he didn't want to do it in the first place—ought to be allowed to go ahead and make it without having a lot of darned buckaroos butting in on the job.

The way the others had acted was a regular disgrace!

Chuck, Bert, Charley and Pedro were nervously happy. In the heart of each was a thrill, caused by the memory of some secret—or what he thought was a secret—manifestation of Carolyn June's interest. Perhaps it was no more than the brushing of a stray whiff of odorous brown hair against a weather-tanned cheek, the pulsing of a warm breath on the side of a muscular neck, a melting look from a pair of luminous eyes, some low-spoken word or the pressure of a hand, but whatever it was, each of the cowboys was reasonably certain he had been singled out for special favors. Charley was doubly blessed. In addition to Carolyn June's seductive advances he had the memory, also, of Ophelia's attentions. His mind was awhirl with the effort to figure out which one, by rights, he ought to consider as a permanent possibility.

Old Heck and Parker were in a quandary.

Neither was sure of his standing with Ophelia although each had reason to believe that he was her favorite. Her interest in Charley added an unexpected and perplexing equation to their problem.

"Gosh," Chuck finally exclaimed, "that dance sure was some blow out!"

"I should say it was!" Bert agreed emphatically and with a satisfied grin. "But didn't that widow act funny for an 'anti-he' suffragette?"

Old Heck looked up, startled, as if he had been reminded of a disagreeable subject and one he wished to forget.

"Are you plumb positive that she is one, Parker?" Chuck asked.

"I told you what she was," Parker growled, "she's an 'Organizer' for some sort of 'Movement' or other."

"Well, I'll be blamed if her 'movements' to-night showed any 'anti-he' inclinations," Charley interrupted. "She carried on more like a female vampire than one of these advocaters of woman's rights!"

"Aw, shut up and go to bed," Old Heck grunted. "It's too late to start any argument!"

The moon crept across the heavens and was hanging above the shadowy peaks of the Costejo Mountains when the Ramblin' Kid returned to the sleeping Quarter Circle KT, slipped the saddle from the back of the Gold Dust maverick and turned the filly and Captain Jack into the circular corral.

He had ridden the outlaw mare almost to Eagle Butte.

She had learned her lesson. She knew, when he caressed her muzzle and pressed the last lump of sugar into her mouth, before he turned away to the bunk-house, that the Ramblin' Kid was not only her master but her friend as well—understanding and sympathetic. Never again would she doubt his will or resist the gentle yet firm strength of his hand. From that moment the Gold Dust maverick, like Captain Jack, was a one-man horse, ready to serve, to trust and obey only the Ramblin' Kid.

"You little beauty," he laughed tenderly as he playfully shook the underlip of the filly and started toward the gate, "—you're a runner—gee!—but you're a runner!"

The others were fast asleep when the Ramblin' Kid noiselessly opened the door of the bunk-house, went in, and without undressing, stretched himself on his bed.

Old Heck awakened the cowboys as the sun poured its first slanting rays through the open un-draped window.

The stir aroused the Ramblin' Kid.

He made no move to arise.

"Ain't you going to get up?" Old Heck said garrulously.

"When I damn please!" was the independent reply. "Skinny, tell th' Chink to keep me a cup of hot coffee!"

Old Heck snorted but said no more.

Parker and the cowboys dressed silently, half-moodily. They hardly knew yet how they felt after the excitement of the night before. Skinny started to put on the white shirt, looked at it contemptuously a moment, and with a muttered oath threw it viciously on the bed.

In a few moments the Ramblin' Kid was left alone in the bunk-house. He lay, hands clasped at the back of his head, studying. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. Presently he smiled and opened his eyes. He drew the pink satin elastic from his pocket and looked at it. "That's a hell of a thing to be packin'—wonder why I keep it?" he muttered. It suddenly occurred to him that if he was not at breakfast Carolyn June would think he was afraid or ashamed to meet her. He got up, straightened his disarranged clothes, went to the house and after stopping at the ditch by the fence and washing his face, walked indifferently into the kitchen and sat down at his regular place. The others already were eating. Carolyn June glanced at him with a meaningless smile and acknowledged, without feeling, his quiet "Good morning!"

The cowboys were nervous. Memory of last night was fresh in their minds. It made them cautious in their talk.

Ophelia and Carolyn June, also, were a bit restrained.

They were not sure but they had started more than it would be easy to stop. The expressions in the eyes of the cowboys paid tribute to the success of the two women's efforts at wholesale heart-wrecking. The child-like acceptance of a simple flirtation as the real thing, by these husky riders of the range, was little less than appalling.

It all but frightened Carolyn June and the widow.

Old Heck saw the worship in the eyes of the cowboys.

"Things sure are in a devil of a mix-up!" he growled to himself.

Skinny was so dejected Carolyn June felt half-guilty and tried to cheer him up. She began talking, in a low voice, directly to the melancholy-looking cowboy.

"To-day—or some time—when the others are away," she said caressingly, "you and I will dance all the dances by ourselves!"

His heart leaped joyously. He was sorry, now, that he had not put on the white shirt. He resolved, after a while, to sneak out to the bunk-house and change.

The confidential talk between Carolyn June and Skinny galled Chuck. He decided to break it up.

"What was your idea in riding the Gold Dust maverick last night?" he said abruptly to the Ramblin' Kid.

There was a general pause for the answer. Carolyn June stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked curiously at the Ramblin' Kid. He took his time to reply.

"Because I wanted to!" was the slow unsatisfactory retort.

"Why didn't you wait till to-day, so the rest of us could see how she acted?" Charley asked.

