wild, bounding rapture of those night rides.

"One evening it was not Manuel who stood by the horses in the white track
between the laurels. It was a figure as statuesque as his, but younger, and
the pose was not that of a servant. It was the stand-at-ease of a soldier,
or of an Indian wrapped in his blanket in the city square. This man was
conscious of being looked at, but his training, of whatever sort, would not
permit him to show it. Plainly the training had not been that of a groom.
I was obliged to send him to the stables for his coat, and remind him that
his place was behind. He took the hint good-humoredly, with the nonchalance
of a big boy condescending to be taught the rules of some childish game. As
we were riding through the woods later, I caught the scent of tobacco. It
was my groom smoking. I told him he could not smoke and ride with me. He
threw away his cigarette and straightened himself in the saddle with such
a smile as he might have bestowed on the whims of a child. He obeyed me
exactly in everything, with an exaggerated ironical precision, and seemed
to find amusement in it. I questioned him about Manuel. He had gone to one
of the lower ranches, would not be back for weeks. By whose orders was he
attending me? By Manuel's, he said. He must then have had qualifications.

"'What is one to call you?' I asked him.

"He hesitated an instant. 'Jim is what I answer to around here,' said he.

"'What is your _name_?' I repeated.

"'The lady can call me anything she likes,'--he spoke in a low, lazy
voice,--'but Dick Malaby is my name.'

"We have better heroes now than the Cheyenne cowboys, but I felt as a girl