slackening its pace.

Steve lazed on his pony, shifting his position to ease his cramped
limbs after the manner of the range rider. In spite of himself, his
eyes would drift toward the jaunty little figure on the pinto. The
masculine in him approved mightily her lissom grace and the proud lilt
of her dark head, with its sun-kissed face set in profile to him. He
thought her serviceable costume very becoming, from the pinched felt
hat pinned to the dark mass of hair, and the red silk kerchief knotted
loosely round the pretty throat, to the leggings beneath the corduroy
skirt and the flannel waist with sleeves rolled up in summer-girl
fashion to leave the tanned arms bare to the dimpled elbows.

The trail, winding through a narrow defile, brought them side by side
again.

"Ever notice what a persistent color buckskin is, Steve?" inquired
France, by way of bringing him into the conversation. "It's strong in
every one of these cattle, though the old man has been trying to get
rid of it for ten years."

"You mustn't talk to me, Dick," responded his friend gravely. "Little
Willie told a lie, and he's being stood in a corner."

Arlie flushed angrily, opened her mouth to speak, and, changing her
mind, looked at him witheringly. He didn't wither, however. Instead,
he smiled broadly, got out his mouth organ, and cheerfully entertained
them with his favorite, "I Met My Love In the Alamo."

The hot blood under dusky skin held its own in her cheeks. She was