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Twice during the short ride from town San Saba swung off his trail, back-tracked a hundred yards, and listened for the sound of pursuit; and when the chuck-wagon fire of the Wyatt outfit winked across the prairie he again hesitated, seeming to weigh his inclinations. Whatever this man's actions and thoughts, he consistently surrounded himself with a wall of caution. He liked to stay in the shadows; he never rode boldly into a camp, but, as at present, stalked and circled until he was sure of what he was to find. He possessed all the caginess of an animal that once had been trapped—he perpetually looked back over his trail, no matter where or when he rode. By nature he was a taciturn, isolated creature, seldom speaking a blunt or decisive word. He talked as he moved, warily, never giving another man more than a hint of what went on in that little nutshell head.

Thus, when a few paces from the firelight, he paused to scan the faces he saw. He knew those fellows, he recognized Wyatt's paunchy figure standing by the flame. But not until he had thus covered the group did he expose himself to the light Wyatt threw up his grizzled mane, speaking impatiently. "What took you so long?" A scattered greeting rose from the recumbent punchers.

"It's San Saba, by Joe. Cornin' back fer to work this brand again, Red?"

"Well, if it ain't the same smilin', sunny gent. Ain't yo' pritty far no'th?"

There was little enough warmth in the reception. These men had worked with San Saba, and they knew him. San Saba nodded his head; a brief, sparing smile flitted across his lips. "Howdy, boys. Diamond W looks both f'miliar an' prosp'rous. Kunnel Wyatt, suh, if yo' will step away a minute..."

San Saba retreated beyond earshot of the crew and slipped from the saddle. Wyatt followed, still impatient. "God's Kingdom, man, will you ever quit burrowin' like a groundhog?"

San Saba's reply was flat, singsong. "A man playin' two hands ain't in no position to march at the head o' the parade, suh."

"Let it go—let it go. Hell's pit—what brings Gillette along so fast? I had a hundred miles less to go, I started a full week earlier. Yet here he is—here you are. What about it?"

"Suh, Major Bob is a fast traveller."

"Meaning, I suppose, I let my cattle drag all over Satan's half acre? By the beard o' Judas..."

"No, suh—no, suh. I meant nothin' like that. It's just that he makes us march like a troop o' cavalry."

"It's his cursed military style! I've heard of it before. Well, what are you doing? What about all those ideas you had? San Saba, did I not know you better I would say you broke no eggs. But I know you. Now, get busy. At this rate he'll beat me two weeks to the Little Missouri. That won't do. By the gates of Paradise, it won't do!"

"Yo'-all sent yo' men no'th to perfo'm a certain chore, Kunnel?"

"I did!"

"Is that chore done?"

"How am I to know? Neither man can write a letter. I presume they did. They understood exactly what I meant, and they're old hands. Even so, supposing Gillette beats me to the spot and finds my men on it where his men should be? Think he'll take it like a Sunday-school preacher? I'll be eternally fried in mutton grease if he will! He'll shoot my men and—there you are! I have got to get there first! You start your part."

"Oh, I'll delay the Circle G, suh. Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. You know Major Bob, pers'n'lly, Kunnel?"

"Met him once in Austin."

"He's a hard man, suh. He has a son, suh." Here San Saba's words grew drier. "A son like the name."

Wyatt grunted. "I recognize the qualities of the name. But once I get my outfit established on that particular piece of range St Peter's own crowbar won't pry me loose!" The Colonel slapped his hands together, and by that token San Saba knew the interview was over. Climbing into the saddle, he followed Wyatt back to the circle of light. Somebody had been telling a yarn, but it stopped as the Circle G foreman came within hearing, and nothing more was said. San Saba appeared on the point of speaking. Whatever the sentiment, it fell back from the barrier of his thin, tight-pressed lips. Gathering his reins, he turned about.

Hoofs thudded across the prairie. San Saba's head came up quickly and he put a spur into the flanks of his animal. But before he could get again into the concealment of the night a rider slid in front of him, blocked his path, and he had to pull aside. Colonel Wyatt planted his feet apart, grumbling.

