e and stiffen its
legs. The rope attached to the pommel of the saddle grew taut as a bow
string; there was an instant of strained suspense during which the pony's
back arched until the girl thought it must surely break. It was over in
an instant, though every detail was vividly impressed upon the girl's
mind. For the cold terror that had seized her had fled with the
appearance of Patches--she knew there could be no danger to her after
that.

She watched the steer fall. He went down heavily, the impetus of his
charge proving his undoing; he struck heavily on head and shoulder,
grunting dismally, his hind quarters rising in the air, balancing there
for an infinitesimal space and then following his head.

The rope stretched tighter; the girl saw Patches putting a steady pull on
it. The loop had fallen around the steer's neck; she heard the animal
cough for breath once, then its breath was cut off.

In this minute the girl's chief emotion was one of admiration for the
pony. How accurate its movements in this crisis! How unerring its
judgment! For though no word had been spoken--at least the girl heard
none--the pony kept the rope taut, bracing against its burden as
Randerson slid out of the saddle.

The girl's interest left the pony and centered on its rider. Randerson
was running toward the fallen steer, and though Ruth had witnessed this
operation a number of times since her coming to the Flying W, she had
never watched it with quite the interest with which she watched it now.
It was all intensely personal.

Randerson had drawn a short piece of rope from a loop on the saddle when
he had dismounted. It dangled from his hand as he ran toward the steer.
In an instant he was bending over the beast, working at its hoofs,
drawing the forehoofs and one hind hoof together, lashing them fast,
twining the rope in a curious knot that, the girl knew from experience,
would hold indefinitely.

Randerson straightened when his work was finished, and looked at Ruth.
The girl saw that his face was chalk white. But his voice was sharp, and
it rang like the beat of a hammer upon metal:

"Get on your horse!"

There was no refusing that voice, and Ruth turned and ran toward her
pony, with something of the confusion and guilt that overtakes a recreant
child scolded by its parent. She was scarcely in the saddle when she
turned to watch Randerson.

He was pulling the loop from the steer's head. He coiled it, with much
deliberation, re