ddle horse. Baldy will never ride the round-up
again. We'll give him a Carnegie medal and retire him on a good-service
pension so far as the rough work goes."

Without looking at him, the girl answered softly: "Thank you. I know I'm
taking from you the best cow-pony in Arizona, but I can't help it."

"A cow-pony is a cow-pony, but a horse that saves the life of Miss
Phyllis Sanderson is a gentleman and a hero."

"And what about the man who saves her life?" Her voice was very small
and weepy.

"Tickled to death to have the chance. We'll forget that."

Still she did not look at him. "Never! Never as long as I live," she
cried vehemently.

It came to him that if he was ever going to put his fortune to the test
now was the time. He strode across and swung her round till she faced
him.

"As long as you live, Phyllis. And you're only eighteen. Me, I'm
thirty-seven. I lack just a year of being twice as old. What about it?
Am I too old and too hard and tough for you, little girl?"

"I--don't--understand."

"Yes, you do. I'm asking you to marry me. Will you?"

"Oh, Mr. Weaver!" she gasped.

"I ought to wrap it up pretty, oughtn't I? But there's nothing pretty
about me. No woman should marry me if she can help it, not unless her
heart brings her to me in spite of herself. Is it that way with you?"

Never before had she met a man like him, so masterful and virile. He
took short cuts as if he did not notice the "No Trespassing" sign. She
read in him a passion clamped by a will of iron, and there thrilled
through her a fierce delight in her power over this splendid type of the
male lover. She lived in a world of men, lean, wide-shouldered fellows,
who moved and had their being in conditions that made hickory withes of
them physically, hard close-mouthed citizens mentally. But even by the
frontier tests of efficiency, of gameness, of going the limit, Weaver
stood head and shoulders above his neighbors. She had lifted her gaze to
meet his, quite sure that her answer was not in doubt, but now her heart
was beating like a triphammer. She felt herself drifting from her
moorings. It was as though she were drowning forty fathoms deep in those
calm, unwinking eyes of his.

"I don't think so," she cried desperately.

"You've got to be sure. I don't want you else."

"Yes--yes!" she cried eagerly. "Don't rush me."

"Take all the time you need. You can't be any too sure to suit me."

"I--I don't think it will be yes," she t