"Lorena, where in the name of the Twelve Apostles have you been?"

It was a girl—a girl on that vague border across which lie womanhood. Her face, revealed by the reluctant firelight formed a small oval; her cheeks were pink where the night air had touched them, her eyes sparkled, catching flame from the chuck- wagon blaze. And that was about all of the feminine about her, for her small body was encased in the clothing of a man, she wore a man's boots and a man's broad-brimmed hat, beneath which strayed a wisp of black hair. The bright beads of her gauntlets glittered as she sprang from the saddle.

"Why, I've been to Ogallala. Do you think I'd go through Nebraska and not see Ogallala?" Then her eyes discovered and recognized San Saba, and all the gay exuberance vanished. Standing between her father and the Circle G foreman she turned first to one and then the other.

"Now what's the trouble?"

"Trouble?" echoed her father. "There's no trouble."

"Then what's this man doing here?" she insisted.

"Why, San Saba, he dropped in to pay a friendly call."

Her boot heel sank into the sandy earth. "Friendly? What friends has he got here?" And, turning toward San Saba, she threw up her chin, crying, "Get out of here you—renegade."

Colonel Wyatt roared, "Lorena, you talk like a lady!"

"Pop, don't call me a lady. It sounds ridiculous. Get out, San Saba!"

San Saba looked over her head to Wyatt. "One more thing, suh," spoke he in a level voice, "you better stay west of the trail a few days. I reckon yo' understan' why." Removing his hat, he bowed to the girl, swung, and galloped off.

"Notion to tan your back," grumbled Wyatt,

But Lorena was smiling again, smiling and humming a tune. She turned out her horse, threw her saddle to the ground, and prepared to climb inside the wagon that was her home on the long trail. "Don't you try it, Pop," she called back. "You'd lose a good cow hand—and you can't afford that. Good-night. I've got some questions to ask in the morning."

By the light of the waning stars the Diamond W was under way. It was an earlier start than Colonel Wyatt usually made. He, despite his impatient spirit, had not the faculty of whipping his men through the preliminary chores or of overriding the unending series of petty obstacles always lying athwart a cattle drive. Nor, for that matter, did he have enough men. Counting himself and his daughter, there were but eight in the party. But the interview with San Saba had warned him to be up and doing; thus, sunrise found the herd well away from Ogallala and somewhat west of the main trail. Colonel Wyatt and Lorena rode to the fore, on point, while the rest of the crew were strung out behind. Nineteen hundred cattle wound northward to Dakota's greener, lusher grass.

From time to time Colonel Wyatt threw a covert glance across the prairie toward his daughter. She was a splendid horsewoman, her slight and supple figure swaying easily in the saddle; now and then, when a steer broke from the herd, she swung her pony on its heels and hazed the steer back to the main body in swift, darting moves, dust rising around her, bandana whipping out. On these particular occasions Colonel Wyatt felt proud of his handiwork. He had raised her as he would have raised a boy, he had talked to her in the rough, shoulder-to-shoulder manner he would have talked to any other man, sparing few words. It was his boast that she equalled any puncher he had ever hired. And when he saw her streaking across the ground as if she were a part of the pony, or when he saw her drop her loop over a cow and send the animal to the earth a-bellowing, he understood her very well. She had his blood, his recklessness, she had his love of life; at such moments it blazed from her dark eyes, it betrayed itself in the manner she held her nether lip between her teeth.

But there were other times when she was utterly fathomless, when for hours she rode with her glance fixed on the horizon, never speaking, never changing expression. This mood made Colonel Wyatt quite uncomfortable and incompetent. Invariably it caused him to make excuses for the training he had given her. After all, it took a mother to raise a girl—and a mother she had owned only for her first four years. She was a woman now—the Colonel had discovered it only recently and with mixed emotions—and what did a woman think about, living and riding with men, day after day, year after year?

Glancing in her direction again he saw she was restless. And presently he pulled his wits together and prepared for a bad five minutes. Her gauntlet swung upward, beckoning a man to close in and take her place.

"Hell's pit!" muttered Wyait. "By the body o' Judas!"

