he had told him to
send Randerson in to the ranchhouse to her, on the following day. And she
was expecting him now.

She had tried to dissuade Uncle Jep and Aunt Martha from making the trip
to Lazette today, but, for reasons which she would not have admitted--and
did not admit, even to herself--she had not argued very strongly. And she
had watched them go with mingled regret and satisfaction; two emotions
that persisted in battling within her until they brought the disquiet
that had flushed her cheeks.

It was an hour before Randerson rode up to the edge of the porch, and
when Patches came to a halt, and her range boss sat loosely in the
saddle, looking down at her, she was composed, even though her cheeks
were still a little red.

"You sent for me, ma'am."

It was the employee speaking to his "boss." He was not using the incident
of a few nights before to establish familiarity between them; his voice
was low, deferential. But Willard Masten's voice had never made her feel
quite as she felt at this moment.

"Yes, I sent for you," she said, smiling calmly--trying to seem the
employer but getting something into her voice which would not properly
belong there under those circumstances. She told herself it was not
pleasure--but she saw his eyes flash. "I have found some cartridges, and
I want you to teach me how to shoot."

He looked at her with eyes that narrowed with amusement, after a quick
glint of surprise.

"I reckon I c'n teach you. Are you figurin' that there's some one in this
country that you don't want here any more?"

"No," she said; "I don't expect to shoot anybody. But I have decided that
as long as I have made up my mind to stay here and run the Flying W, I
may as well learn to be able to protect myself--if occasion arises."

"That's a heap sensible. You c'n never tell when you'll have to do some
shootin' out here. Not at men, especial," he grinned, "but you'll run
across things--a wolf, mebbe, that'll get fresh with you, or a sneakin'
coyote that'll kind of make the hair raise on the back of your neck, not
because you're scared of him, but because you know his mean tricks an'
don't admire them, or a wildcat, or a hydrophobia polecat, ma'am," he
said, with slightly reddening cheeks; "but mostly, ma'am, I reckon you'll
like shootin' at side-winders best. Sometimes they get mighty full of
fight, ma'am--when it's pretty hot."

"How long will it take you to teach me to shoot?" she asked.

"That depe