old. I'm sorry, Yenna."

The girl leaned in her saddle and laid one hand on Ranse's, on the
horn of his saddle.

"I never thought I'd like you better for giving me up," she said
ardently, "but I do. I must ride back now, Ranse. I slipped out of
the house and saddled Dancer myself. Good-night, neighbour."

"Good-night," said Ranse. "Ride carefully over them badger holes."

They wheeled and rode away in opposite directions. Yenna turned in her
saddle and called clearly:

"Don't forget I'm your half-way girl, Ranse."

"Damn all family feuds and inherited scraps," muttered Ranse
vindictively to the breeze as he rode back to the Cibolo.

Ranse turned his horse into the small pasture and went to his own
room. He opened the lowest drawer of an old bureau to get out the
packet of letters that Yenna had written him one summer when she had
gone to Mississippi for a visit. The drawer stuck, and he yanked at it
savagely--as a man will. It came out of the bureau, and bruised both
his shins--as a drawer will. An old, folded yellow letter without an
envelope fell from somewhere--probably from where it had lodged in one
of the upper drawers. Ranse took it to the lamp and read it curiously.

Then he took his hat and walked to one of the Mexican _jacals_.