She made a wide circle around the head of the herd, charging upon the Colonel. Her pony sat on its haunches, pivoted; Lorena's voice stabbed through the dust, and the Colonel, hearing how crisply those words fell across the intervening space, knew she was on the warpath.

"What did San Saba want?"

"Want—want? Why, girl, I told you he come on a friendly visit!"

"Pop—don't lie. Keep your fish stories for business deals."

"Lorena—I got a mind to tan your britches! Are you saying I'm crooked with my tongue?"

The girl nodded vigorously. "You'd hemstitch the truth whenever it suited you. But I'm not deceived. What did San Saba want?"

"Girl, I raised you to be a lady! Now act like one!"

"Pop, if you call me a lady once more I'll shout. Bury it—burn it!"

Colonel Wyatt shrewdly saw a chance to shift the subject, and his voice fell to melancholy tones. "Your poor mamma. I promised her I'd raise you to be genteel."

"That's right—sing the sad songs. Blame my mother. Cut it out, Pop. If you wanted to make a lady of me why wean me with a horse and a rope? Say, I haven't worn but one dress in six years. I'd feel like a squaw in nice clothes."

The Colonel squinted at the sun and dropped his white mane. "I did the best I knew how, Lorena. I guess maybe it wasn't such a good job at that."

That roused her sympathy instantly, and her hand fell on his shoulder. "Now, Pop, I'm not blaming you a bit. Texas Fever, I like the way you brought me up!"

The Colonel smiled his best. "All right, honey, that's a nice word for the old man."

And so the subject was closed and the dangerous topic avoided, as he thought. But five minutes later she turned upon him and the same crisp question startled him: "What did San Saba want?"

"Blisterin' liniment, can't you get that off your mind? Why do you keep askin'?"

"Because I want to know," replied Lorena placidly. "What's he after?"

The Colonel groaned. "None o' your business, girl. It was private an' personal."

"Then," said Lorena, "it must be awful dirty."

"Dirty! Use that word again and I'll tan your britches!"

She was not to be turned. "Why did he tell you to stay west of the trail?"

"Because the herds ahead of us are spreadin' the fever, an' he warned me to stay clear of the beaten track. Also, the water's better out this way."

The girl digested that, Colonel Wyatt meanwhile praying for peace. It was not to be; Lorena shook her head. "How could San Saba know about the country off here? He's a Southerner, like us. Pop, you're too clumsy at greasing the axle."

He assumed an air of mystery. "Well, since you're so all-fired smart, I guess I got to say there's apt to be trouble ahead of us."

"What trouble?"

The Colonel rose in his stirrup. "Beard o' Judas, get back to your place! I'm sayin' no more!"

She saw he would go no farther and so abandoned her direct attack. Experience had taught Lorena that her father was an exceedingly dangerous man when fully aroused. There were pieces of his business she could never discover. Sometimes she heard stray reports, sometimes she made shrewd guesses and in each instance it left her troubled, uncertain—She was, above all else, loyal to the very core; but even loyalty could not subdue the distrust that occasionally—and more frequently of late—came to her heart. The Diamond W had not prospered these last six years or so. Why this should be she could not tell. All she knew was that the Colonel had grown more nervous, more secretive, and that there was an air about the outfit she liked little enough. San Saba, for example. Her father had kept the man season after season...

"Trouble is what I guessed," she shot back. "Trouble always comes with San Saba."

"Seems like you have an undue distrust of him, Lorena. I never had a better foreman."

"Nor a more crooked one. He's got a bad face. Always made me feel like I was stepping on a snake. A renegade, that fellow. I never was so glad as when he quit. What's he doing now?"

"Don't know," grunted Colonel Wyatt.

The girl studied his face for quite a while. In the end she pressed her heels against the pony's flanks and sprang away. Wyatt had sight of open rebellion on her clear features. Nor did she resume her place on the left of the herd, but raced up and over a ridge and vanished from sight.