"What do you think you are"—he started to say—"a bunch of lawyers cross-examinin' a witness?" thought better of it and with a careless laugh answered: "If you're huntin' entertainment, why don't you go up to Eagle Butte to th' picture show? Th' maverick an' me ain't no exhibition!"

"Did she buck?" Charley continued, ignoring the sarcastic remark.

"Some," the Ramblin' Kid drawled.

"What you going to do with the filly while we're out on the beef hunt?" Chuck queried, wishing to keep the conversation general.

"Ride her!" was the laconic reply.

"Ain't you afraid she'll break away from the caballero and you'll lose her again?" Charley asked.

"When I ain't usin' her I'll 'neck' her to Captain Jack," the Ramblin' Kid answered patiently, referring to the method of fastening a wild horse to one that is gentle and prevent its running away, by attaching a short length of rope to the neck of each. "I don't believe she'd leave th' stallion anyhow!"

"By golly," Chuck said earnestly and half-pleadingly, "I wish you'd put her against that Y-Bar outfit's Thunderbolt horse in the two-mile sweepstakes this year! It would be—"

"Fun to see her run!" the Ramblin' Kid interrupted, looking up quickly and straight into the eyes of Carolyn June as he finished the contemptuous quotation of her words, spoken the day before at the corral. She flushed, but gazed back at him without flinching. "Well," he continued, "I reckon you'll get your wish—th' maverick is goin' to run against th' Vermejo horse!"

"The Fourth of July is a week from next Wednesday," Charley said calculatingly. "The Rodeo starts on Tuesday, the roping and bucking finals come on Thursday. That makes the big race come Friday—a week from next Friday, ain't it?"

"That's right," Bert concurred. "Th' Ramblin' Kid's got nearly two weeks to get the maverick in shape."

"Nothing will be in shape for anything," Old Heck broke in, getting up from the table, "unless we move around and get things ready to begin the beef round-up to-morrow morning. Some of you boys will have to bring in those saddle horses from across the river. Each one of you can ride your regular 'string' this year"—alluding to the term used to designate the group of several horses used exclusively by each individual rider working on a round-up. "Skinny won't be with you, but you'd better take his horses along for extras. Parker can be getting the grub-wagon in shape—I reckon you'll have to work Old Tom and Baldy on it. Sing Pete ought to be able to handle them."

"Where do we start in?" Charley asked as they went toward the barn.

"Over in the Battle Ridge country," Old Heck answered, "and work everything east of the big pasture first. It'll take just about a week to clean up that side—it's pretty rough riding over there. Then you can finish the west end after the Rodeo is over."

"What all you aiming to gather?" Bert queried.

"Everything above a three-year-old," Old Heck replied in a businesslike way; "pick up the dry cows, too, if they're fat enough. Prices are better than usual and I want to sell pretty close on account of that storm knocking the hay the way it did the other night. There'll be three hundred and fifty or four hundred good beef critters on the east range. You ought to have them bunched and in the big pasture by Saturday night. Then, until the Rodeo is over you can all do what you darn' please—"

"I know what I'm going to do," Chuck laughed.

"What?" Bert asked.

"Draw all my wages, borrow all I can, and make a clean-up on that Y-Bar outfit on the race between the Gold Dust maverick and Thunderbolt!" he exclaimed vindictively.

"Probably there will be some of the rest of us have a little Quarter Circle KT money up on that race, too," Charley insinuated.

"I know blamed well there will be!" Old Heck added earnestly as they scattered to go about their respective employments.

It was a busy Sunday at the Quarter Circle KT. Chuck, Charley and Pedro spent the morning and most of the afternoon getting the saddle horses from across the river. Bert helped Parker and Old Heck about the ranch. Sing Pete baked a supply of light-bread and stocked the grub-wagon with provisions. The Ramblin' Kid volunteered to "ride-line" on the big pasture and see that the Diamond Bar steers had not broken out again. He rode a sorrel colt—one that had had its "first-riding" in the circular corral the day before Carolyn June and Ophelia arrived at the Quarter Circle KT. When he came to the corner of the pasture where the bodies of the cattle, killed by lightning, lay, a flock of buzzards were tearing at the carcasses. As the gorged creatures flapped heavily into the air the young broncho wheeled, and bucking frantically, jolted away from the gruesome scene. The Ramblin' Kid forced the animal to turn about and made him pass, rearing and plunging, among the skinless and already decaying forms. Before sundown the Ramblin' Kid was back at the ranch.

In the afternoon Skinny and Carolyn June went for a ride down the valley. It was her first opportunity to try the new saddle. Skinny was mounted on Old Pie Face and Carolyn June rode Browny, a dependable old cow-horse.

"Gee," Carolyn June remarked as they passed the circular corral. "I'd like to ride the Gold Dust maverick with this outfit!"

"It would be a dandy combination," Skinny said admiringly, "but I doubt if anybody but th' Ramblin' Kid will ever be able to ride the filly. So far, she acts like she's going to be a worse one-man horse than Captain Jack is. She tried to kill me yesterday when I went into the corral!"

"What makes her that way?" Carolyn June asked.

"Blamed if I know," Skinny replied, "some horses are naturally like that. Th' Ramblin' Kid says it ain't in the horse—it's in the human. If the human don't understand the horse the horse won't trust the human and where there ain't trust there's fear and where there's fear there's hate. He's got some funny ideas!"

"Sounds sort of sensible, though, doesn't it?" Carolyn June said musingly.

"Maybe it does," Skinny retorted, "but he goes a little too far with his fool notions sometimes, it seems to me."

"How is that?" Carolyn June questioned.

