event. "Because it sickens me to see a man fight with a horse," she
often explained. But she forced herself to go.

She was in the Rocky Mountains, now, not on the Blue Grass. Here riding
bucking horses was the order of the day. It might be rough, but this was
a rough country.

It was a day of undue humidity--and the Eagle Mountains were pyramids of
blue smoke. Closer at hand the roofs of Glosterville shone in the fierce
sun and between the village and the mountains the open fields shimmered
with rising heat waves. A hardy landscape meant only for a hardy people.

"One can't adopt a country," thought Marianne, "it's the country that
does the adopting. If I'm not pleased by what pleases other people in
the West, I'd better leave the ranch to Lew Hervey and go back East."

This was extraordinarily straight-from-the-shoulder thinking but all the
way out to the scene of the festivities she pondered quietly. The
episode of the mares was growing in importance. So far she had been able
to do nothing of importance on the ranch; if this scheme fell through
also it would be the proverbial last straw.

In spite of her intentions, she had delayed so long that the riding was
very nearly ended before she arrived. Buckboards and automobiles lined
the edges of the field in ragged lines, but these did not supply enough
seats and many were standing. They weaved with a continual life; now and
again the rider of one of the pitching horses bobbed above the crowd,
and the rattle of voices sharpened, with piercing single calls. Always
the dust of battle rose in shining wisps against the sun and Marianne
approached with a sinking heart, for as she crossed the track and