t. But the virile manhood of him; the indomitability; the quiet
fearlessness, indicated by his steady, serene eyes; the rugged, sterling
honesty that radiated from him, she saw--and admired. But above all she
saw the boy in him--the generous impulses that lay behind his mask of
grimness, the love of fun that she had seen him exhibit at Calamity.

"You were born here?" she asked.

"In Colfax, ma'am."

"Is that a city?"

"Bless yu', ma'am, no. It's a county."

"And you were born on a ranch, then."

"Yes, ma'am."

She was asking questions that a man would not have dared to ask him, and
he was answering them as a boy might have answered. It did not seem an
impertinence to him or to her, so great was her interest in him, so deep
was his admiration of her.

"And your parents?"

"Both dead, ma'am." A shadow crossed his face, a look of wistfulness, and
she abruptly ceased questioning. And when, a little later, they saw Ruth
coming across the plains toward them, Aunt Martha got up. He held the
screen door open for her, and she paused on the threshold and patted his
bare head.

"If I had had a son, I could have wished he would be like you," she said.

He blushed crimson. "Why, ma'am--" he began. But Aunt Martha had gone in,
and he turned to face Ruth, who was dismounting at the edge of the porch.

"Oh!" she said, as though his appearance had surprised her, though she
had seen him from afar, "you are here already!"

"I expect it's me, ma'am," he said gravely. "You see, Wes Vickers stopped
at the Diamond H last evenin', an' I come right over."

It was quite evident that he would not attempt to be familiar. No longer
was he the free lance rider of the plains who had been at liberty to
exchange words with her as suited his whim; here was the man who had been
given a job, and there stood his employer; he would not be likely to step
over that line, and his manner showed it.

"Well," she said, "I am glad you decided to come right away; we miss
Vickers already, and I have no doubt, according to his recommendation,
that you will be able to fill his place acceptably."

"Thank you, ma'am. I reckon I'm to take up my quarters in the bunkhouse?"
He paused. "Or mebbe the foreman's shanty?"

"Why," she said, looking at him and noting his grave earnestness, so
strikingly in contrast to his wild frolicksomeness at Calamity that day.
"Why, I don't know about that. Vickers stayed at the ranchhouse, and I
suppose you will stay he