"Well, for one thing," Skinny replied, "he says any man or woman a horse don't trust ain't a good man or woman for a human to depend on—says they ain't right inside! It looks to me like that's a pretty hard slam on people just because some darned idiot of a broncho won't make up with them!"

Carolyn June leaned back in the saddle and laughed.

"Some 'range philosopher'—this Ramblin' Kid person!" she exclaimed lightly. "Where did he come from and who is he, anyway?"

"Nobody knows," Skinny answered; "he just kind of growed up, here in the Southwest. I've heard that his mother died when he was born and his father was a preacher or something doing missionary work—I reckon that's what you'd call it—among the Mexicans and Indians and got the smallpox while he was nursing them through an epidemic and it killed him, which left th' Ramblin' Kid an orphan when he wasn't much more than a baby. The Mexicans or Indians took care of him till he was old enough to ride and then he began to ramble around and has always kept it up just as if he was hunting for something—"

"How interesting!" Carolyn June exclaimed, "almost like a story!"

"It is kind of unusual," Skinny continued, "of course it may not all be true, but one thing is sure—th' Ramblin' Kid seems to have some sort of fascination for the Greasers and the Indians; they all worship him, and he's a witch when it comes to handling horses!"

"He seems to be," Carolyn June commented thoughtfully.

"Yes," Skinny answered, "look how that Gold Dust maverick has made right up with him—I don't believe she ever will have anything to do with anybody else!"

Carolyn June laughed softly to herself. She did not tell Skinny of her visits to the circular corral and that the outlaw mare already had accepted her as a good friend.

She and Skinny loafed idly as far down the valley as the Narrows, and when Sing Pete sounded the supper gong they were again back at the house.

After the evening meal the cowboys hung around the house for a while until a suggestive look from Old Heck caused them reluctantly to follow him to the bunk-house, leaving Parker and Skinny with Ophelia and Carolyn June.

It was the foreman's last evening with the widow before the beef round-up. She was rather diffident and held him in safe channels of conversation. Skinny and Carolyn June sat on the porch until it was quite dark, then went into the house. She drummed carelessly and lightly on the keys of the piano—her thoughts evidently far away. Parker and Skinny left the house early. At the door the foreman whispered to the widow:

"Don't forget what I spoke about coming out from town!"

Ophelia flushed and murmured, "No, indeed, but—" she did not finish the sentence. She was about to say, "don't build false hopes!"

When Parker and Skinny entered the bunk-house Old Heck and all the cowboys except the Ramblin' Kid were asleep. He was half-reclining on his bed, smoking. At the entrance of Skinny and Parker be got up and without speaking strolled outside and through the darkness toward the circular corral. The night was warm and the stuffy air of the bunk-house, together with the noisy snoring of Old Heck, made him restless. He stood a few moments looking at Captain Jack and the Gold Dust maverick. Then, moving back into the shed, dropped down and laid with his shoulders and head on his saddle, which was thrown on the ground under the shelter. The side of the building, next to the corral, was open and the Ramblin' Kid could see, from where he was lying, the dark bulks of the two horses at the farther side of the corral.

Ophelia went directly to bed after Skinny and Parker left.

Carolyn June sat for a while in the Morris chair in the large room. She seemed abstracted and in a mood for meditation. The vague history Skinny had given her of the life of the Ramblin' Kid interested her. She thought it explained a good many of his elemental impulses and idiosyncrasies. He was a creature of the plains. In his life among the Indians and Mexicans he had absorbed their stoical ways and almost brutal directness, yet, sometimes he showed a sensitiveness that was utterly impossible for Carolyn June to understand. Her thoughts turned to the Gold Dust maverick. To-morrow Ramblin' Kid would take the filly away for the round-up. She truly loved the beautiful mare. She would slip out, while the others slept, and have one more visit with the splendid creature. Rising, Carolyn June passed out through the kitchen, stopped for a handful of sugar—she had learned where Sing Pete kept the can—and bareheaded and without a wrap walked swiftly out to the circular corral.

The Ramblin' Kid heard Carolyn June step up to the gate of the corral and from the heavy shadow in which he lay saw the light dress and instinctively recognized this late visitor to Captain Jack and the Gold Dust maverick His first impulse was to call out and warn her to keep away from the horses—that both were dangerous for men to fool with, much less was it safe for a woman to undertake familiarities with them. His next thought was that his sudden appearance would only startle the girl and—well, cause a lot of useless talk. He remained quiet.

A low trill came from the throat of Carolyn June. The two horses stopped feeding and looked around toward the gate. The bird-like call was repeated. The Ramblin' Kid was astonished to see Captain Jack and the outlaw mare move eagerly in the direction from whence the sound had come. He heard Carolyn June talking to the bronchos in soft endearing tones. After a moment she opened the gate and stepped inside the corral.

"Well, I'll be—!" he breathed inaudibly.

For half an hour Carolyn June petted the little stallion and the Gold Dust maverick. Both animals seemed hungry for her caresses.

"Oh, you darling—you wonder!" the Ramblin' Kid Heard Carolyn June say, as she gave the maverick's head a tight squeeze just before running lightly back to the house. "I hope you beat that old Y-Bar horse so bad he'll never want to run again! Even if that Ramblin' Kid lover of yours," she added softly, "does think I'm nothing but a silly woman-thing and hates me with all his queer, lonesome heart!"

"Well, I'll be damned!" the Ramblin' Kid exclaimed when she was gone.

He raised himself on one elbow and lay thus for a long time silently thinking.

At last he got up, went to the corral gate, and he himself stepped inside with the horses. He gave Captain Jack's ear a loving twitch, then turned to the Gold Dust maverick. She permitted him, without protest, to fondle her head and neck. His hand lingered long on the silky mane in which, a little while before, Carolyn June had twined her fingers.

