"Mariedetta flirts with every man she can find," said Jean,
calmly, "but she doesn't mean any harm. She'll marry Carara some
time--if he doesn't kill her."

"Kill her!" Miss Blake's eyes were round. "He wouldn't do
_that!"_

"Indeed, yes. He is a Mexican, and he has a terrible temper."

Miss Blake sank back into the hammock. "How perfectly dreadful!
And yet-it must be heavenly to love a man who would kill you."

Miss Chapin lost herself in meditation for an instant. "Culver is
almost like that when he is angry. Hello, here comes our
foreman!"

Stover, a tall, gangling cattle-man with drooping grizzled
mustache, came shambling up to the steps. His weather-beaten
chaps were much too short for his lengthy limbs, the collar of
his faded flannel shirt lacked an inch of meeting at the throat,
its sleeves were shrunken until his hairy hands hung down like
tassels. He was loose and spineless, his movements tempered with
the slothfulness of the far Southwest. His appearance gave one
the impression that ready-made garments are never long enough. He
dusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared his throat.

"'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?"

"I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I do