rhythm, head beautifully poised, young seventeen as self-possessed as
thirty. As much could not be said for her guests. They were all legs and
gangling arms, red ears and dusty boots.

"Yes, we all want you to come back," she said with a charming smile. "I
think you saved Father's life. We can't tell you how much we owe you. Can
we, Keith?"

"Nope. When will you send the bwidle?" he demanded.

"Soon," the restored patient said to the boy, and to her: "That wasn't
nothin' a-tall. From where I come from we always been use to standin' by
our boss."

He shifted awkwardly to the other foot, flushing to the hair while he
buried her soft little hand in his big freckled one. The girl showed no
shyness. Seventeen is sometimes so much older than twenty.

"Tha's what us D Bar Lazy R boys are ridin' with yore paw's outfit for,
Miss--to be handy when he needs us," Bob added in his turn. "We're sure
tickled we got a chanct to go to Brad Steelman's party. I'm ce'tainly
glad to 'a' met you, Miss Joyce." He ducked his head and scraped back a
foot in what was meant to be a bow.

Emerson Crawford sauntered in, big and bluff and easy-going. "Hittin' the
trail, boys? Good enough. Hope you find the thieves. If you do, play yore
cards close. They're treacherous devils. Don't take no chances with 'em.
I left an order at the store for you to draw on me for another pair of
boots in place of those you lost in the brush, Dave. Get a good pair,
son. They're on me. Well, so long. Luck, boys. I'll look for you-all back