"Oh, Queen of th' Range!" he said with a low laugh, unconsciously using the poetical phrase, as he gave the warm cheek of the filly a tender parting pinch before turning away to go to the bunk-house, "we'll whip that devil-horse of th' Vermejo—we'll show that Thunderbolt runner what hearts that ain't afraid an' nimble hoofs can do!"



CHAPTER XIII

THE ELITE AMUSEMENT PARLOR

An hour after breakfast, on Monday morning, Old Heck, Ophelia, Skinny and Carolyn June Were alone at the Quarter Circle KT. Parker and the cowboys were climbing out on the sand-hills north of the Cimarron, traveling in the direction of Battle Ridge, where the beef hunt was to begin.

The circular corral was empty.

The Ramblin' Kid was riding the Gold Dust maverick. Captain Jack was with the saddle horses which Pedro, the Mexican, had wrangled on ahead of the other riders an hour before.

The filly made no effort to throw the Ramblin' Kid on this her second riding. She seemed perfectly willing to carry the burden on her back. Carolyn June watched the beautiful mare as she stepped lightly and daintily along beside the other horses, and when the group disappeared among the rolling ridges across the river the ranch someway seemed deserted and she felt strangely alone, although Ophelia, Old Heck and Skinny were standing at her side.

Sing Pete followed the riders, jolting along in the grub-wagon, awkwardly driving, with much clucking and pidgin-English, Old Tom and Baldy hitched to the heavy, canvas-covered vehicle with its "box-kitchen" and mess-board protruding gawkily out from the rear.

Old Heck heaved a sigh of relief. There was a feeling of serene peace in his heart, now that Parker and the cowboys were safely away on the round-up. In Skinny's heart the feeling was echoed.

For a week or more they would be able to love Ophelia and Carolyn June without the constant fear of interruption.

Only one thing troubled Old Heck. The widow had not yet exposed her hand in that suffragette movement or whatever it was. He dreaded the form in which it might, sooner or later, break out. But at that he would be glad to have it over. At present he felt as though he were sitting on the edge of a volcano, or above an unexplored blast of dynamite at the bottom of a well. Meanwhile he would have to wait and watch—and hope for the best.

The week that followed was heaven and hell, mixed together, for Old Heck and Skinny.

The women were lovely and lovable to the last degree, but cautious and tormentingly self-restrained when it came to loving. At the first intimation of dangerous sentimentality on the part of Old Heck the widow would suddenly and without an instant's warning change the subject. When Skinny had been pensive and silent for half an hour or so and would then start, in a halting and quivering voice, to say something, Carolyn June invariably interrupted with a remark about the weather, the Gold Dust maverick, the Ramblin' Kid, Old Heck, Sing Pete, the yellow cat, the coming Rodeo, Ophelia or something else.

They paired on the work of preparing the meals, Carolyn June and Skinny and Ophelia and Old Heck taking shift and shift about in the kitchen. In this way the work was made a joke, with friendly rivalry between the couples in the preparation of tasty dishes.

Old Heck and Skinny surprised the women with their knowledge of cooking. Nor was there the least embarrassment on the part of either when, with one of Sing Pete's aprons tied about his waist, he worked at the range or kitchen table. As a matter of course every cow-man must know something of how to cook a meal and, also, naturally and as a matter of course, Old Heck and Skinny, without the slightest thought that it was "womanish" or beneath the "dignity" of men, peeled potatoes, fried meat, washed dishes or did whatever there was to do.

Indeed each was proud of his skill.

Ophelia herself was clever, particularly at making biscuits and dainty salads.

Carolyn June's sole accomplishment in the art of preparing food was the making of coffee-jelly. This she had learned at college—taught, perhaps, by the other girls during stolen midnight frolics. Probably this, also, was the reason she usually made it the last thing at night before Skinny and Old Heck left to go to the bunk-house. Coffee-jelly was the regular, inevitable, evening meal dessert for the entire week.

"It ain't so very filling," Skinny remarked the first time he tasted the delicate dish, "but it's tender and has a dandy flavor!"

Carolyn June blushed at the compliment.

"It is pretty good," Old Heck agreed, "but these biscuits Ophelia made are just what was needed to set it off!"

The widow smilingly showed her pleasure.

Twice during the week Skinny rode "line" on the big pasture to look after the Diamond Bar steers. Carolyn June accompanied him. Each time she rode Browny, the old cow-horse. On these days Old Heck and Ophelia, in the Clagstone "Six," drove to Eagle Butte. The second trip to town Ophelia asked to be left at the minister's house. Old Heck was to call in an hour and get her. During the hour he slipped into the dentist's and had his teeth cleaned. When the tobacco-blackened tartar was scraped away they were surprisingly white and even. He stopped at the drug store and bought a tooth-brush and a tube of paste.

Ophelia noticed the wonderful improvement in his appearance, guessed the reason, and the thought sent a warm thrill through her body.

"Like a big boy," she laughed to herself, "when he begins to wash his neck and ears!"

"It ain't healthy to have your teeth so dirty," Old Heck explained, coloring and in an apologizing manner, when Skinny discovered him, after supper that evening, carefully scrubbing his molars.

Skinny watched the performance, saw the result, and murmured:

"Guess I'll get me one of them layouts!"

On Friday the quartette went to Eagle Butte, Old Heck driving, with Ophelia beside him, and Carolyn June and Skinny in the rear seat of the Clagstone "Six."

