rosy lips.

"I know what it is," she said gently, unreproachfully; "it's that girl,
Carolyn June. Yes, it is," as Skinny started to interrupt. "Oh, I don't
blame you for falling for her!" she went on. "She is nice--but, well,
Skinny-boy," her voice was a caress, "Old Heck's niece is not the sort
for you. You and her wouldn't fit at all--the way you wanted--and
anyhow, there--there--are others," coloring warmly.

Skinny looked up into the honest blue eyes.

"You ain't sore at me or anything are you, Manilla?" he asked.

"Sore?" she answered. "Of course not!"

Hope sprung again into his heart. "I--I--thought maybe you would be," he
stammered.

"Forget it!" she laughed. "The old world still wobbles!"

"Manilla, you--you're a peach!" he cried.

She chuckled. "Did you hear about that dance next Saturday night after
the picture show?" she asked archly.

"No. Is there one?" with new interest in life.

"Yes," she replied, her lashes drooping demurely; "they say the music is
going to be swell."

"If I come in will you--will we--go, Manilla?" he asked eagerly.

They would.

"Poor Skinny," Manilla murmured to herself as she went to the kitchen to
get his order, "poor cuss--he can't keep from breaking his heart over
every skirt that brushes against him, but"--and she laughed
softly--"darn his ugly picture, I like him anyhow!"

After supper Skinny hurried to the Golden Rule store. It was still open.

"Give me a white shirt--number fifteen," he said to the clerk; "and be
blamed sure it's the right size--they ain't worth a cuss if they're too
big!"

CHAPTER XXI

A GIRL LIKE YOU

A lone rider guided his horse in the early night, among the black lavas,
on the desolate desert near Capaline, the dead volcano. He rode to the
south, in the direction of the Cimarron. Silently, steadily, like a dark
shadow, the broncho picked his way among the fields of fire-blistered
rock and held his course, unerringly, through the starlit gloom hanging
over the earth before the late moon should flash its silver disk above
the sand-hills miles to the east.

The rider was the Ramblin' Kid; the little horse--Captain Jack.

For a week, following the fight in Eagle Butte, the Ramblin' Kid had
found shelter in the hut of "Indian Jake"--a hermit Navajo who, long
ago, turned his face toward the flood of white civilization rolling over
the last pitiful remnants of his tribe and drifted far toward the land
of the rising sun. Among t