find him otherwise, she believed, at their
next meeting. She would come on him some day at Bar-7, or at one of the
ranches neighboring it, and find him quite like his fellows, rigidly
respectful, but with a self-confidence and a simple directness in his
gallantry that had entertained her not a little as practiced by local
courtiers. He would be like the others, from Beulah Pierce, owner of
Bar-7, down to Shane Riley, humble helper in the cookhouse.

An hour later, refreshed by the balsam-laden air of the upper reaches,
she left the woods at the foot of the mesa and rode out on the willow
flat, lush with grass for Bar-7's winter feeding. From the first bench
above the creek she descried the figures of two men in front of the
ranch house. One she saw to be Beulah Pierce, his incredible length
draped lazily over the gate that opened into his wife's flower garden.
Outside this gate, under the flow of his talk (Pierce would surely be
talking) stood one whom the lady, riding nearer, identified as the youth
who so lately had shirked a meeting with her. At this sight she warmed
with a little glow of pride in her powers of prophecy. Truly he had
waited no long time. His hat was off and he leaned restfully against the
withers of a saddled horse, a horse that drooped, head to the ground, in
some far low level of dejection.

She laughed again, comprehending the fellow at last. His variation from
type had been but seeming, due to an erratic but not constitutional
embarrassment. Brazenly enough now he contrived to await her coming,
craftily engaging the not difficult Pierce in idle talk. And Pierce, as
she rode up, would perform, with stiff importance, the orthodox ceremony
of presentation. Whereupon the youth would bow with visible effort,
shake her hand with a rigid cordiality, once up, once down, and remark,
after swallowing earnestly, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am!" or perhaps,
"Glad to make your acquaintance!" Then, tactfully affecting to ignore
her, he would demand if Pierce had seen anything of that buckskin mare
and colt that strayed off last Tuesday; or if anyone had brought mail up
from Pagosa Springs lately; or if Pierce happened to need two thousand
hemlock shakes. This query he would follow with a popular local
witticism concerning sheepmen or the Colorado climate--nominally
addressed to Pierce but intended for her own refreshment. And, in
readjusting the silk kerchief at his throat, he would manage a quick
side glance at