It was on this trip, while Ophelia and Carolyn June were in the Golden Rule doing some shopping, that Old Heck and Skinny strolled into the Elite Amusement Parlor. Lafe Dorsey, owner of the Y-Bar outfit and to whom belonged the black Thunderbolt horse; Newt Johnson, Dave Stover and "Flip" Williams—the latter three cowboys on the big Vermejo ranch—were playing a four-handed game of billiards at one of the tables near the front of the place.

Dorsey noticed the entrance of the pair from the Quarter Circle KT. All were range men and were well known to one another. The Y-Bar owner had been drinking. Boot-leg liquor was obtainable, if one knew how and where, in Eagle Butte.

"Hello, there, Old Heck!" Dorsey greeted them hilariously and with a half-leer. "Howdy, Skinny! How's the Cimarron? Don't reckon you've taught Old Quicksilver to run yet, have you?" with a boisterous laugh as he referred to the race in which Thunderbolt had defeated Old Heck's crack stallion.

The taunt stung Old Heck while it called out a suppressed snicker from the cowboys who were with Dorsey and the loafers in the pool-room. The bull-like guffaw of Mike Sabota, the gorilla-built, half-Greek proprietor of the Amusement Parlor roared out above the ripple of laughter from the others. The racing feud between the Y-Bar and the Quarter Circle KT was well known to all and Sabota himself had cleaned up a neat sum when the black horse from the Vermejo had outstepped the runner from the Quarter Circle KT.

Old Heck reddened at Dorsey's words but replied quietly:

"The Cimarron is middling—just middlin'. No, we ain't been paying much attention to teaching horses how to run lately. Old Quicksilver's pretty fair. Of course he ain't the best horse in the world but he'll do for cows and general knocking around. Horses are a good deal like men, you know, Dorsey—there's always one that's a little bit better!"

The Vermejo cow-man colored at the thrust.

"Any of you Quarter Circle KT fellers going in on anything at the Rodeo, this year?" one of the Y-Bar riders asked Skinny before Dorsey could reply.

"Charley said he might go in on the 'bull-dogging' and Bert is figuring some on the bucking events—but I don't reckon they'll either one enter," Skinny carelessly; "both of them got first money in them entries last year and they ain't caring much. The Mexican," referring to Pedro, "will probably do some roping—"

"What about you and the Ramblin' Kid?" Flip Williams interrupted, "ain't neither of you going to take part?"

"Probably not," Skinny drawled. "I ain't aiming to, and I don't know what th' Ramblin? Kid is figuring on. He ain't much for showing off. He only rode in the bucking contest last year because after that Cyclone horse killed Dick Stanley everybody said there wasn't any one that could ride him and the blamed little fool just wanted to demonstrate that there was. You never can tell what he'll do, though. He may be intending to go in on something or other."

"Guess you people ain't got anything out there for the two-mile sweepstakes this year, have you?" Dorsey broke in with a sneer. "Old Thunderbolt's too much for them sand-hill jumpers from the Cimarron."

"Oh, I don't know as he is," Old Heck said in a voice emotionless as an Indian's. "The Quarter Circle KT will probably be represented in the big event. It seems to me I heard Chuck mention entering that Silver Tip colt of his and, let's see, I believe th' Ramblin' Kid said something about running a new filly he's been riding some, didn't he, Skinny?"

"Since I come to think of it I believe he did," Skinny answered as if it were a matter without especial interest; "if I remember right he did speak something of it a day or two ago."

"Well, bring 'em on!" Dorsey exclaimed boastfully, "the Y-Bar will take all the money you Kiowa fellers feel like contributing! Old Thunderbolt's as fit as a new rawhide rope and is just aching to rake in another three or four thousand of Quarter Circle KT dinero if you people have got the nerve to back your judgment!"

There was a dead hush as the crowd in the pool-room waited for Old Heck's reply to Dorsey's drunken challenge.

"We'll kind of remember that invitation, Dorsey," Old Heck said in tones as hard and smooth and cold as ice, while his gray eyes narrowed and bored the boastful cow-man like points of steel, "we'll sort of bear in mind that suggestion of yours. The Quarter Circle KT will send a horse into the big race that will beat that Thunderbolt critter of yours just three times as bad as he set old Quicksilver back—and we'll give you action on any amount of money, cattle or anything else you want to name! You can put your friends here in on it too, if you want to—" with a scornful glance around the pool-room at the loafers in the place. "Come on, Skinny," he added as he started toward the door, "more than likely Ophelia and Carolyn June are through with their trading and ready to go home."

All stood silent until Skinny and Old Heck stepped out of the door, then Mike Sabota broke into a coarse, taunting laugh. As they turned up the street Old Heck and Skinny heard Dorsey and the crowd inside join in the merriment.

"Damn that fool, Dorsey!" Old Heck exclaimed viciously, as he heard the shouts of derisive laughter. "I'm going to wipe him out on that race—if he's got the guts to come across and back up that Thunderbolt horse as hard as he blows about him!"

"I think I'll hook Sabota for a few hundred on the sweepstakes, myself," Skinny replied with a good deal of feeling, "I don't like the way that dirty cuss acts any better than I like Dorsey's bragging!"

Carolyn June and Ophelia were waiting when Old Heck and Skinny arrived at the Golden Rule.

When the Clagstone "Six" whirled past the Amusement Parlor a few moments later Dorsey and Sabota were standing in the door.

Carolyn June glanced at them.

"Heavens," she said as her eyes rested an instant on the burly, low-browed, Greek proprietor of the place, "what a big brute of a looking fellow that is!"

The two men stared insolently at the occupants of the car and as it passed Sabota made some remark, evidently vulgar, that caused Dorsey to burst into another round of coarse laughter.

Old Heck was moody during the drive home.

