thoroughbred. Does everything well she tackles. I never saw
anything like it. I'm a Chink if she doesn't run this ranch like
she had been at it forty years. Same thing with her gasoline
bronc. That pinto, too. He's got a bad eye for fair, but she
makes him eat out of her hand. I reckon the pinto is like the
rest of us--clean mashed." He put his arms on the corral fence
and grew introspective. "Blamed if I know what it is about her.
'Course she's a winner on looks, but that ain't it alone. I guess
it's on account of her being such a game little gentleman. When
she turns that smile loose on a fellow--well, there's sure
sunshine in the air. And game--why, Ned Bannister ain't gamer
himself."

McWilliams had climbed lazily to the top board of the fence. He
was an energetic youth, but he liked to do his thinking at his
ease. Now, as his gaze still followed its lodestar, he suddenly
slipped from his seat and ran forward, pulling the revolver from
its scabbard as he ran. Into his eyes had crept a tense
alertness, the shining watchfulness of the tiger ready for its
spring.

The cause of the change in the foreman of the Lazy D was a simple
one, and on its face innocent enough. It was merely that a
stranger had swung in casually at the gate of the short stable
lane, and was due to meet Miss Messiter in about ten seconds. So
far good enough. A dozen travelers dropped in every day, but this
particular one happened to be Ned Bannister.

From the stable door a shot rang out. Bannister ducked and
shouted genially: "Try again."