eing in the melting whiteness of those distant peaks. Between the
willows of the river bottoms, Larkin could see the red reflection of the
sun on the water, and could follow the stream's course across the prairie
by the snake-like procession of cottonwoods that lined its banks.

On the plains themselves there was still a fading hue of green. The
buffalo grass had already begun to wither under the increasing heat, and
in a month would have become the same gray, cured fodder that supported
millions of buffalo centuries before a steer was on the range.

For Bud Larkin, only a year in the West, this evening scene had not lost
its charm. He loved this hour when the men washed up at the pump. There
were enticing sounds from the cook house and enticing odors in the air.
Sometimes it seemed as though it almost made up for a day's failure and
discouragement.

His quick eye suddenly noted a dark speck moving rapidly across the
prairie toward the ranch house. It seemed to skim the ground and in five
minutes had developed into a cow pony and its rider. A quarter of an hour
later and the pony proved himself of "calico" variety, while the rider
developed into a girl who bestrode her mount as though she were a part of
the animal itself.

The front rim of her broad felt hat was fastened upward with a thong and
exposed her face. Bud watched her idly until she dashed up to the front of
the house, fetched her horse back on its haunches with a jerk on the
cruel Spanish bridle, and leaped to the ground before he had fairly lost
headway. Then with a slap on the rump she sent him trotting to Stelton,
who had appeared around the end of the veranda as though expecting her.

Occupied with pulling off her soft white buckskin gauntlets, she did not
notice the young man on the low porch until, with an exclamation, he had
sprung to his feet and hurried toward her.

"Juliet Bissell!" gasped Larkin, holding out a hand to her. "What are you
doing here?"

"Of all people, Bud Larkin!" cried the girl, flushing with pleasure. "Why,
I can't believe it! Did you drop out of the sky somewhere?"

"If the sky is heaven, I've just dropped into it," he returned, trying to
confine his joy to intelligible speech, and barely succeeding.

"That sounds like the same old Bud," she laughed, "and it's a pleasure to
hear it. For if there is one thing a cowboy can't do, and it's the only
one, it is to pay a woman a compliment. That speech brands you a
tenderfoot."