For nearly two years Dorsey had been crowing because of the defeat of Quicksilver by the black racer from the Vermejo. It was becoming more than idle jesting. It looked as if, for some reason, he was trying to torment Old Heck until something serious was started. Old Heck was a good loser but he was growing tired of the persistent nagging. He had not whimpered at the loss of the twenty-five hundred dollars Dorsey won from him on the race. Even the humiliation of seeing his best horse put in second place by the Y-Bar animal had been endured philosophically and without malice because he believed the thing had been run square and the faster horse had won. But Dorsey on every occasion since had, drunk or sober, boasted of Thunderbolt's victory and taken a devilish delight in rubbing it in on the owner of the Quarter Circle KT.

To-day the Vermejo cattleman had been worse than usual, due, no doubt, to the rotten boot-leg whisky the brute-like proprietor of Eagle Butte's rather disreputable Amusement Parlor was supposed secretly to dispense to those who had the price and the "honor" to keep sacred the source of supply.

Old Heck was sore and he was ready to go the limit in backing the Gold Dust maverick. Both he and Skinny had purposely refrained from mentioning the horse the Ramblin' Kid would enter. The fame of the outlaw filly extended throughout all of southwestern Texas and if the Vermejo crowd had learned that the Ramblin' Kid had finally caught her and was intending to put her against Thunderbolt it was doubtful if the black horse would be entered at all in the sweepstakes. Even if he was, Dorsey and his crowd would be shy of the betting.

This was one reason Old Heck had so played the conversation that Dorsey definitely threw down the challenge and which was so coldly accepted.

The Vermejo cow-man would have to come in heavy on the betting or be placed in the role of a bluffer.

By the time they reached the ranch Old Heck's good humor was restored. He thoroughly enjoyed the supper Skinny and Carolyn June prepared and joked the girl about her coffee-jelly.

"She's learning how to make French toast, now," Skinny said proudly; "it won't be long till she's a darned good cook!"

"Why not?" Carolyn June laughed. "See who I have to teach me!" and Skinny flushed while his heart hammered joyously.

"Well, I reckon anybody could live on fried bread and coffee-jelly in a pinch," Old Heck joked back, "but for my part I'd be a good deal happier to mix a biscuit or two like Ophelia makes once in a while in with it"—giving the widow a worshipful look.

It was Ophelia's turn to register pleasurable confusion.

After supper Old Heck and the widow washed the dishes. When they were finished Ophelia went into the front room. Old Heck took a glass of water, stepped out of the kitchen door, and diligently scrubbed his teeth. While he was still at it Skinny came out with a dipper in his hand and sheepishly drawing a tooth-brush from his hip pocket faithfully imitated the actions of the other.

"I figure a man's taking a lot of chances if he don't keep his teeth clean and everything," Skinny spluttered as the water splashed down his chin.

"Yes, that's right," Old Heck agreed, "there's germs and so on in them!" as he flipped the water from his own brush, dried his lips on his shirtsleeve and turned back into the kitchen.

The next morning, Saturday, Old Heck came to the breakfast table again in a pensive mood.

"I was thinking about that man Dorsey," Skinny remarked, observing Old Heck's mental depression and attributing it to the meeting the day before in the pool-room at Eagle Butte. "Do you reckon the filly can really beat that Thunderbolt horse?"

"Of course she can," Old Heck answered. "Th' Ramblin' Kid knows. All I'm afraid is that when Dorsey finds out it's the Gold Dust maverick Thunderbolt has got to go up against he won't bet much on it."

"The boys ought to be in to-day," Skinny said, abruptly switching the subject; "they figured on getting the Battle Ridge cattle gathered and in the big pasture by to-night, didn't they?"

"Yes," Old Heck replied, "that was what was in my mind. Parker will be—" he stopped suddenly, "butting in again" he had started to say but caught himself and finished lamely, "—probably pretty anxious to hurry through as soon as possible and get the beef animals in the upland pasture!"

"How are you going to work things when he gets back?" Skinny asked with, a significant look at Old Heck.

"Blamed if I know—" Old Heck said uncertainly, stopping before he finished the sentence. He understood what Skinny meant and just that had been worrying him. He had reached the point where he could not endure the thought of going back to the old arrangement of day and day about with Parker in the enjoyment of the widow's society. Yet if Parker, on his return, insisted on dividing Ophelia's time with him in conformity with their original agreement, Old Heck knew he would have to yield. He thought for a moment he would get the widow away from Skinny and Carolyn June after breakfast and make a full confession of the whole thing, ask her to marry him, and have it done with. But he had not yet been able to get at the bottom of Ophelia's suffragette activities. What if she married him and then suddenly broke loose as a speech-maker or something for woman's rights? It wouldn't pay to take the risk. "It sure does keep a man guessing!" he murmured under his breath, the sweat starting to bead his forehead from the mental effort to solve the problem before him.

Carolyn June and Ophelia exchanged sly winks as they guessed the thing that was in Old Heck's mind.

Skinny, himself, was a bit worried as the time drew near for the return of the cowboys. He hoped Carolyn June wouldn't spring another dance or similar opportunity for indiscriminate love-making.

Nor had Carolyn June forgotten that to-day was Saturday and Parker and the cowboys were expected back from the first half of the beef round-up. The week had been pleasant enough but she had missed the Ramblin' Kid and the Gold Dust maverick more than she cared to confess. She wondered if the outlaw filly would remember her.

Saturday was a day of considerable tension for all at the Quarter Circle KT. Night came and Parker and the cowboys had not returned. Nor did they come on Sunday. Evidently the beef round-up had gone more slowly than was expected.

