"You ran off to get out of seeing Wetherby, didn't you?"

Lucy stared sweetly at her aunt.

"He was waiting for hours," went on the worthy woman. "I never saw a man in
such a stew. . . . No wonder, playing fast and loose with him the way you do."

"I told him No!" flashed Lucy.

"But Wetherby's not the kind to take no. And I'm not satisfied to let you mean
it. Lucy Bostil, you don't know your mind an hour straight running. You've
fooled enough with these riders of your Dad's. If you're not careful you'll
marry one of them. . . . One of these wild riders! As bad as a Ute
Indian! . . . Wetherby is young and he idolizes you. In all common sense
why don't you take him?"

"I don't care for him," replied Lucy.

"You like him as well as anybody. . . . John Bostil, what do you say? You
approved of Wetherby. I heard you tell him Lucy was like an unbroken colt and
that you'd--"

"Sure, I like Jim," interrupted Bostil; and he avoided Lucy's swift look.

"Well?" demanded his sister.

Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires. He looked
sheepish, then disgusted.