"She'll ride it off," murmured Wyatt, trying to convince himself. Yet he was not so sure. Lorena had stubborn blood; she had curiously straightforward ideas that on occasion confounded all his plausible explanations. "She'll ride it off. The girl has got to learn it's a tough world and maybe it takes fire to fight fire. By the stones o' Peter—yes, she will!"

Lorena's pony, given rein, fled over the rolling ground. The girl swayed in the saddle as if to relieve her muscles, and presently her doubts went away. Up the swelling folds of earth and down the coulee sides, with the sun pouring its heat out of the sky. Cloud castles floated across the blue. Afar she could see the frosted peaks of the Rockies. North, beyond that cloudy strip that was the horizon, lay Dakota. North was adventure—north was another world. Already she felt the difference in climate; the air was lighter, it brought up a sense of utter freedom, it had the power to make her giddy.

"Well, I wish I were a man. I'd never stop—I never would. Ho—what's over there, Mister Jefferson Davis?"

The horse, hearing its name, promptly applied weight to its front feet and came to a stop. Lorena was on a hump of land that curved across the prairie like a swell of the ocean. A mile distant horse and rider stood immovable on another rise of ground. Lorena stood in the stirrups, shaded her eyes, and studied this intrusion.

"Not an Indian. Well, let's go see."

She proceeded at a sedate pace, noting that the strange rider likewise advanced. A white man, all right; riding erect and free. But not a trapper. Good horse—puncher's clothing—young and no whiskers. Lorena stopped and waited. The newcomer trotted on, wheeled to approach on Lorena's gun side. That was manners. His rope, she saw, had one end tied to the horn, his saddle was double cinch. He had a familiar face, a rather blocky face with big features and wide-spaced eyes set rather far back. Not that the face bore resemblance to any family she knew, but that it was a stamp familiar in the South. And strangely bleached for a Western man. Lorena's curiosity leaped to immense proportions. The stranger stopped ten yards off and raised his right hand.

"How."

"Why—you're from Texas!"

"That's right." Then she saw him bend over the horn, eyes flashing surprise. "By George, a woman." And his hat came off.

"Of course," said she. Adding with a trace of wistfulness, "Just so you don't call me a lady it's all right."

"Ma'm, in Texas—as elsewhere—all women are ladies."

"Oh, fiddlesticks! You sound like Pop. However did you get so pale?"

"I've been East awhile."

"Sho' enough?" inquired Lorena eagerly. "I'd like to see Omaha some day, myself."

"Well, farther east than that. Say New York—or Boston."

Quite a long silence. Lorena gravely considered this, her features puckered, owlish. "That's different. Too far east. But I'd like to see Omaha or New Orleans. Where you bound?"

"North—let's ride that way."

So they fell in, side by side, and ambled leisurely across the broad prairie. Lorena still was occupied with the remoteness of New York and Boston, turning the matter over and over in her mind, weighing the sound of it, the possible truthfulness of it. The stranger seemed content to keep the silence, riding with his eyes sweeping the distance. Lorena tallied up a mark in favour of this silence. She had known Easterners, and they talked a heap too much. Piece by piece she checked his rig. Well, he was from Texas, no doubt. And maybe he was telling the truth about having been to New York, though she allowed herself a small reservation. There was many a grave-faced liar out of Texas. Suddenly she thrust a question at him.

"What kind of saddles do they use back there?"

"Mighty flat things with no horn and stirrups, something like a chicken's wishbone."

She nodded. "I've heard of 'em. Guess you've been there all right."

He smiled, and Lorena marvelled at the change it made. The difference between daylight and darkness. "No law against the truth west of the Mississippi, ma'm."

Her small, rounding shoulders lifted. "I was brought up on Texas lies. Some of the men in our outfit do it smooth enough to believe themselves."

He seemed to find fresh interest in her. "What is your name?"

"Lorena."

"Lorena—what?"

And she, who had always been a candid, out-and-out girl, striving for masculine directness, suddenly discovered a contradiction in her heart. The first impulse was to satisfy his question. The second—and it puzzled her why she should feel so strangely about such a simple matter was to make him guess a little.

"Lorena's enough."