It was late Monday afternoon when the grub-wagon grumbled and creaked its way up the lane and stopped near the back-yard gate. Sing Pete climbed clumsily down from the high seat. Old Heck and Skinny unhitched Old Tom and Baldy while the Chinese cook chattered information about Parker, the cowboys and the round-up. He had left the North Springs early that morning. Two nights before the herd had run—it was a stampede—some sheep had been where the cattle were bedded. Maybe that was it. Chuck and Bert were on night guard and could not hold them. The steers mixed badly with the rangers. Nearly two days it took to gather them again. That was why they were late. Now everything was all right The cattle were being driven to the big pasture. Pedro would be along soon with the saddle cavallard. By dark maybe the others would be at the ranch.

It was midnight before Parker and the cowboys came in.

When Carolyn June stepped out on the porch Tuesday morning she glanced toward the circular corral, which for more than a week had been empty. Her heart gave a leap of delight.

Captain Jack was standing at the bars of the corral and behind him the early sunlight glinted on the chestnut sides of the Gold Dust maverick.



CHAPTER XIV

THE GRAND PARADE

Eagle Butte was a jam of humanity. It was Tuesday noon. At one o'clock the Grand Parade would circle the mile track at the "Grounds"—a hundred level acres enclosed by a high board fence lying at the west edge of Eagle Butte, between the Cimarron River and the road that led out to the Vermejo—swing down the main street of the town, return again to the enclosed area, flow once more past the grandstand, salute the judges of the coming events, and the Fifth Annual Independence Rodeo of Eagle Butte would be officially opened.

Special excursion rates had brought thousands from all parts of western Texas, New Mexico and Colorado. Hundreds of tourists, sight-seeing the West, had so arranged their itineraries that they might be present at the big exhibition of riding, roping, racing, bull-dogging and other cow-country arts,—arts rapidly becoming mere memories of a day too quickly passing.

Moving-picture machine operators were seeking advantageous locations for their outfits; pedestrians dodged, indiscriminately, high-powered automobiles and plunging bronchos; the old and the new were slapped together in an incongruous jumble in the streets of Eagle Butte.

The best range men and women of the West were gathered in the western Texas town.

New Mexico, Arizona, Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Oregon, Texas herself, were represented by their most famous riders, ropers, bull-doggers, cow-experts, and noted outlaw horses.

There were many masqueraders.

Imitation cow-people, they were, made up in fancy wild-west costumes, long-haired chaps, mammoth black sombreros, gaudy neck-cloths, silver-spangled saddles, spurs and bridles—typical moving-picture cowboys, cowgirls and rough riders. But there were, as well, hundreds of real range people. People whose business it is to work every day at the "stunts" they were, for the next five days, to play at for the pleasure of proving their skill and winning the applause of the multitude of spectators packed each day in the grandstand behind the judges' box at the Eagle Butte Rodeo.

Every outfit in western Texas sent its most clever riders.

Indians and Mexicans, in picturesque attire, sprinkled the milling mass of humanity with a dash of rainbow color.

Dance-halls were running, fare layouts were operating, roulette wheels were spinning. For the time, with the consent of the sheriff and other reformed authorities, Eagle Butte tried hard to be as Eagle Butte was twenty—thirty—years ago.

The entire Quarter Circle KT crowd left the ranch early Tuesday morning'. Parker had surprised Old Heck, and filled his mind with misgivings, by calling him to one side after breakfast and stammering:

"I—I—reckon you'd just as well go ahead the rest of this week and—and—look after the widow by yourself—"

"What's the matter?" Old Heck asked suspiciously; "have you found out anything dangerous about that 'Movement' or whatever it is Ophelia's mixed up in?"

"No, it ain't that," Parker assured him, "I just thought I'd kind of—well, like to be free, to knock around at the Rodeo without being bothered with a woman or anything."

The truth was Parker was trying to hedge. When he had got away on the beef hunt and began to figure things out he had come to doubt the wisdom of his sudden infatuation for the widow. Thinking it over, out on the open range, he was appalled by his rash, headlong falling in love. He had never married, nor had he, until Ophelia came, been even near it. Someway, the moment Carolyn June and the widow arrived at the Quarter Circle KT some sort of devil seemed to possess him. He couldn't explain it. Maybe it had been just an impulse to get ahead of Old Heck. Whatever it was, Parker was worried. What would he do with a wife if he had one? All he wanted now was to let the thing blow over. Perhaps the widow would forget his impetuous proposal or fall in love with Old Heck.

Old Heck, his heart filled with a queer mixture of elation and uncertainty—with a sort of joy and sinking sensation all at once—agreed to Parker's suggestion.

Parker rode into Eagle Butte with the cowboys. Old Heck, Ophelia, Skinny and Carolyn June went in the Clagstone "Six." Chuck led Old Pie Face for Skinny to ride in the parade and Bert took Red John, Old Heck's most showy saddle horse—a long-legged, high-stepping, proud-headed, bay gelding—for Carolyn June to use, for she, too, had declared her intention of joining in the grand promenade with which the Rodeo would open.

The Ramblin' Kid left the Gold Dust maverick in the circular corral and rode Captain Jack to Eagle Butte. It would be necessary for him to register the filly, with the entry judges, on the first day of the Rodeo if she was to run in the two-mile sweepstakes.

The rules of the Rodeo required, also, that all who expected to participate in any of the events of the coming week must "show" in the grand march or parade. The animals that were to be used might also be paraded, but this was not compulsory.

Accompanied by Chuck, the Ramblin' Kid went directly to the entry offices of the Rodeo, which were roughly boxed-up compartments under the rear of the grandstand.

