chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, and
walls covered with bridles, guns, pistols, Indian weapons and
ornaments, and trophies of the chase. In a far corner stood a
work-bench, with tools upon it and horse trappings under it. In the
opposite corner a door led into the kitchen. This room was Bostil's
famous living-room, in which many things had happened, some of which
had helped make desert history and were never mentioned by Bostil.

Bostil's sister came in from the kitchen. She was a huge person with a
severe yet motherly face. She had her hands on her hips, and she cast a
rather disapproving glance at father and daughter.

"So you're back again?" she queried, severely.

"Sure, Auntie," replied the girl, complacently.

"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.

"Dad!" exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully.

"See here, Jane," said Bostil, with an air of finality, "the girl is of
age to-day--an' she can do what she damn pleases!"

"That's a fine thing for you to say," retorted Aunt Jane. "Like as not
she'll be fetching that hang-dog Joel Creech up here for you to
support."

"Auntie!" cried Lucy, her eyes blazing.

"Oh, child, you torment me--worry me so," said the disappointed woman.
"It's all for your sake.... Look at you, Lucy Bostil! A girl of
eighteen who comes of a family! And you riding around and going around
as you are now--in a man's clothes!"

"But, you dear old goos