He shook his head, thoughtful. "Now, you don't look like a fugitive from justice with a past to conceal. I tell you—we'll say the last name is Smith. If anybody should ask me about a girl with a different name I wouldn't be lying when I said I didn't know her. Lorena Smith. Why, it's a pretty combination."

She rode in stiff, dignified silence. Nor did she unbend until he went back to the original subject. "Whoever told you not to be a lady? Or that you weren't a lady?"

"Hmf. What is your name?"

"Tom Gillette."

"Wait," she commanded, halting her pony. "That's familiar."

"Menard County."

"Knew I'd heard of it. As to being a lady—what is your idea of a lady, anyhow?"

This seemed to strike him unaccountably hard. Her watchful eyes saw him turn sombre; there was a metallic ring in his words, a vibration that did queer things to her pulse.

"A lady? One square enough not to trade on her privileges—one straight enough not to disobey her mind—or her heart."

It seemed oddly at variance with all her own notions, and she said as much. "And she must sit straight in a chair, keep her hands white, and lie politely to all menfolks to keep 'em in good humour. Haven't I seen many a lady?"

"Unessentials," murmured Tom.

"Maybe—maybe not. Anyhow, I can't do those things."

"What can you do?"

"I can do a man's work without complaining, rain or sun. I can shoot. I can rope anything with four feet."

Once more that warming, transforming smile. It reminded Lorena of raising the curtains of a dark house and letting the sun stream in. Tom scanned the prairie. "We might locate an elephant and try out that ropin' proposition."

His definition she turned over and over, examining its various facets, testing it with preliminary acids of experience. "Where did you learn that much about ladies?" she demanded. All her questions were thus—sharp and short, striking fair at their target.

"History," said Tom. "Ancient history."

That time she paid no attention to the meaning of his words, but instead listened to the sound of them. Her head dropped a trifle, her eyes swept the prairie in one broad inspection, and she did something then she had never yet been guilty of. She showed her skill to please a man—to impress him. Her pony, under the reins' touch, sprang off, running a circle around the stationary Tom. Twenty yards away a crimson flower stood above the buffalo grass, nodding on its tall stem. Lorena threw her compact little body completely out of the saddle, plucked the flower as she swept by and came upright. When she had completed the circle and was back beside the man that flower was imbedded in her hair, a trace of that femininity of which she had never heretofore given thought.

She believed she had never seen so sharp a glance, so penetrating a glance from any human being. And of a sudden she was afraid, both of him and of herself. The pony whirled and broke away. A few yards distant she brought up. Laughter bubbled brimful in her eyes, her cheeks were deep pink, and her nether lip, imprisoned between her teeth, was like a cherry. The exuberant, vivid current of life would not be concealed under the drab clothing, nor behind the poker expression she liked to maintain.

"Maybe I'll see you up North," said she.

"If I should meet the posse," he called back, "I'll tell 'em I only saw a fellow by the name of Smith—and that Smith was heading south."

She flung up a hand, tarried only to see him return the signal, and galloped over the ridge. The day was hot and still. She thought she had never seen it so beautiful. The rolling prairie, marching its countless miles into the blue strip of haze, surrounded her with the rising incense of things growing. How many centuries had it lain so, how many living creatures had passed across its fecund, smiling expanse? Feeling its warmth as she felt it, heady with bursting instincts as herself?

The Diamond W was twenty minutes west. When the long dusty lane of cattle came into view, a dun ribbon against the green carpet, she had overridden her gaiety. She was bitter with herself. "Why did I make a fool display? He'll think I wanted him to notice me! Oh, darn!"

Her father called, but she shook her head and passed to the left flank. For the rest of that day she rode with her eyes ahead, her lips pressed together; by turns pensive and turbulent.

One thing stuck to her mind, its meaning enlarging with each dusty mile. "A lady is square—a lady is honest. Mister Jefferson Davis, is that all it needs to make a lady? Oh, I don't believe it is that simple. Still, he's been East. He ought to know. Darn it, Mister Jefferson Davis, sometimes it would be a great help if I knew how to cry a little! No, that's awfully foolish."

The red flower in her hair bobbed with the pace of the pony, a vivid signal.