A group of "hot-dog" vendors and "concession spielers" looked curiously at the two as they left Captain Jack and Silver Tip, with bridle reins dropped over their heads, standing in front of the office and stepped inside.

Lafe Dorsey and Flip Williams were at the clerk's desk.

The Vermejo cattleman had just registered Thunderbolt, with Flip as rider, for the big race.

They looked around as the Ramblin' Kid and Chuck came in.

"Well, is the Quarter Circle KT getting up sand enough to go against old Thunderbolt again?" Dorsey asked with a curl of his lip and an ugly sneer.

"Oh, I reckon we've got a little nerve left," Chuck answered with mock humility, "not much, but a little, maybe. I was going to put Silver Tip in the sweepstakes," he went on, "but I guess I won't. Th' Ramblin' Kid's got an entry and it looks like a darned shame for one outfit to want to hog it all and grab first and second money both, so I'll stay out this time."

"You talk pretty loud," Dorsey snarled, catching instantly, as Chuck intended he should, the covert slur at the black Y-Bar stallion. "Maybe your money won't make so damned much noise!"

"Here's a couple hundred," Chuck said, pulling a roll of bills from his shirt pocket. "I'll invest that much on my judgment that Thunderbolt ain't as good as you think he is."

"I'll take it!" Dorsey snapped, jerking a wad of money from his own pocket and counting out the amount which he handed to the clerk as stake-holder. "And here's another hundred—or a thousand if you want it!"

"That two hundred is about all I can handle this morning," Chuck laughed. "But I understand Old Heck's aiming to bet a little," he drawled suggestively; "probably you'd like to see him?"

"I'll see him—and raise him till he squeals!" Dorsey sneered.

The Ramblin' Kid ignored the tilt between Dorsey and Chuck and leaned indifferently against the counter waiting for the clerk to fill out the entry blank.

"Event?" the clerk questioned.

"Two-mile run," was the quiet answer.

"Rider—and horse?" glancing up.

Dorsey and Flip paused and turned their heads to catch the names the Ramblin' Kid gave.

"I'm the rider, I reckon," the Ramblin' Kid replied, "I guess you know who I am. Th' name of th' horse? Well, now ain't that funny?" he said with a little laugh, "I never have bothered to name that critter yet! But—oh, hell, what's the difference? We'll just call her 'Ophelia' for th' time bein'—in honor of a lady-widow that's visitin' out at th' ranch!"

"The Quarter Circle KT's getting to be quite a female institution, ain't it?" Dorsey said contemptuously. "I suppose this wonder horse of yours is one of the ranch fillies and regular lightning!"

For a second the Ramblin' Kid's eyes narrowed, then he replied coldly to the last half of Dorsey's sentence:

"Well, th' filly's been runnin' in that neighborhood an'"—with a laugh that had in it just the hint of a sneer—"she's pretty fair—good enough, I figure, to beat hell out of old Thunderbolt!"

"Are you backing that with money?" Dorsey and Flip spoke together.

"No," the Ramblin' Kid answered slowly, "money ain't no object with me in a horse-race. I don't run 'em for that purpose. Anyhow, poker is my favorite method of gamblin'!"

Dorsey and Flip whirled angrily out of the office and walked rapidly toward the stables where they had left their horses.

After reserving a box stall, which was to be occupied by Captain Jack and the Gold Dust maverick, the Ramblin' Kid and Chuck left the entry office and mounting their bronchos rode toward the section of the grounds, over by the stables, where the parade was already forming.

As they passed through the entrance to the track and the inside field which lay beyond Chuck and the Ramblin' Kid rode within a few feet of the Clagstone "Six," which was parked near the east end of the grandstand. Old Heck and Ophelia were in the front seat of the car watching the riders assemble for the parade. Carolyn June was standing on the running-board waiting for Skinny to come with Old Pie Face and Red John, the boys having left the horses at the stables.

Carolyn June looked up with a bright smile at Chuck. As her eyes met the Ramblin' Kid's there was a question in them. She was not sure yet that she had forgiven him for the brutal rebuff the night of the dance. If there was any feeling in his heart, either of resentment or otherwise, toward the girl the Ramblin' Kid hid it. The look he gave her was one of unfathomable humility and indifference.

Chuck wheeled Silver Tip to the side of the car and stopped. His eyes were filled with frank admiration as he gazed at the girl. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her white felt hat sat jauntily on the crown of brown hair, her eyes were sparkling and in the close-fitting riding suit she was the picture of youthful charm and grace. The Ramblin' Kid nodded to Old Heck, glanced at Ophelia with a smile, looked steadily an instant at Carolyn June and raising his hat to the two women passed on with the remark: "I reckon I'll go on over an' see what they're doin'."

"Has he entered the outlaw filly for the sweepstakes, yet?" Old Heck asked Chuck as the Ramblin' Kid reined Captain Jack down the race track.

"Yes," Chuck answered, "he signed her up."

"Did he name her as the Gold Dust maverick?" Old Heck inquired anxiously.

"No," Chuck grinned, "he called her 'Ophelia!'"

Old Heck leaned back in the seat and roared with laughter in which Carolyn June and the widow joined.

"Dorsey was there," Chuck said with another grin, "he'd just finished entering Thunderbolt for the big race when th' Ramblin' Kid and me got to the registering office. I bet him two hundred dollars. He was bragging a good deal—"

Old Heck's eyes flashed and the mirth left them.

"He was blowing, was he?" he said with a hard laugh, "the damn—darned fool!" he corrected, remembering Ophelia at his side. "Well, 'egg' him on—the higher he flies the worse he'll flop when he bu'sts a wing!"